Resilience in the Rubble: A True Tale of Aid and Survival in Kashmir

By Kathy Harms, Nadeem Malik and Derek Carlin

As paramedic Kathy Harms navigates the devastation in the aftermath of the catastrophic 2005 Kashmir Earthquake as a first-time medical aid worker, she is confronted by the scale of suffering she observes in the region, and her own lack of experience in the area of humanitarian work.

In the field, she meets Nadeem Malik, a 19 y

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catkim Press
• Release date: Apr 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9789893357750

Book preview

FOREWORD

By Tara Newell

I met Kathy 19 years ago in Muzaffarabad, in the Azad Kashmir region of Pakistan. I cannot believe so many years have passed. The experience of being in Kashmir following the devastating earthquake in 2005 feels like yesterday, and like an eternity ago. My memories of the destruction and suffering, but also the tremendous resilience of the people I met, will forever be a part of my being. I was new to emergency response at that time, so I absorbed the experience like a sponge, but I have since led over 40 humanitarian missions in 25 countries for one of the largest, Nobel-prize winning, humanitarian organizations in the world. In the context of that experience, I read Kathy’s work 19 years after we lived it, with fresh eyes as well as a professional lens.

I remember Kathy well from those days, crammed in a tent in the middle of a disaster with little more than hand-carried medical supplies and good intentions. She burned an imprint on my brain with her genuine commitment, flexibility, and willingness to just get things done – as well as her joyous spirit. These were qualities desperately needed at the time to be sure, and qualities I now know are solid gold after decades of leading humanitarian responses. 

Me: I need volunteers to drive into the mountains to give aid to a village we know nothing about, I don’t know how long it will take, we will not know the extent of needs until we get there, our supplies may be entirely inadequate, oh, and the road could be quite dangerous.  

Kathy: (jumping up to go without hesitation…) Which vehicle are we taking?

The story you are about to read was a roller-coaster of emotions for me: it reignited memories I had long forgotten, it made me reflect on how we could have done things differently, and it opened some old emotional wounds as I remembered those Kashmiri people I met, came to love, and left behind. Nadeem’s story particularly affected me, as I reflected on how we were just passers-by then, while this was his new unimaginable reality. He was a member of our team, but I am not sure how well I internalized this divide at that time.

One of Kathy’s objectives when sharing this story, was to shine light back onto the lives of those affected by this disaster. This is a noble and appreciated effort. Today we see news cycles blow through the biggest crisis of the moment and then abandon those contexts just as quickly. We can be glued to our news channels in the early days of a crisis, then become overwhelmed, desensitized, and drawn in by another crisis the following week. We are now so used to absorbing information through 20 second clips online, we may no longer seek to understand what's behind the headlines, and we may lack the emotional space in our own complex lives to empathize with those we see on our screens; so, the suffering of so many people continues in the darkness, whose lives have been irrevocably changed. For us it becomes barely a footnote, but for the survivors in a disaster, it is a long nightmare from which they cannot wake.   

I see this pattern repeat over and over in my present professional role, where I am currently tasked to bring the humanitarian plight of people to the attention of world leaders, decision-makers, and donors. I see first-hand that attention spans are short. Kathy’s work confronts this problem. She breathes new life into these forgotten stories of suffering, resilience, and bravery. By giving names, faces and personal stories to the people who lived this crisis, she gives them power.

Kathy humanizes the people in this crisis through her memoir. We sorely need to humanize those who suffer beyond our gaze; those living through the horrors of war, displacement, famine and natural disaster, and those with little access to even the most basic means of survival – not only to reaffirm our own humanity, but to reconnect our own lives with the fragile world we live in.    

PROLOGUE

On October 8, 2005 a 7.6 magnitude earthquake devastated the Azad Kashmir region, and surrounding areas in northern Pakistan. The earthquake and its violent aftershocks killed over 85,000 people and injured another 70,000. Once all the data were in, there were more than 2.8 million people left homeless in the region. It was a massive humanitarian disaster. Aid organizations around the world scrambled to fundraise, and get their teams on the ground. For a while, the earthquake was the leading headline in the media around the world.

In Vancouver, Canada I was working as an Advanced Care Paramedic, and had recently taken part in three medical aid trips to Honduras. The main purpose of these trips was to staff temporary primary care clinics in rural communities. During the three-week long trips, we operated temporary medical clinics in poverty-stricken villages, and took part in photo opportunities while delivering donated school supplies to children. Each year there was a visit to an orphanage, where we left financial donations toward a new dormitory for the orphaned girls. We even spent a few days digging the ditches for the foundations of the dormitory. Year over year, the dormitory never progressed past those ditches in the ground, despite many other travelling groups also making donations, and helping dig. At best, the trips seemed like feel-good tourism to me; at worst, I didn’t want to think about where the donated money was actually going.

The medical clinics we staffed also left me seriously questioning if our team was really aiding anyone. Offering over-the-counter symptom relief for vague complaints of malaise, two weeks after the previous visiting medical team had toured through, didn’t feel right. Were we helping the people we met there, or were we helping ourselves feel better about the abject poverty in the area? More critically, were we enabling ongoing political and social priorities that failed to address the most basic needs of the population?

The first rule of healthcare, and of humanitarian aid, is do no harm. I was pretty sure we were doing little good, and I had a growing suspicion we were doing harm. Precisely how, or how much harm, I didn't know, but I decided I would not return to Honduras in the future. It just didn’t feel right.

Shortly after I learned of the earthquake in Kashmir, I was contacted by a friend and colleague who was working with others across Canada to form a small Non-Governmental Organization, for the purpose of providing medical aid in disaster zones. The group was sending medical responders to Pakistan, and my colleague wanted to know if I would deploy with them. I initially said no, still conflicted about my experiences in Honduras. Over time, my thinking changed. I considered the disaster in Pakistan to be a time sensitive, massive operation, led by the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs. Surely taking part in this response would be decisively helpful - there was so much urgent need, and I had a unique skill set to offer. After much deliberation, I signed up to go, even though I was still caught between my fears and concerns and my strong desire to help. In January 2006, I travelled to the Azad Kashmir region of Pakistan, for a three-week-long deployment, as a member of what was known as Team 12.

CHAPTER ONE

Islamabad

January 8, 2006

1 day lapsed, 18 days remaining

The young woman in the oversized jacket bearing a United Nations insignia, was describing the unofficial $10,000 USD bounty for kidnapped foreign aid workers in the region. My body stiffened in the chair; Did she say kidnappings? In an instant, my jet-lagged brain was laser-focused on the UN staff member who was providing our safety and security briefing. Yes, I had heard her correctly.  She emphasized that the safety and security information she was about to provide would be critical to keeping us out of harm’s way.

The nine of us sat clustered together in basic plastic chairs in a stark meeting room. There was a table off to the side, near the door, where a second UN staff member sat. He had checked our identification against a list as we entered the briefing, but now he was staring off into space. I suspected he had sat through this process dozens of times. This briefing was required for all Non-Governmental Organization (NGO) team members arriving in Pakistan to provide humanitarian aid to the victims of the October 8, 2005 earthquake. In the case of our small Canadian medical team, it was important we catch every detail, as we would stay in the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs compound in Muzaffarabad as our base. This meant we would have UN identification, as well as our credentials from Canadian Medical Assistance Team, known as CMAT. It also meant we needed to follow every procedure and guideline, safety or otherwise, to the letter.  

The briefing continued. We received basic information about safety in and around the OCHA compound, as well as local laws to observe. The presenter, looking casual in grey hiking pants and an oversized jacket with the OCHA crest on the chest, spent extra time on the laws related to women, particularly the requirement to never leave the compound without a male escort. I wondered briefly how, with seven women on the team and only two men, we were going to navigate the logistics of that requirement as we did our work.

My attention was quickly pulled back to the briefing, as the presentation moved on to transportation considerations. The presenter advised that most areas were now accessible by road, but some villages, particularly in the mountainous region where there was still an acute need for assistance, could only be accessed by helicopter. The steep mountain roads had collapsed, and there had not yet been the resources available to repair them. 

A complicating factor was, as the UN staff member described in a matter-of-fact tone, an increase in unregistered flight plans, with non-manifested passengers. I might be new to this, I thought, but that sounds like an elaborate term for a hijacking.

The mitigation measure in place was a directive that helicopters were not to land in uncontrolled, remote locations. They could take responders and aid workers to the remote location, then have them do a hover-exit. A hover exit involves carefully maneuvering oneself out of the helicopter and onto the skid while the helicopter hovers above the ground. From there, you carefully drop from the skid to the ground below. The helicopter would not return for you, as it was not permitted to land. Although I had done hover-exit training early in my career as a paramedic, the idea of being dropped into a remote village in the mountains with no clear means to return to camp was an alarming one. I glanced around to members of my team who were in my peripheral vision. They didn’t look like they found the scenario very appealing either.

As the presentation moved on it started to deal with more administrative matters, specifically the documentation we would need to maintain as we collected detailed data from our patients and the camps and villages we would visit. The data captured infant and child morbidity and mortality rates, communicable diseases, and other metrics. This data was collected and reviewed by World Health Organization staff at the OCHA compound at regular intervals, and would be compiled with the data from all the other NGOs to identify trends and to guide interventions.

After the briefing, as we were being driven back to the secure accommodation where the team was temporarily housed, known as a safe-house, the van was quiet. Tariq, our translator and guide for the administrative requirements of entering the country, who had been offering helpful information to us throughout the day, was also pensive. Although he had not been in the room for the briefing, he seemed to sense we needed to be with our thoughts for a while. My mind skipped over the events that had transpired during the 30 hours that had elapsed since I arrived at the Islamabad International Airport. Looking back through the lens of the sobering information we had just received, there had already been times when I felt unsafe since my arrival, starting right after I first arrived in Islamabad early the previous morning.

It was still dark outside the aircraft, when the flight deck announced our approach to Islamabad International Airport. I had already been in transit for 26 hours.  The flight was only about half full, so it did not take long to deplane and follow the signs to passport control. As I approached the passport control booths, I noted there were lines for Pakistani Passports, Foreigners, and Unaccompanied Women. I concluded my Canadian passport would put me into the Foreigner queue and moved to that line. A male security officer immediately corrected my error, gesturing with urgency that I move to the Unaccompanied Women queue. I was the only one in that line, and I was promptly directed off to the side, where a female customs officer led me into a small room.

The officer didn’t seem to speak English, but I appreciated that she smiled reassuringly. As we entered the inspection room, she gestured that I should raise my arms. After a very brief physical pat down, the officer nodded at me and pointed to where I should head next. Leaving the room, and following her gestures toward the baggage claim, I mused to myself how swiftly the security process had unfolded. The baggage also arrived on the conveyor belt quickly. Relief washed over me as I saw my large backpack come down the belt. I collected it and followed the exit signs. There was one more checkpoint where both my checked pack and my day pack passed through another scanner, but it only took a moment, and then I was free to leave the airport.

I followed the signs, stepped through a set of frosted glass doors, and froze. I had stepped straight into a massive, noisy crowd, all men, all waiting for people in the arrivals area. Unlike my home airport in Vancouver, where there was a cordoned route for new arrivals, these men were right at the door. Arriving travellers had to push through the throng to either find their person, or to exit the airport. I felt people pushing me from behind as they exited the doors from the secure area. My stomach tightened further, and I felt my face flush as I realized the head-covering I had brought was in my pack. It was too late. It’s far too crowded to stop and dig it out, I thought as I pushed down the panic that threatened to keep me frozen in my tracks. I resolved to press on, pushing through the crowd toward the exit sign at the far side of the crowd, scanning for my name on a sign in the sea of men.

The driver tasked with collecting me from the airport had a much easier time identifying me than I did him. He approached me from the crowd, holding a sheet of white paper toward me. It bore a scrawling close enough to my name to provide assurance. He gestured for me to follow him. We made our way through the crowd and outside to the parking lot. I worked hard to focus on his back. His clothing was like that of most of the other men. I worried if I took my eyes off him, he would vanish into the crowd, and I would be lost. He walked briskly, without looking at me or speaking to me. I anxiously followed. Although this man was my lifeline at this moment, my body was tight with apprehension. We entered the parking lot and eventually arrived at a small, road-worn car. The man gestured toward my large pack. I slid it off my shoulders and handed it to him. He put it in the trunk. He gestured to my daypack, but I shook my head and tightened my grip on it. I mustn't become separated from my documents and personal effects.

I got into the passenger seat and put on my seatbelt. He settled into the driver’s seat, but rather than putting on his seatbelt or starting the car, he took out his cellphone, a small flip phone, pointed it at me, and snapped a photo of me. I startled and gestured for him to stop. He ignored me. He punched a few keys on the phone, then put it away and started the car. I was on edge, exhausted. I had already missed the first thing I was supposed to do; cover my head. Now I was in a car with a strange man who either couldn’t or wouldn’t speak to me and who had photographed me for a reason I did not understand. I should have sat in the backseat, not the passenger seat. Like the headscarf, by the time the thought occurred to me, the time to act had passed. I decided all I could do was trust and be as vigilant as I possibly could.

We drove from what appeared to be the outskirts of the city, into an area with increasingly busy streets. The roads became a jumble of tuktuks, bicycles, cars, and large, colourful transport trucks, all honking horns. It was surprising to me to see cows and other livestock being herded down the same streets as the traffic. At times, traffic ground to a halt as the road filled with pedestrians and livestock. In those moments, when someone happened to look into our car, they would stop and stare. When it was a child or woman who made eye contact, I would give them a quick smile. When it was a man, I would avert my eyes. Unlike at home, where I knew the social and cultural norms, and rarely even consciously thought about them, uncertainty sat in a tight knot in my stomach. I did not know what behaviours would attract the wrong attention. I was fearful I would inadvertently do something that might be perceived as offensive.

In time, we arrived in an area with larger houses, most of which had enormous gates, some with international flags and signs. I realized we were in the diplomatic enclave where I understood the safe-house to be. My shoulders relaxed a little. We pulled up to a large, plain metal gate in front of an equally large, simple house. The gate glided open, and we drove inside. As we pulled around the side of the house, a parked van with the CMAT logo on magnetic signs came into view. I heard a long, weary sigh of relief, and realized the sigh came from me. The driver got out of the car, collected my pack from the trunk, and gestured for me to follow him further around the house to the side door.

My attention suddenly snapped from that arrival experience back to the present. The van that was taking us from the UN security briefing back to the safe-house came to a stop in the middle of the road,