A jolt not soon forgotten

On a Saturday, one year ago at precisely 8:50 A.M., I was in my bed, sleeping soundly. Suddenly, everything began vigorously swaying left and right. At first, the shock of the motion had me confused, but as I opened my eyes, I realized it was an earthquake. I got up to go stand beneath the beam of the bathroom door (Dad’s orders since we were kids – apparently the safest place to be) but I couldn’t walk more than four steps without losing my balance and falling to the ground. The house was a big bowl of Jell-O and I was somewhere in the middle of it all. This was the biggest quake I had ever experienced, and I was certain my house would collapse any minute.

Fortunately no serious damage occurred, although I was so scared after the six-minute quake passed that I didn’t move from beneath the beam for a good 20 minutes.

Shortly after, I learned that a ten-story apartment building in my city, Islamabad, had just collapsed. I hopped in my car and drove over to the site. There were hundreds of cars parked alongside the road as I approached and a shot of adrenaline rushed through my veins. Thoughts of all the people I knew living in that building sparked all kinds of fears. One of my friends was in the building with his mother, grandmother, sister and cousin when it collapsed. The last three made it out, but his mother and grandmother stayed trapped inside at the ground-floor level beneath the tons of rubble.

My friends joined me as I arrived, and we all began helping clear the rubble. Unfortunately, our fervor was not enough to lift the enormous blocks of concrete that weighed down the remains of the building, which was now only 20 feet above the ground.

As the day progressed, my friend feared his family would declare his mother and grandmother deceased, and no amount of support would eradicate the feeling of emptiness in his mind. We also soon learned that what happened in Islamabad was only a fraction of what the northern areas of Pakistan and northwestern region of India had experienced during those six devastating minutes.

A friend of mine shot out a text message, asking that we all meet at his house the following morning to see how we could help people up north. At the time, we were completely clueless at the magnitude of devastation and loss of lives. Regardless, something made us feel we had to act promptly before things got worse. We gathered at his house around 10 a.m., and by noon, some folks had dropped off a few boxes of things that they wanted to send to the northern areas. We promptly decided to text others and ask them for any donations (clothes, money, food, etc.) that they wanted to contribute, and we decided to take my pickup truck and go.

First, I left to go home and gather my things for the eight-hour drive. By 3 p.m., as I returned to my friend’s house in my pickup, I couldn’t help but gasp. In the two hours I had been absent, people had managed to drop phenomenal amounts of donations that, when piled up, reached as high as nine feet and covered his entire garden, almost 40 square yards. I realized that my pickup was not going to be enough anymore.

We left for Balakot, the city we heard to be the most devastated, with ten open-back trucks (similar to the largest U-Haul trucks) and four personal cars, including my pickup. In all, we were about 13 people (originally only meant to be three or four). We left Islamabad at 10 that evening and arrived at the entrance of Balakot at about 5 a.m., a commercial city that led to Saif-ul-Maluk, a beautiful body of water in a valley atop mountains (known as a jheel in Urdu). The road entering the city was broken, and there was only one way into it, so we stood first in line, waiting for the road to be cleared.

As the bulldozer finally gave us way at 11 a.m., we entered not knowing what to expect. Maybe it was better that way, because within the first few minutes, all we saw were solid houses leveled like houses of cards, and dead bodies everywhere.

Recalling this trip is difficult, even now and I think the world and media have spoken enough about the details that came after. Those six minutes cost about 80,000 lives and forced more than 2.9 million people to suddenly become homeless and hungry, and downsized their families by generations. I had no words to describe any of this at the time; not even my photographs captured the enormity of damage. Like a giant stepping on a tin can.

I spent the next three weeks making trips up north with various friends (kudos to all of them for the work we did together) and eventually ended up leaving my job at Nortel to join an NGO and head their relief activities for both the Northwest Frontier Province (NWFP) and Kashmir.

You know, it’s really interesting how one thing led to another during those few months. I had returned from the U.S. just a year prior to the quake, not sure of what I wanted to do with my life. Having recently graduated, I was confused about my options. I wanted to do something meaningful – unfortunately, finding it was at the cost of so much suffering. One always feels so helpless about this work, yet if it is productively contributing to improving someone’s life, it feels right.

One year ago today, I found opportunity to apply myself, along with those around me, for a better future, one that provides a helping hand, rather than a crutch without stable ground to stand on. Today, I have found what one year ago I set out seeking.

As Acumen Fund Fellow Keely Stevenson put it, “Some days you can set out to change the world and you find that the world changes you.” Working with Acumen Fund has provided me with a chance to take initiative rather than wait for initiative to take me.

The few months I worked in the northern areas gave me valuable insight regarding the level of poverty that Pakistan suffers on a daily basis. Unfortunately, it seemed that few thought of providing tools to the poor so that they can lift themselves up, rather than depend upon charity and donations. This ties in with how and why many of us got involved with Acumen Fund – for the opportunity to provide services to the poor that allow them to have choices and make use of them.

I’m sure we all have a fantastic story to tell about how we arrived where we are now; this was mine. 

And there is opportunity in hope: My friend’s mother and grandmother were found five days later, alive…