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.