A few old articles I wrote about Pakistan:
Which way? A twelve hour car journey up the valley of the Indus through bandit country, or a 12 hour car journey over 13,000 foot pass on an uncompleted road, described as ‘risky’. It was five o’clock in the morning, I was sitting in a car in Mansehra, a town in the North-West Frontier Province of Pakistan, and my companions expected me to decide our route to Gilgit. At that time of the morning, either going up the Karakoram Highway through Indus Kohistan or crossing the 13,000 ft pass seemed not much short of a death wish.
‘If we go by the Karakoram Highway we should hide you under the luggage through the areas close to Swat’.
Also unable at that time of the morning to discern a joke, and a joke too close to the truth for comfort, I therefore plumped for the ‘risky’ route, over the 13,000 foot Babassur pass.
Gilgit is divided from Islamabad by several obstacles: the physical barriers consisting mainly of the gargantuan granite mountains surrounding the valley of the Indus. This has been surmounted by the Karakoram Highway, otherwise known as the Pakistan-China friendship highway stretching all the way from Islamabad in the south to Kashgar in China. However, there are certain social obstacles meaning that the Foreign Office website currently advises against the Mansehra – Gilgit section. Battagram: scene of armed attacks against aid workers, Shangla: next to Swat of Taliban fame, Indus Kohistan: bandits, and finally Chilas: tribal country. Not your average Sunday trip out. The intrepid traveller should not give up hope though, there are two other ways to reach Gilgit from Islamabad, the easiest is flying. The mere 45 minute flight takes you sailing over the dangers. However, it is dependent on weather conditions. On one memorable occasion my colleague took a flight, flew all the way up to Gilgit, circled the city and then flew all the way back, unable to land because of weather. He rang me at that point, when I couldn’t desist from laughter. However, the next time I heard from him was three and a half days later after a journey consisting of landslides, flat tyres, and driving rain, and my sympathy was more forthcoming.
The third option, then, was the Babassur pass route. In theory, this should be a lot quicker than going up the KKH as it is more direct, straight up rather than following the rather circular valley of the Indus. And in a year or so I am sure that it will be quicker. When we took it, however, it was still in the process of being built, the majority of the road surface therefore consisting of some combination of mud, rock and water. However, the beauty of the places we drove through amply compensated for the length and discomfort of the journey.
We hit the mountain roads a little after dawn, almost quite literally as soon there was a landslide covering the road. This didn’t daunt either of my trusty companions who jumped out of the car with unreasonable energy for that time in the morning, flexed their muscles, and shifted a few big rocks. While I was more than willing to help I discovered that moving rocks while keeping a scarf wrapped over ones head is next to impossible, so I took the role of photographer and shouter of encouragement. There were a few tense minutes when the 4x4 tried to climb over the rocks that remained but that was successfully achieved and we were soon on our way again, passing through Balakot. This area had previously been a centre for tourism given the lush green hills and lakes, but then the 2005 earthquake had struck. The evidence was all around us in the NGO signs proudly stating the projects they were implementing, in the collapsed buildings still visible, the tents, and the poor state of the road which was fighting a loosing battle against continued landslides and massive puddles.
Although the supposedly stunning views of the Kaghan valley were dampened by insistent rain, I felt much more optimistic about the journey after breakfast of fresh fried trout by a mountain stream. Unfortunately we didn’t have any fishing rods, but we stopped at a usefully placed tent by the side of the road which doubled up as a café, a bedroom for two boys, and inadequate shelter from the howling gale outside.
There was one tense moment when we were stopped due to a landslide in process. We could see rocks scattered across the road and rivers of dust marking their recent journey high up the mountain. However, after a quick ‘bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim’ (In the name of God, the merciful, the almighty) the driver revved the engine, careered around the rocks in the road, and we waved cheerfully goodbye to the other cars patiently queuing up in a most un-Pakistani like manner.
We had a lunch at Naran, a well known tourist spot famous for glaciers, green hills and a so-called lake of fairies. On the map a proper road was marked up to Naran, after that it was just a dotted track. Given the states of the roads we had been on, I wasn’t particularly sanguine about what was to follow. But happy surprise – there was a proper road for quite a few kilometres. After that, things went steadily downhill (while travelling uphill). In places there was no road at all and we had to pick our way around mud and boulders, and work out which general direction we should be heading, difficult as we were often the only vehicle on the ‘road’. We were reliant on the memory of one of my companions who had travelled that route three years previously, and nomads out wandering with their cattle. We gradually climbed to 4000 m, and passed cattle with coats on, and houses made out of stone, the women’s shalwar kameez flutering in the breeze being the only splashes of colour in an otherwise grey and green landscape. We had to negotiate ‘bridges’ consisting of bits of metal balanced precariously on the edge of the bank. I preferred to get out and walk, unsure of whether a) the bridge would take the weight of the car, b) whether the driver could avoid driving off the edge, or c) whether the whole thing would just slide of into the river. Such obstacles successfully surmounted, we reached the top of the pass, overtaking huge great road making lorries incongruent in the otherwise deserted landscape. The top of the pass was cloudy, freezing and grey, lightened by some of mum’s amazing chocolate brownie.
The descent into Chilas was marked by views of stone houses perched on the edge of the mountain dotted in between tiny fields built into the mountain side. Chilas is a conservative and tribal area. People openly carry guns – we drove past someone with a Kalashnikov, as well as gun towers. My companions reassured me that conflict in this area was limited to inter-tribal warfare rather than attacking random strangers. I took their assurances at face value, the blueness of the skies after the grey of the pass making acts of violence unimaginable in my mind.
While over the pass I had been dressed in two jumpers, a fleece and a heavy shawl, and a Starbucks hot chocolate wouldn’t have gone amiss. However, once down in the forty degree heat of Chilas we were back to drinking car –warmed bottled water. Chilas seemed to look exactly the same as how I remembered Gilgit – the grey mountains rising steeply decorated with slopes of scree. However, appearances can be deceptive; I was warned not to remove my headscarf and to keep a low profile given that this area was that much more conservative than Gilgit, even though they were just a two hour drive from that city. The road between Chilas and Gilgit is marked by hot springs, Buddhist carvings, the place where the Karakoram, Himalayas and Hindu Kush meet, and a sign saying ‘warning – ambushes possible’ chalked on rock. We stopped at three of the above places, the fourth I think I was the only person to see and didn’t insist on closer inspection.
I was pretty shattered by the time we reached Gilgit, so I don’t know how the driver felt. Although he probably didn’t have a license (I didn’t quite like to enquire) he was one of the most accomplished members of his profession who I have ever had the privilege to meet.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
A future brighter than an orange?
With a skip and a jump the little girl came panting up, pointed to her bare feet, and in voluble Punjabi and with expansive signs explained she had run down the litter strewn and muddy street to say hello, or rather ‘a salaam a leikum’. My relationship with the street children in our local bazaar in Islamabad had definitely progressed from the time I had bought a group some oranges, precipitating an unfortunate free-for-all by the side of a speeding highway.
Street children are not usually the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of Islamabad. Described as ‘twenty minutes outside Pakistan’, Islamabad is a city of big houses, dual carriage-ways and expensive shops. But Islamabad’s planners of the 1960s ignored the possibility of any urban poor, so squeezed in-between the central bazaars are the katchi-abadies, the slums. A five minute walk separates the expensive boutiques of ‘Supermarket’ from the narrow unpaved streets, open drains, cats cradle of electricity wires and litter strewn channels of 100 Quarters. Irreconcilably divided by money and power, yet the two worlds meet on the streets of the bazaars where children run around shouting and begging. The worlds also meet in the city schools. None of the katchi-abadies have their own schools; children attend general government schools. But in a country with among the worst educational records in Asia (female literacy stands at 36%), children from the katchi-abadies are at a high risk from the vicious cycle of dropping out of school, working on the streets, drug abuse and unemployment.
‘We didn’t get support from home so couldn’t keep up with the standard of the class’. A conversation with a group of older boys throws some light on the reasons for the high number of children dropping out of school here. And a comment which came up time and again in conversation with community members: ‘because we are not educated, our children are not educated’, and ‘we are uneducated so our children cannot survive in schools’. These community members have put their finger on the heart of the problem. If adults are aware of the importance of education they can prevent their children from begging, ensure they attend school, and support them in their school work. Dropping-out due the expense of uniforms or books, because children have no legal papers, because they need to look after younger siblings or their families need money all come down to the root issue that parents are unaware of the pivotal role that education plays in kicking a downward spiral of poverty.
This recognition from within these communities that they need to encourage their children’s education is a significant first step. The Mountain Institute for Educational Development (MIED), a local charity, runs Non-Formal Education (NFE) centres in the slums, helping children who have dropped out to regain a standard sufficient to re-enter formal schools. MIED’s NFE teachers, themselves from the communities, work tirelessly walking from door to door talking to parents, exploring with them their concerns about education and encouraging them to enrol their children in the centres. Just a few people from within a community can be a catalyst for change: last year more than 200 children graduated from the NFE centres into formal schools.
So, for children who live with their families but may work or beg on the streets, adult awareness-raising is crucial. But as in most developing countries, many boys leave their rural homes to earn money in the cities, and end up living 24/7 on the streets. There are no reliable statistics available for the number of children living on the streets in Pakistan, although some estimates put the number as high as 1.2 million. Nadeem works in a car workshop in a town in the North West Frontier Province. The death of his father left him the family’s main wage earner, forcing him to leave home and an education for work. He now earns a meagre 30Rs (30p) for each punishing 14 hour day. Rural government primary schools do little to attract boys like Nadeem to the opportunities of an education in their home villages. Rural schools are sinking under the combined challenges of teacher absenteeism, collapsing buildings, rote learning, corporal punishment and no resources.
But there are glimmers of hope. A community member in a village in Chakwal in the Punjab said proudly that all children from his village attend the local school: ‘education is good whether it is for males or females. The real thing is consciousness – it should be in everybody’. Such a view is the result of three years community mobilisation work by the field staff of MIED. And deep in the Karakoram mountains, five hours by treacherous road to the nearest city and subject to perishing cold winters, was a flourishing school. With a computer lab, museum, and science lab it could rival schools in the developed world. Run by the community rather than the government, families routinely spend a significant proportion of their annual income on education. What is the secret of their success? The Agha Khan Education Services has been promoting the cause of education in this village since 1946. Change hasn’t occurred overnight.
Except a few smiles and free oranges I could do little to help the little girl in the bazaar in Islamabad or Nadeem directly. There is no quick answer to the educational challenges for street children; any comprehensive solution cannot be divorced from the wider situation. Adult education and improving schools in rural areas will have an immeasurable impact addressing the root causes, albeit in the longer term. Change is possible: we need to take the current plight of street children as a kick-start for action.
Street children are not usually the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of Islamabad. Described as ‘twenty minutes outside Pakistan’, Islamabad is a city of big houses, dual carriage-ways and expensive shops. But Islamabad’s planners of the 1960s ignored the possibility of any urban poor, so squeezed in-between the central bazaars are the katchi-abadies, the slums. A five minute walk separates the expensive boutiques of ‘Supermarket’ from the narrow unpaved streets, open drains, cats cradle of electricity wires and litter strewn channels of 100 Quarters. Irreconcilably divided by money and power, yet the two worlds meet on the streets of the bazaars where children run around shouting and begging. The worlds also meet in the city schools. None of the katchi-abadies have their own schools; children attend general government schools. But in a country with among the worst educational records in Asia (female literacy stands at 36%), children from the katchi-abadies are at a high risk from the vicious cycle of dropping out of school, working on the streets, drug abuse and unemployment.
‘We didn’t get support from home so couldn’t keep up with the standard of the class’. A conversation with a group of older boys throws some light on the reasons for the high number of children dropping out of school here. And a comment which came up time and again in conversation with community members: ‘because we are not educated, our children are not educated’, and ‘we are uneducated so our children cannot survive in schools’. These community members have put their finger on the heart of the problem. If adults are aware of the importance of education they can prevent their children from begging, ensure they attend school, and support them in their school work. Dropping-out due the expense of uniforms or books, because children have no legal papers, because they need to look after younger siblings or their families need money all come down to the root issue that parents are unaware of the pivotal role that education plays in kicking a downward spiral of poverty.
This recognition from within these communities that they need to encourage their children’s education is a significant first step. The Mountain Institute for Educational Development (MIED), a local charity, runs Non-Formal Education (NFE) centres in the slums, helping children who have dropped out to regain a standard sufficient to re-enter formal schools. MIED’s NFE teachers, themselves from the communities, work tirelessly walking from door to door talking to parents, exploring with them their concerns about education and encouraging them to enrol their children in the centres. Just a few people from within a community can be a catalyst for change: last year more than 200 children graduated from the NFE centres into formal schools.
So, for children who live with their families but may work or beg on the streets, adult awareness-raising is crucial. But as in most developing countries, many boys leave their rural homes to earn money in the cities, and end up living 24/7 on the streets. There are no reliable statistics available for the number of children living on the streets in Pakistan, although some estimates put the number as high as 1.2 million. Nadeem works in a car workshop in a town in the North West Frontier Province. The death of his father left him the family’s main wage earner, forcing him to leave home and an education for work. He now earns a meagre 30Rs (30p) for each punishing 14 hour day. Rural government primary schools do little to attract boys like Nadeem to the opportunities of an education in their home villages. Rural schools are sinking under the combined challenges of teacher absenteeism, collapsing buildings, rote learning, corporal punishment and no resources.
But there are glimmers of hope. A community member in a village in Chakwal in the Punjab said proudly that all children from his village attend the local school: ‘education is good whether it is for males or females. The real thing is consciousness – it should be in everybody’. Such a view is the result of three years community mobilisation work by the field staff of MIED. And deep in the Karakoram mountains, five hours by treacherous road to the nearest city and subject to perishing cold winters, was a flourishing school. With a computer lab, museum, and science lab it could rival schools in the developed world. Run by the community rather than the government, families routinely spend a significant proportion of their annual income on education. What is the secret of their success? The Agha Khan Education Services has been promoting the cause of education in this village since 1946. Change hasn’t occurred overnight.
Except a few smiles and free oranges I could do little to help the little girl in the bazaar in Islamabad or Nadeem directly. There is no quick answer to the educational challenges for street children; any comprehensive solution cannot be divorced from the wider situation. Adult education and improving schools in rural areas will have an immeasurable impact addressing the root causes, albeit in the longer term. Change is possible: we need to take the current plight of street children as a kick-start for action.
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