In Afghan Refugees’ Camp

On the first day, I surveyed the Kachi Abadi (slums) of Afghan refugees’ camp in Islamabad, where Afghan refugees are living for the last two decades. These refugees migrated to Pakistan in wake of Russian occupation of Kabul in 1979. They numbered in millions. They flocked to Pakistan without any food and possessions. They had no shelter.

As I entered the camp, I was stunned by the contrast between the posh villas at my back and the mud houses on the bank of sewerage line in my front. The Afghans, dressed in shalwar qamis with long beards covering their faces, were staring at us suspiciously. “They are CDA men, they will demolish our homes,” whispered one. “No, they will raze our shops, as they have given us notice,” muttered the other.

The bare-footed Afghan children, dressed in tatters and their hands soiled with mud, were playing in the streets. They were also looking at us curiously. The guide, who was the head of Kachi Abadi’s shura (council), showed us the ruins of houses, which were demolished by CDA (Capital Development Authority) when some refugees repatriated.

According to UNHCR, 1.6 million Afghan refugees have been facilitated to return to their country, after the fall of Taliban regime and installation of Hamid Karzai-led Afghan Interim Administration under Bonn Accord.

I surveyed the whole camp and divided it into three geographical divisions. I had to distribute ration cards among the deserving Afghan repatriates. We had devised this mechanism for providing food relief to the Afghan repatriates. The one with the card was supposed to get the food items.

We made three teams for these divisions. The next day, we started distributing the cards among them. I was leading the team of two police men and UNHCR personnel. As I stepped down from the car and entered into the camp, I found myself surrounded by dozens Afghans: men and children. They all were curious. But they did not ask me anything. I told the police men to scatter them.

I knocked the first door. “Who is the head of the family?” I asked the boy standing in front of the door. “My father, but he is away,” he replied. “OK, your name, your father name, your province?” I asked the questions in one breath and he replied with the same speed. But when I asked “your family members”, he started counting his fingers. “We are living four families in the same house. Our total strength is 33,” he answered.

The news of ration cards spread like fire in jungle. Everyone took out to the narrow streets. The streets were jam-packed. I could not carry on my work. I asked the policemen to control the crowed. But they couldn’t. I asked them to stand in front of their homes. “You will receive cards on your door step,” I tried to cool the mob.

Many people came up with stories of their miseries and agonies, asking for help. I pledged them assistance but in the heart of hearts I felt guilty. There were also some people who hid their identities, fearing they would be deported forcibly. They showed themselves as Pashtoons of tribal areas.

“My husband was crippled in a landmine blast. He can’t earn for family. We have eleven kids. We are living three families in one house. One card is not enough,” a woman pleaded with her eyes full of tears. “We will come again,” I tried to satisfy her. I am sure she was not satisfied by the answer. Every door opened with a new story of miseries. The monsoon rain interrupted and we could not complete the task.

On the third day I had to distribute the rest of cards. The people were more ready for accepting the cards. Some people followed me, saying I had left their homes. I said another team will cover your area. This time, I was fast in my work. And so were the people. They also helped me in knocking the doors.

Two women, covered with burqas (a head-to-toe dress), came up. “Our husband had been killed in the war. We have 13 children. We have no source of income. You left our home,” they pleaded. “Stay in your home, I will come again,” I tried to solace them. I did not distribute the cards in the streets because two or more members of the same family could have come for. That is why I went from door to door.



The monsoon rain interrupted again. An old man, called Haji Saab, gave us shelter. His guest room was very neat and carpeted. Even the walls were carpeted. It was the emblem of Afghan culture. As the Afghan are famous for their hospitality, Haji Saab had already ordered for the tea without seeking my permission. In the meanwhile, the policeman told me that many of these refugees are returnees. They got 100 US dollars for repatriation but came back.

“Will you go back to your country,” I asked the Haji Saab. “Sure, but the situation is still volatile there. We are from northern Afghanistan and the non-Pashtoons kill and torture us. Our lives, honor and property are not safe there,” he replied.

“Do you have the facilities of electricity and gas here in Kachi Abadi,” I enquired. “”No, we don’t have any electricity, gas, dispensary, drinking water and schools,” he replied taking a sigh of deprivation. He served us tea. The rain halted and we completed the distribution of cards.

The next day was the distribution day of the food package. We were delayed due to some administrative and technical problems. The mob was almost double from our expectation. Almost equal of those having cards, were around. We allowed only those having the cards. But still dozens of people were standing outside the tents in hope they will get the extra food.

An old woman walked in without having a card and asked for food. “All my four sons have been slaughtered in northern Afghanistan. I can’t do any work and I am hungry for the last two days,” she burst into tears. “If something is left, I will give you,” I tried to console her.

The police disciplined the crowd and we completed the distribution. But those without cards were looking at us with begging eyes. “We will come again,” I lied but felt guilty. Two sacks of rice were left. The children fought over one sack, tearing each other’s dresses. I gave the only-left sack to that old woman. Her weeping face shined with smile. She kissed my hands, touched them to her eyes and prayed for my long life and happiness. I felt that nothing greater can I achieve than this.
END.