When walls fall down
Two months after the floods began gushing through Pakistan, Islamic Relief’s aid worker, Samina Faiz, meets some of the people we have helped and discovers what still needs to be done.
Society in Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa is strictly segregated. The Pashtun people have a reputation for being very protective of their privacy and family - particularly women. The floods forced people out of their homes into public tent camps, adding an additional trauma for families used to seclusion. Now that people have returned to their villages, the loss of their homes and walls is proving problematic for more reasons than just shelter.
Keeping boundaries
Ropes have been strung up to serve in place of boundary walls, draped with plastic tarpaulins and cotton sheets. The ropes separate one family’s space from another, serving in place of the ‘char dewar’ or ‘four walls’ of the home. They also indicate a private domain forbidden to un-related men.
If you happen to be a woman, however, wandering freely in and out of the gaps between the sheets and into someone’s home proves to be no problem at all. My female interpreter and I pop up unannounced beside the tent encampment homes and we are welcomed in warmly, leaving our male colleagues standing somewhat bemused on the street outside.
The Pashtun women I meet might lead secluded lives, and disappear indoors at the intrusion of a strange man but there is nothing shy or retiring about them. They are strong, opinionated characters. So much so that I find it hard to conduct an interview with just one person as everyone has something pertinent to say. And within the home, hospitality has the force of law.
Tea-totalling
Having drunk more tea than was wise when facing a two and a half hour journey back to the office, I’d refused a lady’s offer of chai. On returning to her village another time, she called for me saying I hadn’t drunk tea with her last time so had no excuse today. As she brewed green tea, I popped through the sheet border to pray next door. As I prayed on the neighbour’s blue tarpaulin covering the mud floor, I became aware of the rattle of teacups as she made what could only be described as a ‘stealth’ cup of chai. My protestations that I was expected for tea next door were to no avail. She was well aware of my commitment, but decided to sneak in a cup anyway. In the face of a determined Pashtun woman armed with a full cup, the only possible response was surrender – and two consecutive cups of tea.
Education
The government primary school in the village of Londa was first flooded, and then served as a shelter for homeless families when the water retreated. The books, furniture and equipment have all been flood-damaged, and the building smells of rot. Islamic Relief is carrying out basic repairs to get the school open again. On my visit I ask if the school serves both boys and girls, and I am told that it is co-educational. However, a little further enquiry reveals the sad fact that only two or three girls from the village attend. Families are uncomfortable with educating their daughters, and male teachers and co-education are additional disincentives. Girls who attend school often face community disapproval for leaving their homes. As a result, the bright girls of Londa have little chance to gain an education. The nearest girls’ school is miles away, and travelling is not an option.
Changing times
The influx of outside interest and humanitarian aid after the floods seems to be having an effect on the traditional communities here. I spoke to one young woman, Mariam, who had been forced to drop out of school after primary education as there wasn’t a girls’ school nearby. Her family is particularly strict about seclusion, and her female relatives rarely leave home even for family weddings or to buy clothes. Islamic Relief set up a Hygiene Committee amongst the village women to help promote hygiene awareness messages. Mariam was surprised and completely overjoyed when her father agreed to let her attend. It was her first opportunity to be engaged in something outside her home, and she was excited at the possibilities of what the future might hold.
Access all areas
During a food distribution in a village in Charsadda, I interviewed a man about his flood experiences and asked if I could see where he’s living. A local member of staff, Pervaiz, helped with Pashto-translation. The man then took us behind his rope-sheet boundary to meet his wife and children - a welcoming gesture that I had been taking for granted. But Pervaiz was slightly stunned, saying he had been coming to this village for months, but this was the first time he’d been invited into a family ‘home'. It was my turn to be surprised, as this was typical of the welcome I’d received so far. I asked if he’d ever had female staff along, and he admitted that he hadn’t. Unlike men, women, even outsiders, face no bar in entering the private spaces reserved for close family.
I felt privileged to have such open access to a community that is, rightly or wrongly, perceived as closed to outsiders. I received a warm and generous welcome in the homes I visited, and soon lost any early anxiety about offering offence. Recovery from disaster inevitably involves change. I’m hopeful that the work our local female staff carry out in these communities, in health and education, may also help soften attitudes around acceptable roles, realms and opportunities for women like Mariam.