Stones Into School (18 page)

When he arrived in Muzaffarabad, he was struck by how little progress had been made during the month that had passed since his last visit to the earthquake zone. North of the city, despite all the relief efforts, women still carried water in plastic grocery bags. In the upper reaches of the Neelum, bodies were still being discovered in the wreckage. Bulldozers were everywhere.

Sarfraz spent most of the next four weeks supervising the tent schools and the water-delivery projects in the upper Neelum. Then one day in late July, he noticed that there was a new foot-bridge across the Neelum River to Patika and he decided to do a little exploring. When he got to the Patika bazaar, he heard for the first time about the plight of the Gundi Piran girls' school and figured it couldn't hurt to drop by and pay a visit to Saida Shabir.

To his surprise, she was not at all pleased to see him. All spring and summer, Saida had been wrestling with a burgeoning sense of frustration and outrage over the fact that despite the dozens of visits from journalists, relief workers, and concerned government officials, still no one had made the slightest effort to rebuild her ruined school. By the time Sarfraz showed up, the headmistress's patience was finished.

“What are you doing here and what do you want?” she demanded, pointedly declining to offer him a cup of tea.

Sarfraz politely explained that he would appreciate being given the chance to tour the school.

“You don't seem to understand,” she replied. “I am the headmistress, and I am asking you to leave now. Go away!”

Sarfraz has an uncanny way of winning people over, and as she proceeded into a barrage of comments about the unwanted guests she had received week after week, he listened without saying a word.

“As-Salaam Alaaikum,” he said when she had finished, invoking the Islamic greeting that is traditionally offered before a conversation begins. “Honorable Madam, my name is Sarfraz Khan. I am a village man, a former teacher, and a representative of the Central Asia Institute, which specializes in helping to promote girls' education.”

With that, the headmistress reluctantlyagreed to give him ten minutes to tour the school--but she warned him that he did not have permission to take photographs, take notes, or speak to the teachers or the students. After they had walked past the tents and observed the classes, Sabir sat him down on some rocks out of view of the students.

“Okay, now you are here, and I'm sorry we do not even have a chair or carpet for you to sit on,” she sighed. “What exactly do you want?”

“Madam, the Central Asia Institute is not a typical NGO,” he assured her. “It's true that we do tend to talk an awful lot, but we also build schools.” If she would permit him to take some photographs and assess the damage that had been done, he promised her that he would find the money, return, and build her a new school.

“I'll believe it when I see it,” replied Shabir, still suspicious but ready to be convinced.

In addition to the fact that Sarfraz had absolutely no authorization to be making such a promise, he now found himself confronting another problem. As a rule, the CAI's schools are more solidly built than the norm in Pakistan or Afghanistan--although our buildings are constructed cheaply and efficiently, we don't cut corners when it comes to design, materials, or adherence to code. But even so, nothing we had built so far was capable of withstanding a direct hit from a major quake--and in Azad Kashmir, earthquake-proof construction was clearly going to be a prerequisite for getting kids back into school on a long-term basis.

Having spent the last several months talking to students and their parents up and down the Neelum Valley, Sarfraz and I had both realized that most parents would not permit their children to resume classes inside buildings resembling the ones that had suffered such catastrophic collapse the previous October. If we eventually wanted to move away from temporary tent projects and start putting up permanent schools in these devastated villages, we would have to do something different. And it turned out that several years earlier, Sarfraz had heard a rumor about something that might work.

China's Xinjiang Province, which shares a border with northern Pakistan, suffers from almost as many earthquakes as Kashmir, and over the years, western Chinese architects and engineers had developed a keen interest in earthquake-proof construction techniques. More than two decades ago, Sarfraz had heard about this during conversations with several of the Chinese engineers who had helped build the Karakoram Highway (which passes just to the east of the Charpurson Valley). More recently, he had heard rumors that the Chinese had been trying to expand their earthquake-proof techniques into Pakistan. If so, might they have something that would work in Kashmir?

The search for an answer took him to a densely packed commercial district in Islamabad known as G9 and into the local offices of a Chinese company called CAC, which was based in the city of Urumqi, in Xinjiang Province. Three days after having bid farewell to the dubious headmistress of Gundi Piran, he dropped by the CAC offices and asked to see a sample of the firm's work.

At first glance, the Chinese design was a bit disappointing, especially compared with the kind of schools Sarfraz was used to constructing. Almost all of the CAI buildings feature impressive stonework and some aesthetic touches of design and color. By contrast, the Chinese earthquake-proof buildings appeared ugly and utilitarian. They also had a prefab look that made them seem, on the surface, rather flimsy. Even Sarfraz had to concede, however, that the science behind the design was impressive. The buildings were put together on principles that western Chinese designers had identified more than fifty years earlier, working with wooden structures whose pieces fit together like a loosely jointed log cabin. The detached fittings gave the frames a built-in “play,” which enabled them to disperse seismic forces by shaking and rattling without collapsing. They were engineered to withstand magnitude-8.2 earthquakes, and the Chinese were prepared to offer a twenty-year guarantee.

Impressed, Sarfraz concluded that the design would have met with my approval had he bothered to pick up the sat phone and pass this information along to me--which, of course, it was impossible to do without revealing that he had gone “off protocol” and was no longer home in Zuudkhan. So instead, he gulped and moved on to the next stage.

Did the Chinese think that the school yard in Gundi Piran offered a suitable building site?

Perhaps, replied the Chinese engineers, but they would need to see some photographs.

No way, retorted Sarfraz. The safety of the people who would be using these buildings could not be entrusted to photographs. If the Chinese were serious about wanting to do business, they would need to get into the red Land Cruiser--right now--and make the trip to Azad Kashmir.

During the following three days, Sarfraz and a trio of Chinese engineers toured three possible building sites in the Neelum Valley, including Nouseri, Pakrat, and Gundi Piran--where, despite the fact that Sarfraz had brought along tea and biscuits, the visitors failed to make a dent in Saida Shabir's skepticism.

“Don't worry, I will have the firm commitment shortly!” he assured her as they left.

“Inshallah,” she replied. “But if you want to come back here again, you better have some building materials with you.”

As they toured the sites, the Chinese engineers explained to Sarfraz that the aluminum frames for the school buildings would need to be prefabricated to the required dimensions in Urumqi, then hauled in trucks over the 15,397-foot Khunjarab Pass, then down to Islamabad and over to Azad Kashmir. There, the company's own crew would bolt the structure into place on a special concrete foundation that floated on a bed of crushed rock and Styrofoam, which would help to dampen the seismic shock waves. Fair enough, replied Sarfraz.

Back in Islamabad, Sarfraz told the Chinese he'd be in touch, then set about confirming everything he'd been told. He checked in with several engineers serving in the Pakistani army who were familiar with earthquake-proof construction techniques and then ran those findings past another set of engineers working with the American military in Azad Kashmir. He also hauled out his laptop and pored over several Web sites with dense reports on earthquake-resistant design. When it all checked out, he returned to the Chinese.

“Okay, we are ready to start,” announced Sarfraz.

“We don't start anything without money,” replied Yanjing, the head engineer, as he handed over an estimate of the total cost for three schools.

Now it was time for Sarfraz to sit down and put together a memo addressed to me.

Even though August 13 was a Sunday, I was, as usual, sitting down at my desk in the basement to start my day at 5:00 A.M., when the fax machine bleated and a document started scrolling through:

I am very sorry sir, but I need a wire transfer of $54,000 for three schools in Azad Kashmir--Pakrat, Nouseri, and Patika. . . .

The memo, which was three pages long, included sample drawings and a budget for bolts, rebar, sheet metal, and hammers. It ended with a typically direct suggestion from Sarfraz.

Please discuss with CAI board and send funds immediately.

This was the moment I first became aware that the Central Asia Institute was apparently ready to leap into the business of building earthquake-proof school buildings.

My first reaction, it must be said, was one of surprise and some annoyance. Given Sarfraz's previous recommendations about the wisdom of holding back on constructing permanent buildings until the population of Azad Kashmir had stopped moving around and the situation had stabilized somewhat, I had assumed that we would be running our tent schools for quite some time, perhaps even years. I had also assumed that we would wait for the provincial government of Azad Kashmir to take the lead on developing a new earthquake-resistant building code and then follow suit. The idea that we might decide to spearhead this initiative on our own during a time when our personnel and our resources were already sorely overtaxed had, quite frankly, never occurred to me. So what in the world was Sarfraz talking about in this memo?

I was about to pick up the phone and put this question to him, but it was already ringing.

“Did you get my fax?” he demanded.

“Yes,” I replied. “Let's start with the fact that you're not in Zuudkhan sitting under a tree tending your goats.”

Sarfraz had no interest in exploring that topic and steamrollered directly into the issue at hand. Nearly a year had passed since the earthquake occurred, he declared, and the people of Azad Kashmir--especially those who lived in the Neelum Valley--needed to see something real happening, not just a couple dozen tent schools. Moreover, the few permanent government school buildings that had been reconstructed were inappropriate, having been raised directly over the footprints of the old schools, and with the same techniques that were responsible for the structural failures that had killed so many children. This was no way to proceed because the next time an earthquake occurred, even more kids would die. What was needed--immediately--was for someone to demonstrate to the government that safer schools could be built for the right cost. Since no one else had stepped up, we had no choice but to take on this responsibility ourselves.

“That may all be true, Sarfraz, but you know that the board of the Central Asia Institute has to approve all of our expenditures, and the budget for 2006 has already been allocated.”

“Yes. That is why you must convince them to make a special exception. This is a problem you can solve.”

“But Sarfraz, the board doesn't even meet again for another two months. Even if I could convince them, this can't happen until October.”

“We cannot wait until October. Winter will be here soon. Please call them now and get approval over the phone.”

“Sarfraz, let me explain something--”

“Sir!” he interjected. “I made a promise to a madam who is principal of a school. You always tell us that we must listen to find out what people truly want. Well, okay. I listened, I found out, and then I made a promise. If we don't keep our word, she will never believe us again.”

Sigh.

“So you will send the goat today?”

Sarfraz and the rest of the Dirty Dozen have a habit of referring to any funds that are wired from the United States as “the goat”--a nod to Haji Ali, the chief of Korphe, who had been forced in 1996 to give a dozen of his prized rams to a rival tribal chief in exchange for Korphe being accorded the honor of having the first school at the upper end of the Braldu Valley.

As it happened, we still had $75,000 left in our special $160,000 earthquake-relief fund, and all we needed was the board's approval. Even so, the idea of committing the bulk of what we had left to some fancy technology brought into Pakistan from western China seemed risky. The Red Cross had by now set up a big base right across the Neelum River from Patika, so everybody up and down the river would be watching. If this project backfired in some way, not only our finances but also our credibility would suffer. And finally, there was the calendar.

“It's already September, Sarfraz,” I moaned. “You know as well as I do that nobody starts building anything in the mountains in September.”

“No problem, sir. It is not too late.”

(In fact, he went on to point out, his calculations indicated that we could finish all three projects within one month.)

“Well, okay, what about customs and everything having to come in from China? Have you thought about that?”

“No problem, sir. Everything has been arranged.”

(He had already confirmed that the Chinese had their customs paperwork in perfect order. The trucks from China would be off-loaded at the customs station about an hour inside the border, where the Pakistani truckers would take over. Six or seven truckloads would be sufficient for all three schools.)

“Start to finish, one month, sir,” declared Sarfraz. “I promise.”

Still I was reluctant. The whole scheme seemed to be unfolding much too quickly. Maybe Sarfraz's energy and enthusiasm had finally gotten the best of him and affected his judgment.