Follow-up September 2013: For victims, time heals nothing
In the year gone by, much-promised help to renovate the church and rid it of its scars has not arrived
PESHAWAR:
It’s been a year; time has moved on but only outside the gates of All Saints Church. The barbed wire that encircles the church, with its razor-sharp bitterness, has barred time from the church. The clock that eerily stopped ticking at 11:44am on September 22, 2013 is now missing. Time has only passed but nought has changed.
“It brings back horrific memories” says Javed Iqbal, a senior member of the parish, while pointing at the damaged walls of the church which still carry the imprints of ball bearings that pierced through them. “Security officials who visit us flinch when they see the walls—it’s unimaginably painful.”
In the year gone by, much-promised help to renovate the church and rid it of its scars has not arrived.
Iqbal, however, has managed to fix the ornamental glasswork with the help of some friends, who wished to remain anonymous. “The government has nothing to claim, we’ve fixed these ourselves,” adds Iqbal.
The evening in the church is quiet; the gates of the inner portion are open for prayers. The lone policeman who stands guard does not budge an inch because of the fear of “the unknown that still surrounds these streets.” He nervously looks through the narrow opening in a steel door, questioning anyone who knocks.
A biometric security system and walkthrough gate bundled into a corner with torn sandbags has not made his life any easier. There are two policemen deployed at the church at all times, the number increases to four on Sundays. Insecurity surrounds the place; it’s not just one community that is on the hit list. Increased sectarian target killings, attacks on the Sikhs and the odd bomb planted by extortionists has squeezed all the space out of this once diverse city.
The Walled City, which symbolized a protective layer, is now imploding with not just violence but also pain, pain is epitomised by All Saints Church.
Compensation politics
A cursory glance at official compensation records of the diocese is depressing; it’s astonishing how a single incident of violence has affected the lives of so many people. “Affected Families,129, Widows, 44, Orphans, 14…” and so the list goes.
Whose name is or isn’t on the list remains a topic of discussion among affected families.
While accusations of embezzlement are made, it is hard to verify individual claims because of a lack of transparency. Lists available do not match up: “We are on it to get it corrected,” says Pastor Fayaz Channa unconvincingly.
Iqbal, who has maintained close relations with all affected families, says the distribution has not been even, putting the blame on the diocese as well as the government. “One requires political influence even to get compensated,” he says.
“Master Nazir and his wife passed away, but their children’s names are not included on any list.”
Some people involved in documenting the victims have also sought asylum and are now living abroad, a reason for resentment within the community.
First steps, second chances
Master Stephen Yaqub, the devoted church tabla player resumed his musical duties after being bedridden for more than ten months but with one minor alteration. Because of the severity of his injuries, he can no longer sit on the ground.
Rehana Maryam* has been operated on six times now. She was eight months pregnant when the blasts ripped into the church and almost lost her legs. In an earlier interview, she told The Express Tribune she had lost the baby as the shrapnel sliced into her stomach.
Rehana took her first few steps last week, but her mother who was visiting her to celebrate the successful surgery died in a road accident.
Others like Arif Masih, whose injuries could have been treated and who could have completely healed, has been hospitalized since last year. His leg was partially amputated but has now been completely removed. “He is diabetic and his wounds developed gangrene,” says his doctor.
Those left behind
Nazir and Rehana were among those who lost their lives in the churchyard on September 22, leaving behind Noor* 17, Zunera*, 16, Shayan*, 15, Imran*, 13 and Kiran* who is only eight. They now live in an 8’ by 10’ single-room house with four others, including their uncle James, a retired pensioner, sans a bathroom or kitchen.
“When we went to the church to receive cash compensation, we were told our parents’ names were not on the list.”
If being orphaned was not enough grief, the children had to visit the church and authorities to convince them their parents had died that fateful morning. “But we couldn’t convince them to give us the compensation,” said the 17-year-old.
The impoverished don’t have the luxury of mourning. These five children have had to embrace a pragmatism far beyond their tender years. To fight for the money they are owed by the state, they had to take a loan to hire a lawyer who has not managed to help much so far.
They were told as none of them are 18 yet, they are not eligible to receive the money. Even taking their uncle, as their guardian, to court did not help.
The girls have had to face something more haunting than money; sexual harassment.
They feel the area is not safe and their uncle and aunt are too old to protect them from the penetrating gaze they feel when they walk to school. “People from our own community harass us because we don’t have parents to protect us,” says Noor.
The blasts on September 22 were an attack on a collective, yet all efforts to overcome that trauma have remained confined to the individual. The lack of transparency in fund distribution and the government’s apathy leaves all wounds raw. Time is not the only thing needed to heal and even that has come to a standstill.
*Names have been changed to protect identities
Published in The Express Tribune, September 22nd, 2014.
It’s been a year; time has moved on but only outside the gates of All Saints Church. The barbed wire that encircles the church, with its razor-sharp bitterness, has barred time from the church. The clock that eerily stopped ticking at 11:44am on September 22, 2013 is now missing. Time has only passed but nought has changed.
“It brings back horrific memories” says Javed Iqbal, a senior member of the parish, while pointing at the damaged walls of the church which still carry the imprints of ball bearings that pierced through them. “Security officials who visit us flinch when they see the walls—it’s unimaginably painful.”
In the year gone by, much-promised help to renovate the church and rid it of its scars has not arrived.
Iqbal, however, has managed to fix the ornamental glasswork with the help of some friends, who wished to remain anonymous. “The government has nothing to claim, we’ve fixed these ourselves,” adds Iqbal.
The evening in the church is quiet; the gates of the inner portion are open for prayers. The lone policeman who stands guard does not budge an inch because of the fear of “the unknown that still surrounds these streets.” He nervously looks through the narrow opening in a steel door, questioning anyone who knocks.
A biometric security system and walkthrough gate bundled into a corner with torn sandbags has not made his life any easier. There are two policemen deployed at the church at all times, the number increases to four on Sundays. Insecurity surrounds the place; it’s not just one community that is on the hit list. Increased sectarian target killings, attacks on the Sikhs and the odd bomb planted by extortionists has squeezed all the space out of this once diverse city.
The Walled City, which symbolized a protective layer, is now imploding with not just violence but also pain, pain is epitomised by All Saints Church.
Compensation politics
A cursory glance at official compensation records of the diocese is depressing; it’s astonishing how a single incident of violence has affected the lives of so many people. “Affected Families,129, Widows, 44, Orphans, 14…” and so the list goes.
Whose name is or isn’t on the list remains a topic of discussion among affected families.
While accusations of embezzlement are made, it is hard to verify individual claims because of a lack of transparency. Lists available do not match up: “We are on it to get it corrected,” says Pastor Fayaz Channa unconvincingly.
Iqbal, who has maintained close relations with all affected families, says the distribution has not been even, putting the blame on the diocese as well as the government. “One requires political influence even to get compensated,” he says.
“Master Nazir and his wife passed away, but their children’s names are not included on any list.”
Some people involved in documenting the victims have also sought asylum and are now living abroad, a reason for resentment within the community.
First steps, second chances
Master Stephen Yaqub, the devoted church tabla player resumed his musical duties after being bedridden for more than ten months but with one minor alteration. Because of the severity of his injuries, he can no longer sit on the ground.
Rehana Maryam* has been operated on six times now. She was eight months pregnant when the blasts ripped into the church and almost lost her legs. In an earlier interview, she told The Express Tribune she had lost the baby as the shrapnel sliced into her stomach.
Rehana took her first few steps last week, but her mother who was visiting her to celebrate the successful surgery died in a road accident.
Others like Arif Masih, whose injuries could have been treated and who could have completely healed, has been hospitalized since last year. His leg was partially amputated but has now been completely removed. “He is diabetic and his wounds developed gangrene,” says his doctor.
Those left behind
Nazir and Rehana were among those who lost their lives in the churchyard on September 22, leaving behind Noor* 17, Zunera*, 16, Shayan*, 15, Imran*, 13 and Kiran* who is only eight. They now live in an 8’ by 10’ single-room house with four others, including their uncle James, a retired pensioner, sans a bathroom or kitchen.
“When we went to the church to receive cash compensation, we were told our parents’ names were not on the list.”
If being orphaned was not enough grief, the children had to visit the church and authorities to convince them their parents had died that fateful morning. “But we couldn’t convince them to give us the compensation,” said the 17-year-old.
The impoverished don’t have the luxury of mourning. These five children have had to embrace a pragmatism far beyond their tender years. To fight for the money they are owed by the state, they had to take a loan to hire a lawyer who has not managed to help much so far.
They were told as none of them are 18 yet, they are not eligible to receive the money. Even taking their uncle, as their guardian, to court did not help.
The girls have had to face something more haunting than money; sexual harassment.
They feel the area is not safe and their uncle and aunt are too old to protect them from the penetrating gaze they feel when they walk to school. “People from our own community harass us because we don’t have parents to protect us,” says Noor.
The blasts on September 22 were an attack on a collective, yet all efforts to overcome that trauma have remained confined to the individual. The lack of transparency in fund distribution and the government’s apathy leaves all wounds raw. Time is not the only thing needed to heal and even that has come to a standstill.
*Names have been changed to protect identities
Published in The Express Tribune, September 22nd, 2014.