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I'm riding over fields of devastation in a Russian M-17 helicopter, humming that Jimmy Page lick from "Kashmir" to the clip of the rotors ("Dun-na-na [thud], dun-na-na [thud], dun-na-na [thud]"). I'm happy, genuinely enjoying myself, less jetlagged, less sick, joyful, alive, unabashedly savoring this (perhaps last) delicious moment of emotional detachment before we hit the ground and disaster casts a shade of pain over the next few days. Our pilot, a smartly dressed Russian working for the U.N., lets me flip open one of the windows to snap photos of the landscape. The freezing air numbs my hands as I plunge my camera into the rotor wash, gripping tight so as not to kill anyone by dropping my equipment from 8,000 feet. Hold on, hold on — this place has had enough tragedy.
I get my first glimpse of the disaster zone from aloft. Winter sunlight polishes the Himalayas, the plateau a broken jaw of gleaming teeth set on an examination table of dramatic, smaller mountains in the distance. The land is romantic, worthy of the mob of superlatives offered by military and aid workers last night ("most beautiful," "most breathtaking," "most incredible"). I understand the Indian/ Pakistani conflict over this contested divorce spoil left over from the 1947 division of the two countries: Unlike the chalk fields of Israel/ Palestine or the scraggly hills of the Korean DMZ, this is some seriously seductive real estate. As the Indian subcontinent thrusts deeper and deeper into Europe and Asia, mountains and valleys arch up in inverse cascade, an oxidizing agent in the dirt blushing the whole terrain a funky shade of purple-brown. Terraces of grain and fruit trees inlay the sides of cathedral cliffs carved by opaque jade rivers. It is bewitching, lovely. But just like any other epic heartbreak, violence in Kashmir has claimed men's lives — nearly 80,000 in the last 55 years. This is one of the most volatile places on earth, listed in 1998 by the Doomsday Clock as the area on earth most likely to be obliterated in nuclear holocaust. Somewhere in the folds of these mountains are the Indian and Pakistan rows of artillery and surface-to-surface missiles, trained on mutually assured destruction.
The helicopter drops and banks right. We come around the lee side of Muzaffarabad. The city is set at the fork of two glacial rivers — the Neelum and Jhelum — and cradled in the palm of mountain peaks, many of which still bear a crown of fresh snow. The first snowstorm hit a week before we arrived. Much, much more is expected. Here snow = very bad. Winter is the threat against which all these people below us are racing; it will impede aid efforts, it will isolate villages, it will freeze and kill. The big question now remains: Can enough be done before the worst of it (January-March) hits? The U.N. has dubbed its collaborative efforts — with the NGOs, Red Cross, etc. under its auspices — "Operation Winter Race." But nature also tosses in further curveballs: landslides and avalanches. Many of the rock faces of the mountains have recently been stripped by landslide, scoured like the door of a luxury car after an accident. The whole of Kashmir itself is still trembling. Nearly 3,000 aftershocks have hit since the big quake of October 8.
As the helicopter lowers, the devastation slides into focus. All around the city, in a haphazard manner, lay blown-out, ripped-up piles of what used to be buildings among defiant neighborhoods that look virtually untouched. It is random. One flattened, its neighbor standing tall, bad luck lurching through the city in wild skips that left thousands injured and dead underfoot. Tent camps have sprung up all around Muzaffarabad like mushrooms after a heavy storm, from beside the lowest river beds to the terraces of high altitude. An anhydrous concrete fog envelops the city/ working construction site, stuck in the bowl of the valley. In the haze, military and private helicopters take off and land, buzzing a constant drone as they fly, bellies full of aid, up to the Indian line of control. I am told that things in Muzaffarabad actually look pretty good by one U.N. World Food Programme worker. Ninety percent of nearby Balakot was flattened, killing almost 12,000 instantaneously. He says they will simply put a gravestone on that town and call it a cemetery. I remind myself that the majority of this damage took place in under five minutes.
We take a drive from the soccer field to the U.N. base camp and pass at least two dozen destroyed sites in five minutes. Exhausted-looking men strain spade after spade of concrete into trucks and wheelbarrows. The sheer tonnage of debris that must be moved in this city alone is overwhelming. One shopkeeper, whose place has been swallowed by a landslide, has cleared a tiny window open for business, despite the fact that the majority of his shop remains under stone and mud. Trash and clothing line some of the streets, some burning in piles for workers to heat themselves. Roads that aren't covered in landslide display monster cracks. Crows are everywhere scavenging garbage and more ghoulish meals from the rubble. At the U.N. base camp, the Pakistani military has set up a security perimeter that opens to the remains of a former girl's school, now the operational hub/ home to U.N.-sanctioned NGOs.
There I am introduced to our contact from the Pakistani military, Major Farooq Nasir Pirzada, a very affable public-affairs officer who is helping us arrange a trip to some of the more secluded, higher-altitude villages in the nearby town of Hattian Bala. Major Farooq offers to give us our first tour of Muzaffarabad. As quickly as we arrive, we head out again. In the car to Muzaffarabad's main market, Major Farooq describes the scene of the first day. "Thank God," he says, "that it happened in the morning, as we had daylight on our side. Had this happened at night, many more people would have died. But the sounds that night, as it rained ... ." He trails off. Major Farooq says the Pakistani military response was swift, getting medical care, food and water to survivors. Pakistani engineering corps bulldozed streets and cleared roads to allow safe passage of relief. But I press him on this. In the initial days after the disaster, the Pakistani military and the country's president, Pervez Musharraf, suffered much the same criticism as the Bush administration after Hurricane Katrina. In fact charities associated with terrorist groups, like the visible local Jamaat-ud-Dawa organization, were credited as the true first responders by many locals. Bootleg video circulated on the Internet show Jihadis helping pull survivors from the rubble. It put the onus on the Pakistani military to show up in a big way. Today they are absolutely the most visible and consistent aid presence in town.
I ask Major Farooq to take us to the site of the University of Muzaffarabad. Unsure if classes are still going on, I want to film there, hopefully to meet students. About 400 died at the campus on October 8 when structures collapsed. But now the college was back up and offering classes again — in tents. We pull into the lot, but save some thickets of twisted rebar and concrete piles, there is nothing left and no one around. There is no imagining what it used to look like. Three winterized tents — the remains of the school — have been tagged up with their new names as the Departments of Botany, Biology and Computer Science. Torn textbooks can be found under bricks. No students are anywhere, although the major suggests that some might live in the tent camp that abuts the site. It quickly grows dark, and we strike out hoping to find one. As we prepare to leave, a violent street fight breaks out nearby: A pack of dudes chases down two guys, who they beat mercilessly. One falls and is pounced upon by the men, who grab pieces of wall and smack him with huge blocks of concrete. I ask the major, who is armed with a handgun, why he doesn't intervene. "This happens," he says. "It will sort itself out." About a minute later, police come rushing in with billy clubs. Suddenly the street erupts with about 20 different muezzin calls blaring through loudspeakers. We head back to the camp. This city is mad.
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Photo: MTV News
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Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Photo Diary
After The Storm
After The Tsunami