“I have never had a moment’s peace in my life, I am poor. What can I do?” Hasina Bibi in Allahabad Colony in Jaffarabad said, while clutching my hand. I had to stop this elderly woman from bowing in gratefulness.
You have no idea how embarrassing that feels. I am half her age.
Everywhere I went in southern Balochistan, there is so much pain and desperation, it is very difficult to bear witness to.
It is the first of Ramzan, and I spent it meeting women in a half dozen villages, all over Jaffarabad. We had brought rations for the month and some financial assistance, and most importantly some hope, to rebuild their homes. Every household’s story echoed despair, pain and anguish.
As I greeted Faizan Bibi Ramzan Mubarak, she replied without changing her facial expressions, “we have no means to fast and no food anyway, there is no Ramzan for us.” After we spoke about her experiences through the recent rains and floods, I realized this humanitarian disaster was merely another tragedy in a series which they have come to expect in their lives.
It is very difficult to keep one’s tears at bay just listening to the stories. How do they?
How do human beings live in such conditions? We are in the 21st century; we have laws, taxes, governors -- whose sole purpose is to care for such citizens. Yet everywhere one goes in southern Balochistan, the situation is the same, acute poverty and worse, no hope.
Faizan Bibi and Safia played the dhol for a living. What soulful music they play! They were kind enough to play for us, breaking the somber mood that had set in after the very gloomy conversations we had. Every chord they played carried the pain of existence. Hazrat Rumi always reminds us that to know joy, you must experience pain; but is it really necessary to know so much pain, I wondered to myself?
How has the state of Pakistan allowed such deprivation to fester in the land of the pure? Where is the Islam here, or any sense of basic humanity? Where are the funds from all those zakat foundations going? Half these women had no Benazir Income Support Program cards; with some saying that the funds had stopped 6 months ago for them. Many of the women have no national identity cards to begin with. More alarming was that none of the children under the age of 18 seemed to have B forms. Each family that I came across had 4 to 6 children. It is a safe bet that the population count for Balochistan is seriously under reported.
Spending time in Jaffarabad amongst these households is an education in itself, revealing so many hidden realities of an acutely distressed society. We think that we know poverty and poverty alleviation since we have been ‘dealing’ with it for the 75 years that Pakistan has existed. But the state of affairs we have in southern Balochistan, and perhaps parts of Sindh, is poverty which has stripped human beings of any sense of agency. Building back better, self-help, social mobility, micro-finance; all of these buzzwords will find little to off here, as the state of the region stands in stark contrast to existing models and frameworks.
To begin with, this area has consolidated landholdings owned by landlords who control the lives of thousands, if not more. But sadly, it is also the government who is a landlord here. Local governments own lands on which they act no different to a feudal lord; cattle farms, fisheries, and many other agricultural related produce is grown on this state owned land. On these state-owned tracts of land, one would imagine that the residents and the labor working the land would have access to a somewhat better quality of life, with amenities such as health, education and safe clean drinking water and sewerage. But alas, this is not the case.
The question that automatically comes to mind is where does the money or the goods from these state assets go? The labor and residents of these state-owned lands have no healthcare, education, or income to speak of, and struggle to live a decent life. I can think of so many fundamental rights of our Constitution being violated, which include Articles 25a, which enshrines a right to an education until end of school, the right to a dignified life, and social security.
Moreover, what is the purpose of government owning productive land that does not feed or nourish the people? On whose behalf is it being held in the first place? What is government’s purpose in owning productive land if it isn’t to serve the citizens that need the state’s support the most?
Another misconception one realizes as one spends more time here is that this decrepit and abysmal state of living for thousands living in Jaffarabad is not because of the recent rains & floods, as some would have you believe.
Haseena Bibi, Rehana Bibi, Faizan Bibi, the dhol player and even Zulfiqar, the blind former tailor – all of them have had no hope all their lives. Zulfiqar was a tailor and lost his sight due to bad lighting in the absence of electricity or gas, and the chemical of the cloth dyes he had to use in his work. As a widower, his under aged child looks after the hearth and home, while his older son, who is mentally disabled, sits around the charpai. No one is educated, and no one cares for the welfare of these two children. The state has a responsibility to ensure that the next generation is not only literate but is also able to earn and contribute to society. We have child labor laws, right to education laws, welfare taxes and massive government departments in the name of zakat. Where are they when so many are in need?
The shiny golden wheat fields which surround these parts are a feast for the eyes. I even took a picture in these fields before I went to meet some of the families. I was meeting women whose homes I hope to rebuild, but their lives are so broken that this miniscule rehabilitation doesn’t address the fundamental challenges.
Another observation which is very telling of the deep apathy of the state is that the ‘villages’ have no beginning or end, like one sees in other parts of the province, there are no boundary walls, or roads, lanes, or sewerage lanes, sanitation systems, electricity poles - exactly nothing. There is no infrastructure for decent living here. Nothing. These are mud plains where broken clusters of people are camped out, completely unfit to serve as human habitat.
Looking at these villages, I realized the arrogance of any suggestion that my efforts would help them rebuild their lives. How do you help those who have lost every sense of agency in every fiber of their being. It is so difficult to have effective dialog about prioritizing those who need assistance the most, and asking the people to contribute. For example, I have made it a condition of building a home that the able-bodied men must work as labor in the endeavor. Their listlessness can be interpreted as laziness or male privilege or some such idea. There is an iota of this, but the primary reason that I gathered are the mental health challenges, the despair, depression, and the nutritional and physical deficits due to generational, genetic poverty. The cries of ‘what can we do, only you can help us’ is deafening and rings in one’s soul long after you leave them. The pleading can easily be misinterpreted by some.
Talking about self-help in such circumstances, as I did, to contribute towards restoring a semblance of control over one’s lives, has no place here. Social mobility as I have come to understand it, in my many decades of development work, still requires an individual with the capacity to comprehend some sense of agency. Here, every face was haunted with the struggle for daily survival. Life is so difficult that even expected social norms in a traditional tribal Balochi environment are suspended. In fact, I realized very quickly that, those who had the privilege of purdah did not need my help, there were too many others who did not have this luxury.
I am also convinced that the generational inter-marriages and nutritional deficiencies are contributing factors towards the lack of capacity to think, act or consider some actions of self-preservation, not only at an individual level, but more importantly, as a community. Dependency on charity from the local landlord, the ‘sardar’, the government, or individual philanthropy has become the norm. Generationally uneducated, the people have no hope to be able to earn their own keep. It is as if this human instinct has been stripped from them systematically.
‘Please don’t have any more children’, I said to Zahid, Safia’s husband. He was showing us his mangled hands and swollen feet, his disability from working with chemicals and heavy lifting. Unable to feed his six children and wife, the thought crossed my mind, why produce so many children when you can’t feed yourself. How will you feed these souls I asked? “Allah will provide for them,” was the response. “Will he?” I asked him. “Do you think Allah wants your children to have the same life as you? Do you think it is fair?”
“We’ve always thought if we do not produce, we will be upsetting God.” There was no jest in this answer. There is also no comprehension of what I was saying. We come from two very different places of what responsibilities mean. It takes a second for me to realize my sense of privilege. There is no self-esteem here, they have never had the privilege to feel it, know it, or expect it.
This sense is also imbedded in the communities. There is little sense of responsibility or agency in their actions and subsequent consequences. By the way, this mentality also exists in our urban areas too. This is a serious cause of concern in Pakistan. But our government chooses to ignore this growing crisis. We have a rapidly growing population who are illiterate, unskilled, and dependent on the largess of others, in a state which does not care for human rights or dignified living for its citizens. This disaster will implode very soon if it is not addressed immediately.
If there is one lesson that I have learned from all my travels across Pakistan is that the fundamental ethical principles of life must be taught in every public forum and schools, and propagated through campaigns and public messaging across ever corner of Pakistan. There is much ignorance that compounds the impact of the abdication of state responsibility.
This is not a nation. This is not a society that cares. This is not acceptable.
When I returned to my hotel at the end of the day, I read the news on Twitter feeds and some television news and wonder how easily disconnected they are from the reality of millions of Pakistanis. What nonsense passes as important national consideration in our public discourse. What can be more important than millions of citizens who do not live in humane conditions. They have no hope of a better life, because they have lived in these conditions for generations. The next two generations to come are equally lost. The ridiculous court cases, the political circus, and the shenanigans of the security forces make a mockery of this growing human tragedy.
The local landlord is king in Jaffarabad. Although this is the norm, I found that some families possessed land ownership deeds. However, it would be interesting what this constitutes in real terms for independence from the local feudal system in place. Given the feudal norms that prevail here, what kind of power or independence does this bring?
The norm here is that one landlord owns the lands; thousands of tenants on the land remain dependent on the largess of the landlord for life. The acute poverty and dependency on the local landlord perpetuate the system for generations.
In one of the conversations, I asked a young teen how she took care of her monthly menstrual hygiene needs, and she replied that her aunt would get rags from the ‘sardar’s house,’ because they do not have the means to spare even dirty rags for such basics needs.
“How do you make ends meet,” I asked many. “We try and share what one household has collected from begging, or daily wage labor, but mostly we starve.”
During the 2022 rains and floods, these villagers had shifted to the main roadside a few kilometers away. During those days, they received food from multiple sources.
I knew it was hollow, when I harped about education at each household I visited. Each home had half a dozen children, none - bar one - went to school. Their poverty aside, I did not sense that education was a priority. Poverty of thought meant education was a privilege too far. Or is it? How connected is poverty to poverty of thought. When does one cross that line when even the thought of bettering the next generation isn’t a consideration?
Arz Mohammad Jatoi, Abra in Dera Allahyar or Bandh Manik, everywhere I went, no one goes to school. There is no sense of urgency or demand for educational facilities. I thought we had overcome that challenge 30 years ago in Pakistan. But not in southern Balochistan. The demand for basic survival, food, shelter and healthcare are the primary concerns. There is an acute shortage of educational facilities, teachers, adult skills, health facilities or any semblance of a healthy environment. These are all perceived as luxuries, far off the list of priorities for many.
The socioeconomic conditions are evident with a simple indicator; there isn’t a single motel or hotel in Jaffrabad that one can stay in and there are no restaurants or dhabas that offer clean food. We had to commute from neighboring Sukkur in Sindh to find a clean hotel. In the entire district, there are no public facilities or infrastructure for visitors. There is no disposable income for outdoor activities.
Jaffarabad is a fertile area of Balochistan, itself a province with few people. Why is there such persistent poverty here? Unimaginable pain inflicted on so many souls. The conditions are inhumane and ought to be unacceptable in a modern state.
Who is responsible for these conditions? What are we going to do about this?
You have no idea how embarrassing that feels. I am half her age.
Everywhere I went in southern Balochistan, there is so much pain and desperation, it is very difficult to bear witness to.
It is the first of Ramzan, and I spent it meeting women in a half dozen villages, all over Jaffarabad. We had brought rations for the month and some financial assistance, and most importantly some hope, to rebuild their homes. Every household’s story echoed despair, pain and anguish.
As I greeted Faizan Bibi Ramzan Mubarak, she replied without changing her facial expressions, “we have no means to fast and no food anyway, there is no Ramzan for us.” After we spoke about her experiences through the recent rains and floods, I realized this humanitarian disaster was merely another tragedy in a series which they have come to expect in their lives.
It is very difficult to keep one’s tears at bay just listening to the stories. How do they?
How do human beings live in such conditions? We are in the 21st century; we have laws, taxes, governors -- whose sole purpose is to care for such citizens. Yet everywhere one goes in southern Balochistan, the situation is the same, acute poverty and worse, no hope.
Faizan Bibi and Safia played the dhol for a living. What soulful music they play! They were kind enough to play for us, breaking the somber mood that had set in after the very gloomy conversations we had. Every chord they played carried the pain of existence. Hazrat Rumi always reminds us that to know joy, you must experience pain; but is it really necessary to know so much pain, I wondered to myself?
How has the state of Pakistan allowed such deprivation to fester in the land of the pure? Where is the Islam here, or any sense of basic humanity? Where are the funds from all those zakat foundations going? Half these women had no Benazir Income Support Program cards; with some saying that the funds had stopped 6 months ago for them. Many of the women have no national identity cards to begin with. More alarming was that none of the children under the age of 18 seemed to have B forms. Each family that I came across had 4 to 6 children. It is a safe bet that the population count for Balochistan is seriously under reported.
Spending time in Jaffarabad amongst these households is an education in itself, revealing so many hidden realities of an acutely distressed society. We think that we know poverty and poverty alleviation since we have been ‘dealing’ with it for the 75 years that Pakistan has existed. But the state of affairs we have in southern Balochistan, and perhaps parts of Sindh, is poverty which has stripped human beings of any sense of agency. Building back better, self-help, social mobility, micro-finance; all of these buzzwords will find little to off here, as the state of the region stands in stark contrast to existing models and frameworks.
To begin with, this area has consolidated landholdings owned by landlords who control the lives of thousands, if not more. But sadly, it is also the government who is a landlord here. Local governments own lands on which they act no different to a feudal lord; cattle farms, fisheries, and many other agricultural related produce is grown on this state owned land. On these state-owned tracts of land, one would imagine that the residents and the labor working the land would have access to a somewhat better quality of life, with amenities such as health, education and safe clean drinking water and sewerage. But alas, this is not the case.
The question that automatically comes to mind is where does the money or the goods from these state assets go? The labor and residents of these state-owned lands have no healthcare, education, or income to speak of, and struggle to live a decent life. I can think of so many fundamental rights of our Constitution being violated, which include Articles 25a, which enshrines a right to an education until end of school, the right to a dignified life, and social security.
Moreover, what is the purpose of government owning productive land that does not feed or nourish the people? On whose behalf is it being held in the first place? What is government’s purpose in owning productive land if it isn’t to serve the citizens that need the state’s support the most?
Another misconception one realizes as one spends more time here is that this decrepit and abysmal state of living for thousands living in Jaffarabad is not because of the recent rains & floods, as some would have you believe.
Haseena Bibi, Rehana Bibi, Faizan Bibi, the dhol player and even Zulfiqar, the blind former tailor – all of them have had no hope all their lives. Zulfiqar was a tailor and lost his sight due to bad lighting in the absence of electricity or gas, and the chemical of the cloth dyes he had to use in his work. As a widower, his under aged child looks after the hearth and home, while his older son, who is mentally disabled, sits around the charpai. No one is educated, and no one cares for the welfare of these two children. The state has a responsibility to ensure that the next generation is not only literate but is also able to earn and contribute to society. We have child labor laws, right to education laws, welfare taxes and massive government departments in the name of zakat. Where are they when so many are in need?
The shiny golden wheat fields which surround these parts are a feast for the eyes. I even took a picture in these fields before I went to meet some of the families. I was meeting women whose homes I hope to rebuild, but their lives are so broken that this miniscule rehabilitation doesn’t address the fundamental challenges.
It was horrifying to observe the conditions the people of Jaffarabad live in, which include no sanitation, no health facilities, no education, nor any skills which can earn a decent wage for dignified living. Worse, due to generational inter-marriages, each family has multiple mental and physically disabled members.
Another observation which is very telling of the deep apathy of the state is that the ‘villages’ have no beginning or end, like one sees in other parts of the province, there are no boundary walls, or roads, lanes, or sewerage lanes, sanitation systems, electricity poles - exactly nothing. There is no infrastructure for decent living here. Nothing. These are mud plains where broken clusters of people are camped out, completely unfit to serve as human habitat.
Looking at these villages, I realized the arrogance of any suggestion that my efforts would help them rebuild their lives. How do you help those who have lost every sense of agency in every fiber of their being. It is so difficult to have effective dialog about prioritizing those who need assistance the most, and asking the people to contribute. For example, I have made it a condition of building a home that the able-bodied men must work as labor in the endeavor. Their listlessness can be interpreted as laziness or male privilege or some such idea. There is an iota of this, but the primary reason that I gathered are the mental health challenges, the despair, depression, and the nutritional and physical deficits due to generational, genetic poverty. The cries of ‘what can we do, only you can help us’ is deafening and rings in one’s soul long after you leave them. The pleading can easily be misinterpreted by some.
Dependency on charity from the local landlord, the ‘sardar’, the government, or individual philanthropy has become the norm. Generationally uneducated, the people have no hope to be able to earn their own keep. It is as if this human instinct has been stripped from them systematically.
Talking about self-help in such circumstances, as I did, to contribute towards restoring a semblance of control over one’s lives, has no place here. Social mobility as I have come to understand it, in my many decades of development work, still requires an individual with the capacity to comprehend some sense of agency. Here, every face was haunted with the struggle for daily survival. Life is so difficult that even expected social norms in a traditional tribal Balochi environment are suspended. In fact, I realized very quickly that, those who had the privilege of purdah did not need my help, there were too many others who did not have this luxury.
I am also convinced that the generational inter-marriages and nutritional deficiencies are contributing factors towards the lack of capacity to think, act or consider some actions of self-preservation, not only at an individual level, but more importantly, as a community. Dependency on charity from the local landlord, the ‘sardar’, the government, or individual philanthropy has become the norm. Generationally uneducated, the people have no hope to be able to earn their own keep. It is as if this human instinct has been stripped from them systematically.
‘Please don’t have any more children’, I said to Zahid, Safia’s husband. He was showing us his mangled hands and swollen feet, his disability from working with chemicals and heavy lifting. Unable to feed his six children and wife, the thought crossed my mind, why produce so many children when you can’t feed yourself. How will you feed these souls I asked? “Allah will provide for them,” was the response. “Will he?” I asked him. “Do you think Allah wants your children to have the same life as you? Do you think it is fair?”
“We’ve always thought if we do not produce, we will be upsetting God.” There was no jest in this answer. There is also no comprehension of what I was saying. We come from two very different places of what responsibilities mean. It takes a second for me to realize my sense of privilege. There is no self-esteem here, they have never had the privilege to feel it, know it, or expect it.
The crisis I witnessed runs deep. Where have we gone wrong as a society? We have nurtured a population which cannot look after itself. A socioeconomic system which produces human beings that cannot survive without assistance is diseased to its core.
This sense is also imbedded in the communities. There is little sense of responsibility or agency in their actions and subsequent consequences. By the way, this mentality also exists in our urban areas too. This is a serious cause of concern in Pakistan. But our government chooses to ignore this growing crisis. We have a rapidly growing population who are illiterate, unskilled, and dependent on the largess of others, in a state which does not care for human rights or dignified living for its citizens. This disaster will implode very soon if it is not addressed immediately.
If there is one lesson that I have learned from all my travels across Pakistan is that the fundamental ethical principles of life must be taught in every public forum and schools, and propagated through campaigns and public messaging across ever corner of Pakistan. There is much ignorance that compounds the impact of the abdication of state responsibility.
This is not a nation. This is not a society that cares. This is not acceptable.
When I returned to my hotel at the end of the day, I read the news on Twitter feeds and some television news and wonder how easily disconnected they are from the reality of millions of Pakistanis. What nonsense passes as important national consideration in our public discourse. What can be more important than millions of citizens who do not live in humane conditions. They have no hope of a better life, because they have lived in these conditions for generations. The next two generations to come are equally lost. The ridiculous court cases, the political circus, and the shenanigans of the security forces make a mockery of this growing human tragedy.
The local landlord is king in Jaffarabad. Although this is the norm, I found that some families possessed land ownership deeds. However, it would be interesting what this constitutes in real terms for independence from the local feudal system in place. Given the feudal norms that prevail here, what kind of power or independence does this bring?
The norm here is that one landlord owns the lands; thousands of tenants on the land remain dependent on the largess of the landlord for life. The acute poverty and dependency on the local landlord perpetuate the system for generations.
In one of the conversations, I asked a young teen how she took care of her monthly menstrual hygiene needs, and she replied that her aunt would get rags from the ‘sardar’s house,’ because they do not have the means to spare even dirty rags for such basics needs.
“How do you make ends meet,” I asked many. “We try and share what one household has collected from begging, or daily wage labor, but mostly we starve.”
During the 2022 rains and floods, these villagers had shifted to the main roadside a few kilometers away. During those days, they received food from multiple sources.
I knew it was hollow, when I harped about education at each household I visited. Each home had half a dozen children, none - bar one - went to school. Their poverty aside, I did not sense that education was a priority. Poverty of thought meant education was a privilege too far. Or is it? How connected is poverty to poverty of thought. When does one cross that line when even the thought of bettering the next generation isn’t a consideration?
Arz Mohammad Jatoi, Abra in Dera Allahyar or Bandh Manik, everywhere I went, no one goes to school. There is no sense of urgency or demand for educational facilities. I thought we had overcome that challenge 30 years ago in Pakistan. But not in southern Balochistan. The demand for basic survival, food, shelter and healthcare are the primary concerns. There is an acute shortage of educational facilities, teachers, adult skills, health facilities or any semblance of a healthy environment. These are all perceived as luxuries, far off the list of priorities for many.
The socioeconomic conditions are evident with a simple indicator; there isn’t a single motel or hotel in Jaffrabad that one can stay in and there are no restaurants or dhabas that offer clean food. We had to commute from neighboring Sukkur in Sindh to find a clean hotel. In the entire district, there are no public facilities or infrastructure for visitors. There is no disposable income for outdoor activities.
Jaffarabad is a fertile area of Balochistan, itself a province with few people. Why is there such persistent poverty here? Unimaginable pain inflicted on so many souls. The conditions are inhumane and ought to be unacceptable in a modern state.
Who is responsible for these conditions? What are we going to do about this?