When delivering aid in Pakistan feels like triage

His next move shocked us. I cried out, “He’s trying to grab the truck keys!” but I was completely wrong. Our driver was embarrassed. The man was trying to grab his knee like a medieval peasant begging his overlord.

We ached but we had to refuse him. Our promise was to the village I wrote about yesterday – Banda Pushain – the place that resembled a combat zone.

Every decision saves someone and at the same time someone else suffers On our way back down the mountain in the dark we spotted the man’s campfire and stopped. We went into the back of the truck for blankets while our driver approached the fire.

He found a leathery old man, the young man’s uncle, squatting on a rock with the milky white eyes of the near blind. Scripture says the sheep know their shepherd. The goats around Gujarani Absalam certainly knew theirs. They hovered near him watching our every move like Dobermans with horns.

Something was wrong with our driver. When I asked, he turned away and I felt foolish. He was tearing up.

Our driver, who won’t let me mention his name, walked up a mountain with us on Monday, placing himself and his colleagues at our disposal. Without him we would not have so easily delivered scores of tents and hundreds of blankets.

I have seen hundreds of soldiers serving their nation’s poorest with grace and long hours in the worst hit areas on the North West Frontier Province, sometimes even at great risk, bulldozing open roads in landslide zones after each aftershock.

It is completely unique in my experience with the military in the developing world. I’ve heard one reason Pakistan is so poor is exorbitant military spending. I don’t know if it’s true but the army is certainly paying its way right now.

Soon I will wash away the grime but not the week’s images like an old man shivering by a campfire All the humanitarian agencies are working with the military here. Otherwise, distributions of tents are near riots. I know. We tried it without a week ago and I got caught between the crowd and the blankets. Lucky for me I am six-foot-five and can fake a lunatic’s stare.

A shower is in my immediate future and I tremble at the prospect. Five days living in a tent while delivering tents and one bath out of a bucket.

Soon I will wash away the grime but not the week’s images like an old man shivering by a campfire and a Pakistani army officer with a servant’s heart. We returned the next day to give the old man a tent. Triage be damned.

-Ends-