- THE smell hits you first. Then the sight of the children
running around barefoot on the dusty earth littered with human faeces.
-
- Nearby, people wash and collect grey-green water from
a river so choked with garbage and human waste it barely flows.
-
- Under the arches of a nearby railway bridge, along the
top of which runs the old British-built track leading to the Khyber Pass
and the Afghan border, people sleep rough.
-
- In the shadows huddled in groups are the heroin addicts.
Around them, pools of vomit. Those still conscious light their next fix
from foil packets, or talk to themselves in gibberish.
-
- Tuj Abad is a refugee camp of sorts. Not one of those
official camps like Jallozai into which upwards of 80,000 people cram in
terrible conditions and are "officially recognised" by the United
Nations.
-
- Indeed, Tuj Abad is not really a camp at all - just a
sprawling mess of humanity on the outskirts of Peshawar. A place where
the local Pakistani poor and dispossessed are increasingly joined by wave
after wave of desperate Afghans fleeing the bombs and cruise missiles raining
down inside their own country.
-
- "Look, look! You can see for yourself, this is a
hell on earth," says Abdur Rahman, an Afghan, pointing to a few tiny
mounds of earth close by.
-
- His voice was desperate, his eyes glazed with tears.
Only the tattered flutter of some green and black prayer flags, distinguished
the clumps of dirt as graves.
-
- "People here are dying like animals. A few days
ago, we buried a two-year-old who died from dysentery.
-
- "Yesterday, it was the turn of my own nephew. He
had a respiratory problem and was in terrible pain for a long time. Can
you imagine what it's like to watch such a thing and be unable to help?"
he said, before breaking down completely.
-
- No-one knows the total number but upwards of 2000 Afghans
now live in this improvised shanty town, a mere stone's throw from the
bustling Jamrud road with its busy restaurants, chai houses and shops full
of luxury goods.
-
- Tuj Abad also lies not far from Peshawar's University
Town district. There, the streets are secluded and tree-lined. For years,
its palatial walled houses with spacious, sweet-smelling gardens, have
been the domiciles of brigadiers, generals, and governors, and the local
Pakistani well-to-do.
-
- It has also been home to the large contingent of expatriate
aid workers based in Peshawar. Those not evacuated for "security reasons"
are overstretched and have limited resources.
-
- Tuj Abad seems to have slipped from sight. One of countless
human hell-holes not even registering on the scale of need.
-
- The refugees living in this abyss come from all over
Afghanistan. Ethnic Tajiks, Uzbeks, Hazaras and Pashtuns, from provinces
as far apart as Kunduz, Lowgar and the most recent arrivals from Jalalabad,
Kandahar and Kabul.
-
- "I lost my two sons, when Masood was fighting the
Taliban in Kabul", said Abdul Rahim, an ageing greybeard, referring
to the legendary northern alliance commander, who was assassinated recently
in an attack many believe carried out on the orders of Osama bin Laden.
-
- "I have lived under bombs sent from the Shuravi
(Russians) from Hekmatyar, Dostam, then the Taliban. Now it is American
bombs. Why must we Afghans always suffer," he asked, his voice resigned
and hopeless.
-
- Abdul Rahim had walked the last leg over the mountains
into Pakistan with 10 of his family, after travelling most of the way from
the Khair Khana district of Kabul by bus. Precisely where he crossed he
would not tell me. "People are still coming and the Pakistanis would
close the path if they knew," he said.
-
- In Tuj Abad, medical care does not exist. Except, that
is, for Dr Ahmad Baryali's clinic, a stall about twice the size of an instant
photo booth made from old packing cases.
-
- But then, it is not really a clinic, just a few shelves
stacked with dusty, out-of-date packets of cough mixture and paracetamol.
-
- What is more, Dr Baryali is not really a doctor, just
one of those marvellous human spirits who, with some basic medical skills
gleaned from short stints with aid agencies and the help of a few books,
feels compelled to do what he can.
-
- "Some Pakistanis and Afghans who have a little money
donate some drugs. But, as you can see, there is nothing here that would
seriously benefit the people who come to me," he said gesturing towards
a few faded packets.
-
- As we spoke, I noticed a hypodermic syringe lying on
a filthy seat next to us. It was filled with a purple liquid, its needle
still intact. "Don't worry," Baryali assured me. "If I have
to give an injection I would certainly use a fresh needle."
-
- Some yards away, a man had lashed together a few tree
branches and covered them with dried grass to form a rough shelter. Sitting
on his haunches, he was raking mud mixed with human excrement into a box
with his bare hands, which was then used as a kind of cement for his new
home.
-
- Until now, people at Tuj Abad have been living under
plastic sheets but, with winter approaching, they are putting down more
permanent roots, much to the disquiet of the Pakistani authorities.
-
- Nevertheless, despite being already stretched to breaking
point, some local institutions do what they can to alleviate the plight
of the Afghans.
-
- "They continually come and ask for medicines. Eighty
percent of our stock goes to the refugees," said Dr Mohammed Ayaz,
head paediatrician at the Pakistan government children's hospital in Peshawar.
"Sometimes, I have to say sorry we have no more. It is very upsetting."
-
- For the past three years, at the same time as the humanitarian
crisis in Afghanistan was forcing more refugees to Peshawar and placing
greater demands on the towns resources, the children's hospital saw massive
cuts in its funding from 50Lakh to 12Lakh a year (1 lakh =100,000 rupees).
-
- "We have over 200 Afghan refugee children brought
here everyday, and 50% have gastro-enteritis and need IV fluids and oral
rehydration," Dr Ayaz said.
-
- In one ramshackle ward lying on trolleys around the walls,
dozens of toddlers screamed as their tiny, wizened bodies received the
precious drip fluids needed to keep them alive.
-
- All except one were refugee children.
-
- On hearing about conditions in Tuj Abad, Dr Ayaz said:
"It's only the tip of the iceberg, I dread to think how many refugee
children are dying here in Peshawar as we speak."
-
- In Tuj Abad, I showed Abdul Rahim a picture of Colin
Powell, the US secretary of state who was due to arrive in Islamabad.
-
- "Who is he? I've never heard of this man. If he
brings peace, then that is good. If not, he should go home," he said
dismissively with the disconcerting logic so common among Afghans.
-
- And what about the hundreds of protesters out on the
streets nearby, calling for jihad against the Americans,? I asked.
-
- "Jihad, jihad, this is all we hear now. What good
is jihad if my grandchildren are crying because they have no food tonight,
or end up like those unlucky ones in the earth over there," Abdul
Rahim said angrily, his honesty clearly embarrassing a few of the younger
men nearby who were quick to chastise the old man.
-
- A few minutes later, as we walked down a dusty alleyway
out of Tuj Abad, one of the same young men sidled up to me.
-
- "What the old man says is true," was all he
murmured quietly, before turning away.
-
- * David Pratt is foreign editor of the Sunday Herald.
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- http://www.theherald.co.uk/news/archive/18-10-19101-0-49-46.html
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