More than 800 families were evicted from their I-11 basti in Islamabad last week. They have names, faces, stories … this is Jaqueline Berumen's harrowing account
This pain is unbearable – it is suffocating. I cannot rid myself of it. It keeps me from sleeping; it wakes me up in the middle of the night, aching, saturating my mind with stories, images of people and corners of the I-11 basti, now completely devastated. It’s not the images of violence and destruction that are the most painful, but the memories of everyday life, hope and solidarity gone.
I can taste the sickly-sweet tea offered by the families each time I visit as I think of the most generous and hospitable people I have ever encountered. I think of the women’s resourcefulness: caring for their homes, goats and chickens and adapting every corner of their small space to keep basic belongings and accommodate their numerous family members. I torture myself with memories of the interior of these homes and their carefully kept inner patios, sitting on charpais under the shade of trees planted by the inhabitants over 20 years ago. Now all demolished and burned down.
I think of the life-creating Kausar – a woman who heads her household by running a small shop and a tiny garden in which she grows herbs, vegetables, flowers and fruit trees. I remember her delighted face as she showed me around this marvellous space for the first time, clipping leaves for me to smell. Her words during the nightmare of eviction replay in my head: “And my children! How will I sustain my children now? And my garden! What will become of my beautiful plants?” My insides turn.
Frail Gul Bano sits amid her meagre possessions: "What is this?" she asks no one in particular
I hear the laughter of amused children, running, shouting Awami Workers Party (AWP) slogans and their playful version of the Internationale as we walk through the alleys of the abadi … over and over again. I remember young girls from different families enthusiastically sharing their stories of how they had topped their class, excelled to prove to their families that this was where they belonged, believing in their education more than all the adults that care for them, adamant about fulfilling their dreams of becoming doctors and nurses. All now quitting school as they are forced out of their city.
I think of the men of the abadi, at corner meetings and protests: kind-hearted Saleem, gracious Ramdad, jovial Rafiullah and so many others, always in good spirits, fighting with dignity for the right over their roofs. My throat closes as I think of them walking on the street with their families, carrying their belongings out of their homes with their heads held high, with nowhere to go.
As I walk through the rubble that remains, surveying the shattered fragments of thousands of lives, I feel the stench of subjugation and resignation where there was once fulfilment, community and hope. The vacant stares tell a story of loss and precarious futures as people scrape out whatever they can from the remains of their homes.
An elderly resident of the ill-fated I-11 basti is dragged away amidst protests
Noor weeps as he apologises for not being able to invite us in and serve us tea, as he used to. He wonders aloud whether we will remain friends, now that the space where we met, worked, laughed and fought together is no longer there. The always-smiling Niaz tells us he does not know where he will go, but wherever it is, he will set up a party office, tell the story of our struggle and let people know what it means to be a comrade. The gentle, elderly Rustam tells us not to fret, that he will find some abode for shelter somewhere, that we should not worry any more than we already have. The frail Gul Bano just stares, sitting amid the heap of her meagre possessions. “What is this?” she asks no one in particular.
This pain is unbearable.
Strange, but it is this incessant pain and anguish that also sustains my last measure of hope. It reminds me that this is what it means to be human – to feel another’s pain like your own. It is a reminder that we are also empathetic beings in the midst of the hell of greed, violence and destruction of this oppressive system and classist society. And I see this empathy in others as I read the hundreds of messages of pain and indignation over the state’s brutality, and as I think of my comrades gassed, beaten and imprisoned, fighting for a home that is not theirs, standing up with tears in their eyes to continue struggling even when the battle seems over.
Picking up the pieces - where to begin?
We are not beasts. Don’t let the inhumanity of the courts, the CDA, the police and heartless individuals convince you otherwise. We are humans who feel others’ pain, who can love unselfishly, care and struggle for the unknown other. Please hold on to that pain, to that humanity. Follow it, practice it, and keep it burning.
Jaqueline Berumen is a teacher, researcher and activist engaged in the struggle for housing rights with the Awami Workers Party
