We had passed through and by the heliport each day so far. During daylight hours in Muzzafrabad there was a continual movement of helicopters flying out with aid and back with the injured endlessly.
Today this was our focus, Friday, seven days after the quake though it felt much more. The heliport was a football or cricket pitch quite nicely located beside the river which flowed about 100ft or more below. As you walked in you passed what once used to be a restaurant. This was now a makeshift surgical ward. Outside was the triage area.
Here sat those luckily enough to have been brought in, often with no relatives and in much pain. One girl has a huge gash in her leg above the knee which looked like it was going green. Her leg was covered by a blanket to give it some protection as the rota wash from helicopters landing close by blew dust and dirt everywhere. Those lying on makeshift cots or the floor unable to move or cover themselves were just battered by the storm.
On the way into the old restaurant there was a boy sat on his fathers/uncles knee. He had just had his arm amputated.
Inside was terrible. It was divided into two sections. The first was for breaks and fractures. A boy was having his leg plastered.
From behind the partition a boy was crying ‘father, father though his father wasn’t around. As I went in, one man had a fresh bandage covering his leg just above the ankle – a porter was mopping the floor underneath. The young boy who was crying out lay on the next table. He had just been brought in and the doctors were discussing his injuries. One unwrapped his right hand which had been tightly bandaged. Another scrubbed at a wound in his head. The hand was crushed – and now a week old injury. It didn’t look like it could be saved.
I left and went back to the car and got a bottle of water. I walked up a small path, out of the way and sat on the remains of a low wall.
After a while a local man came up to me and asked where I came from…
‘England’
We shook hands…
‘Are you weeping?’
I nodded…
‘Why’
I motioned down the hill and held out my hands to say why and shrugged…
He said something in Urdu that I know meant ‘May Allah bless all the injured and dying…’
He held his hand to his heart – a sign of peace/respect/thanks…. I did the same. He stood there for a short while and then left.
By the time I was ready to face the world again about an hour had passed. It still upsets me.
Some however where very very lucky, had their family to look after them.
Others whether alive or not left relics of their lives in the rubble.
