'They call him an infidel': Abdul Sattar Edhi - Pakistan's angel of mercy
Even in Pakistan a cheap sofa
covered with brown plastic is not most people’s idea of
throw-restraint-to-the-wind luxury. But Abdul Sattar Edhi, a legendary charity
worker known for his asceticism, is still getting used to the two-seater that
recently replaced the hard bench he sat on for decades in the corner of his
office. “I didn’t ask for it, it was given to me by my daughter,” he says. “I
like simplicity, but I didn’t get angry with her.”
The dowdy piece of furniture does nothing to undermine the
uncompromising frugality of the office of a man proud to own just two sets of
salwar kameez, an everyday outfit in Pakistan. The tiny room is accessed
directly off an alley in a Karachi slum and has space for only a few desks for
the handful of people who manage a sprawling, countrywide charity empire of
more than 1,200 ambulances, hundreds of medical centres, graveyards and an
adoption service for abandoned children.
Established in 1957 when Edhi took it upon himself to set up
a tent hospital to look after the victims of a flu outbreak, it went on to
become Pakistan’s most impressive social enterprise. Its minivan ambulances are
a common sight across Pakistan, particularly in the aftermath of
all-too-frequent terrorist bombings.
Anyone can walk in off the street and pay their respects to
one of the country’s most recognisable personalities, the frail old man with a
long beard and cap who many Pakistanis argue should have received a Nobel prize
years ago for his work. Emergency callers can end up speaking to Edhi himself
if he happens to pick up the phone. He rarely strays far, given that his bed
occupies an even more humble back room behind his office.
And yet not everyone likes and respects this saintly figure,
who reckons he is about 90 years old. In
October last year eight men barged into the Edhi headquarters and
smashed their way into a bank of strongboxes just a few feet away from where
Edhi himself was dozing in his hospital-style bed. One of the robbers kept a
gun trained on a social worker, even though the frail man was no threat, as
they proceeded to steal valuables held as a service for people unable or
unwilling to use a bank account.
The more than £400,000 of cash was swiftly replaced by
donations that poured in from a horrified public, although Edhi turned down a
large gift from a man he dismissed as a “capitalist” and “big robber”. The
theft was a shocking moment for an organisation that is facing growing
competition from Pakistan’s militant, religious right.
In January Hafiz
Saeed, a cleric wanted by India for his alleged masterminding of the 2011 terrorist
attack on Mumbai, announced his Falah-e-Insaniat Foundation (FIF) was
establishing a bridgehead in Karachi for the first time with a fleet of 15
ambulances. FIF is the charity wing of Jamaat-ud-Dawa, the parent body of the
bannedLashkar-e-Taiba,
regarded by some experts as one of south Asia’s most dangerous terrorist
groups. Unlike Edhi, Saeed uses the platform of his fast-growing charitable
works to call for jihad against India and to create a parallel state that makes
a point of being first on the scene when disasters strike.
Edhi says he is not worried, pointing out he has a 60-year
head start on Saeed: “If he wants to become Edhi in two years, how is that
possible?” But he is hurt at his treatment by some of the country’s mullahs,
who are jealous of his fundraising power and suspicious of his lack of
sectarian or ethnic bias in attending to the people who turn to him for help. “They
call him an infidel saying that he does not say his prayers,” says his wife
Bilquis, who, with her children, helps run the foundation. “What we are doing
should be done by the government and should be appreciated, but instead we are
blamed.”
The foundation has lost much of the annual charity it once
scooped up during Eidal-Adha, when
families would donate the skins of animals sacrificed on the day, which could
then be sold for cash. As well as hardline Islamist groups, the foundation has
lost out to the strong-arm tactics of what Edhi calls an “ethnic organisation”,
a reference to the Muttahida Qaumi Movement, the dominant political party in
the ethnically divided port city.
“There is more hostility towards us from the religious and
political groups,” his wife complains. “Our strong cupboards used to be full –
nobody would steal from us.” But Edhi says he is unfussed by aggressive
political parties or the mullahs’ claim that he is an atheist who will not be
allowed into heaven. “I will not go to paradise where these type of people go,”
he smiles. “I will go to heaven where the poor and miserable people live.”
