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Posted on Sun, Oct. 9, 2011
In Pakistan, a humanitarian light
Abdul Sattar Edhi, 83, whose foundation aids many, says his religion is human rights.
By Mark Magnier
Los Angeles Times
KARACHI, Pakistan - He owns a single set of clothing and often sleeps in a storage room - even though millions of dollars pass through his hands annually. At 83, creature comforts don't matter much to Abdul Sattar Edhi. He is too busy caring for the sick, feeding the hungry, burying the dead.
Known to some as Pakistan's Mother Teresa, Edhi is a humanitarian light in a violent and troubled land. The vast majority here struggle daily in a moribund economy. Natural disasters are common. Poverty, political instability, corruption, and attacks by Islamic militants, criminals, and political enforcers are facts of life. In this environment, a shrinking violet won't make much headway, he says. You have to be tough.
Gruff and confident, Edhi refers to himself as a bhikhari, or beggar, and he wears his worn black tunic as a badge of honor. He has a picture of Karl Marx, as well as Mother Teresa, on his office wall. He has been condemned by some Pakistanis as a communist, a madman, an Israeli agent, or a bad Muslim for his work with "infidels" - his charity does not discriminate by religion, race, or gender.
He counters that his true religion is human rights. That the government is hopelessly inefficient. That most social workers are corrupt. That politicians and religious leaders know they can exploit the poor. That foreign contributions usually come with unacceptable conditions.
And then there are Pakistan's rich, who seek him out in hope of absorbing some of his reflected glory. Even as he welcomes their donations, he chides them for their priorities and their motives.
A few months ago, he says, a Pakistani industrialist asked him at a reception what he could do for humanity. "I told him, 'Pay your taxes and stop wasting money on luxuries and sipping tea,' " he says. "That was it. He ran right away."
Donations to the Edhi Foundation fund hundreds of centers nationwide for orphans, senior citizens, drug abusers, the mentally disabled, abused women, and injured animals. It operates hospitals, mobile dispensaries, free kitchens, helicopters, airplanes, and hundreds of ambulances.
His foundation has been chided for its less-than-exact accounting, but the public keeps contributing, a reflection, supporters say, of how much Pakistanis trust him. But that also creates something of a Catch-22. As he fills the vacuum, the state has even less incentive to step up. "If the government did anything, we wouldn't need to rely on people like Edhi," said Mohammad Arif, who sells lace and buttons.
Hussein Manzoor, 47, who sold fruit until his cart was stolen, calls Edhi a "godsend." Manzoor visited a free dispensary operated by Edhi in Karachi for treatment of an allergy that developed after an earthquake in Kashmir in 2005. Twelve relatives died, and he moved to Karachi. Without his cart, Manzoor is struggling to support three children, but he is grateful to be alive.
Edhi often sleeps in a cluttered storeroom of his office, relegated there by his wife, Bilquis, a nurse who is also a key figure in the charity. "My wife kicked me out, so I stay here," he says with a laugh.
For decades, Edhi's popularity in this country of 170 million people has allowed his ambulances to brave riots, gun fights, and ethnic battles. Thieves, political goons, and even the Taliban have offered contributions and free passage.
But in a sign underscoring Pakistan's deterioration, his ambulances were shot at and a rescue worker was wounded in July during rioting in Karachi.
Ambulance dispatchers field 6,000 calls a day in Karachi and boast a 10-minute response time. It was an Edhi ambulance that picked up the body of American journalist Daniel Pearl, who was killed by al-Qaeda in 2002.
Edhi's trademark service has been washing unclaimed bodies to prepare them for burial in keeping with Islamic tradition, something until recently he often did himself. Some question the logic of diverting resources to the dead, but he says it's important for religious reasons and to emphasize dignity for all.
Edhi was born to a civic-minded family that left India's western Gujarat state in 1947, arriving in Pakistan by boat six days after the partition of India took effect.
After traveling and trying odd jobs, he settled into full-time humanitarian work, opening his first free dispensary in 1951. He gradually expanded from one Karachi neighborhood to all of Pakistan and beyond. His foundation now operates in Africa, Asia, Europe, Australia, and North America. It donated $100,000 to Hurricane Katrina relief efforts.
He takes no foreign funding unless it comes without strings and says he has turned down millions in U.S. aid. He also refuses contributions from the Pakistani government other than buying land for the charity at preferential prices.
He has watched the early promise of Pakistan implode and says he doesn't believe democracy can work here. Pakistan needs a military strongman able to stem chaos and corruption, he says, paving the way for eventual civilian rule.
In Pakistan, a humanitarian light
Abdul Sattar Edhi, 83, whose foundation aids many, says his religion is human rights.
By Mark Magnier
Los Angeles Times
KARACHI, Pakistan - He owns a single set of clothing and often sleeps in a storage room - even though millions of dollars pass through his hands annually. At 83, creature comforts don't matter much to Abdul Sattar Edhi. He is too busy caring for the sick, feeding the hungry, burying the dead.
Known to some as Pakistan's Mother Teresa, Edhi is a humanitarian light in a violent and troubled land. The vast majority here struggle daily in a moribund economy. Natural disasters are common. Poverty, political instability, corruption, and attacks by Islamic militants, criminals, and political enforcers are facts of life. In this environment, a shrinking violet won't make much headway, he says. You have to be tough.
Gruff and confident, Edhi refers to himself as a bhikhari, or beggar, and he wears his worn black tunic as a badge of honor. He has a picture of Karl Marx, as well as Mother Teresa, on his office wall. He has been condemned by some Pakistanis as a communist, a madman, an Israeli agent, or a bad Muslim for his work with "infidels" - his charity does not discriminate by religion, race, or gender.
He counters that his true religion is human rights. That the government is hopelessly inefficient. That most social workers are corrupt. That politicians and religious leaders know they can exploit the poor. That foreign contributions usually come with unacceptable conditions.
And then there are Pakistan's rich, who seek him out in hope of absorbing some of his reflected glory. Even as he welcomes their donations, he chides them for their priorities and their motives.
A few months ago, he says, a Pakistani industrialist asked him at a reception what he could do for humanity. "I told him, 'Pay your taxes and stop wasting money on luxuries and sipping tea,' " he says. "That was it. He ran right away."
Donations to the Edhi Foundation fund hundreds of centers nationwide for orphans, senior citizens, drug abusers, the mentally disabled, abused women, and injured animals. It operates hospitals, mobile dispensaries, free kitchens, helicopters, airplanes, and hundreds of ambulances.
His foundation has been chided for its less-than-exact accounting, but the public keeps contributing, a reflection, supporters say, of how much Pakistanis trust him. But that also creates something of a Catch-22. As he fills the vacuum, the state has even less incentive to step up. "If the government did anything, we wouldn't need to rely on people like Edhi," said Mohammad Arif, who sells lace and buttons.
Hussein Manzoor, 47, who sold fruit until his cart was stolen, calls Edhi a "godsend." Manzoor visited a free dispensary operated by Edhi in Karachi for treatment of an allergy that developed after an earthquake in Kashmir in 2005. Twelve relatives died, and he moved to Karachi. Without his cart, Manzoor is struggling to support three children, but he is grateful to be alive.
Edhi often sleeps in a cluttered storeroom of his office, relegated there by his wife, Bilquis, a nurse who is also a key figure in the charity. "My wife kicked me out, so I stay here," he says with a laugh.
For decades, Edhi's popularity in this country of 170 million people has allowed his ambulances to brave riots, gun fights, and ethnic battles. Thieves, political goons, and even the Taliban have offered contributions and free passage.
But in a sign underscoring Pakistan's deterioration, his ambulances were shot at and a rescue worker was wounded in July during rioting in Karachi.
Ambulance dispatchers field 6,000 calls a day in Karachi and boast a 10-minute response time. It was an Edhi ambulance that picked up the body of American journalist Daniel Pearl, who was killed by al-Qaeda in 2002.
Edhi's trademark service has been washing unclaimed bodies to prepare them for burial in keeping with Islamic tradition, something until recently he often did himself. Some question the logic of diverting resources to the dead, but he says it's important for religious reasons and to emphasize dignity for all.
Edhi was born to a civic-minded family that left India's western Gujarat state in 1947, arriving in Pakistan by boat six days after the partition of India took effect.
After traveling and trying odd jobs, he settled into full-time humanitarian work, opening his first free dispensary in 1951. He gradually expanded from one Karachi neighborhood to all of Pakistan and beyond. His foundation now operates in Africa, Asia, Europe, Australia, and North America. It donated $100,000 to Hurricane Katrina relief efforts.
He takes no foreign funding unless it comes without strings and says he has turned down millions in U.S. aid. He also refuses contributions from the Pakistani government other than buying land for the charity at preferential prices.
He has watched the early promise of Pakistan implode and says he doesn't believe democracy can work here. Pakistan needs a military strongman able to stem chaos and corruption, he says, paving the way for eventual civilian rule.
