My family: watching her parents in action after the earthquake in Pakistan, she relearned the most important lessons of organizing.(feature)(Column)

On October 8th, a 7.6 earthquake radiated through Kashmir and the North West Frontier Province. A total of 3.5 million people lost their homes and more than 87,000 people lost their lives. Among the many places that were devastated was Oghi, a remote village in the mountains, the home of my mother's family. It had been a few years since I had been there, and a whole year of natural disasters. With each one, I felt the panic, the powerlessness that comes when nature stamps its feet. I had grieved and helped raise funds. But the headlines on October 8 hit me in the gut, an invisible umbilical cord that connected me to those mountains had just given a harsh tug.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

Three years ago, my grandmother was ill, and I went to Oghi. While I was there, I climbed up and down the thick pine valleys to visit family. I have backpacked in national parks in the U.S., even climbed to Cloud's Rest in Yosemite, but nothing had prepared me for such natural beauty. Nothing had prepared me for the warmth of the villagers. Everywhere neighbors came out of their homes, asking, "Is this Fatima's daughter?" They invited us in, not taking no for an answer, brought out food, chicken, potatoes; they gave me gifts, sheets, clothing. They laughed at me when I said I loved the wild, the mountains. "Yes, this is Fatima's daughter."

Like all children, I had a limited view of my mother. She was the one who fought against roaches and mice in her Queens home, and now guarded her suburban home in New Jersey fiercely while trying to grow tomatoes in the backyard. I found out she had been a wild child, unafraid of landowners as she broke into their fields to steal fruit and run off.

I also learned that when the Twin Towers fell, my mother's sister, my Khala, had organized the village to pray for weeks, doing Quran khanis for our safety. I thought of those horrible days, with the city reeling from death and hate crimes. All that time, when we had felt so lost, this village had been praying for us.

Now, of these people, there was no way to know who was alive and who was dead. There were no phones in Oghi.

When I called my family, my sister, Aisha, answered. She said my mother was busy, and no one knew what was going on.