The Power of Presence: My Account of the Nepal Earthquake
By Karrie Peterson
Editor’s note: The 6-month anniversary of the earthquake is Sunday, Oct. 25. Karrie Peterson is an international relations officer in the Labor Department’s Bureau of International Labor Affairs.
The only sound was the rumbling earth. I had a bird’s eye view of the valley and watched the destruction unfold. Collapsing structures and landslides carpeted the landscape, followed by pockets of billowing dust. Each cloud of dust quickly merged into one huge mass overtaking the valley.
This was six months ago — Saturday, April 25 — the day of the first Nepal earthquake that claimed nearly 9,000 lives and injured over 20,000 more. Moments before, I had been hiking from Nagarkot to Changu Narayan with two colleagues to get a glimpse of life in the rural villages surrounding Kathmandu. We had just come upon a large, open area and were taking in a breathtaking view of Kathmandu Valley when I turned to see two locals running out of their home, a look of terror on their faces. That’s when everything started to shake. All of us immediately hit the ground.
Echoing cries and chatter emerged as the dust settled. The guide on our hike, a Hindu and local historian, immediately began rattling off all the facts he knew about earthquakes in Nepal. He said, “This was predicted. Oh my God, it must be an 8.0 and all the buildings in Kathmandu are gone, gone!”
I came to Kathmandu on behalf of the U.S. government expecting to learn from and contribute to the discussions among the Nepali government, NGOs, and employers on international labor issues affecting children and migrants. Instead, I was confronted with destruction.
I’d come mainly to oversee two projects my employer, the U.S. Department of Labor, had funded to combat child labor and forced labor — as well as to learn from people on the ground about labor migration in the region. I was joined by two State Department colleagues: Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor Deputy Assistant Secretary Steven Feldstein, and Jessica Slattery from the International Labor Affairs office.
Jessica and I arrived in Kathmandu on the Tuesday before the earthquake and immediately began our work. On Wednesday and Thursday, I participated in a workshop led by Winrock International to kick off a global capacity building project to work with local and national governments to fight child labor. I felt energized by this gathering of representatives from five different government ministries, multiple international organizations, and advocates for children − all of whom were passionate about these issues and could really make a difference.
On Friday, I joined Steve and Jessica for a range of meetings with government officials, labor recruiters, and organizations so that we could better understand how to support vulnerable migrant workers. We learned so much in that short series of discussions. Simply being present with these people, in the context in which they operate, taught us more than we could ever learn at our desks in Washington. I was looking forward to a full week of work ahead.
In the immediate aftermath, Steve helped us remain calm. I have no experience with earthquakes, but we knew we needed to develop a strategy and decided to move to more stable ground and wait for any aftershocks.
The 20 minutes we waited felt like an eternity. I was thinking about the people we had just encountered moments before. Was the curious little girl who was trailing us ok? What about the two small boys riding their bikes, or the women doing laundry on the roadside?
When it seemed no aftershock was forthcoming, we headed out in search of our driver, who we found on a nearby road. On the hour-long drive back to our hotel, we passed by a street in Bhadgaon where Durbar Square and other historical tourist sites were located, and where we were supposed to have lunch after our hike.
All the buildings had collapsed; there was nothing but rubble and silence. If the earthquake would have hit 30 minutes later, this is where we would have been.
All along the way people were sitting in the middle of the road because this was the safest place to be in areas with many buildings and power lines.
We arrived to a bizarre scene at our hotel; it reminded me of something out of the movie “Titanic.” When we pulled up, everyone had to remain on the lawn. Some people seemed to feel inconvenienced by this. Blankets were brought out for seating and within 10 minutes the kitchen staff was busy serving lavish cakes, truffles, and breads — presumably to pacify people. Then came more savory items, and soon after the food was gone. There was something surreal, almost circus-like, about this scene, given what I had just seen an hour earlier.
Steve, Jessica, and I went out in search of food elsewhere and stumbled upon a local place to eat that was powered by a backup generator. The family who owned the place was busy making Nepali dumplings or “momos” and was grateful for our business.
When we returned to the hotel, we learned it was unsafe to stay in our rooms. Steve quickly arranged for the U.S. Embassy motor pool to pick us up and take us to the Embassy to sleep. We took our blankets and pillows with us and slept in cubicles for the next two and a half days. The Embassy is known to be the most earthquake-sound building in the country.
For the first time I felt relatively safe — but I also felt privileged, and more than a little guilty; where were the locals staying, and how safe did they feel?
Steve was due in Bangladesh for events to commemorate the second anniversary of the Rana Plaza building collapse that claimed over 1,100 lives in a garment factory, so he left on Sunday. This was the day when reality started to sink in for me. I watched the news reports of a 7.8 magnitude earthquake, looking closely at the images. One image was of the avalanche cascading down Mt. Everest that came to rest on Base Camp. This seemed to be repeating on a loop for several hours.
Every night I could feel tremors and lay alert on my cot, thinking each time that whatever was happening couldn’t possibly be as bad as the first earthquake, there was no way.
Then a major aftershock hit on Monday, April 27. I had stepped out to get lunch with Jessica and two other people who had set up camp at the Embassy, which was running out of food.
The four of us were seated at a local restaurant, or rather, a small box with a dozen people jammed in. I felt like I was finally experiencing a bit of the real Nepal. We had each downed a plate of momos when everything started shaking. For a brief moment the only sound was the rumbling, and then everyone got up and started charging the exit. This was terrifying, to be in such a small space, people pushing and shoving their way out.
I knew now that the middle of the road was where I needed to go, so I followed the pack there. I jumped a metal rail and almost took out a small child who’d crawled under me. I made sure he got up and then we took off. By the time we made it to the middle of the road the shaking stopped.
With everything that was happening, we still took a minute to pay the restaurant owner before making our way back to the Embassy.
Heading down the street, I felt like I was in the video game “Frogger,” dodging power lines, debris, people, and motorbikes zigzagging down the middle of the road. After this, I decided that I would not leave the Embassy until I departed Nepal.
Back at the Embassy, guests were asked to volunteer to help keep the place running. I monitored the sign in and check out desk, and the computer lab. The Embassy became a place of refuge for those seeking to contact missing friends and family, and for those trying to figure out what to do next. Of these U.S. citizens, some were on vacation, some were trekking across portions of Asia, and many were staying long-term in the country to volunteer.
The story swapping began. I quickly found that I was most useful to those who just needed someone to listen to their stories. Everyone was trying to process what they had experienced, and the Embassy became a safe space for this processing to begin.
I spoke with a young man from Minnesota who had been trekking across India. He came to Kathmandu for a few days off. He was in Durbar Square where a temple fell on people praying. His natural reaction like others at the scene was to pull people out, and he immediately saw that there needed to be order to these efforts. An assembly line was created to move the rubble; each piece removed with care so as not to stir up too much dust, which could kill those who were still alive below. He pulled out a body and broke down. A local came up and hugged him, saying, “It’s okay, people die.” With that they continued on together.
I met two kids who entered the Embassy, terrified and crying. They were U.S. citizens whose Nepali parents could not stay with them and had to drop them off. Their other two children were not citizens and were turned away. It was only a matter of minutes before the children of Embassy staff embraced the two newcomers and shared sleeping bags and toys. The mother came to visit each day.
I heard from a family who had been at Mt. Everest. They were in Nepal for their son’s wedding, which was to take place that week. Understandably distraught, they explained they were rescued by helicopter but had to leave their son and another friend behind. I checked in with them regularly, and by Monday the group was reunited. On Tuesday, when I left for the airport, the father hugged me goodbye. This was particularly touching for me as a bond was created, and yet I knew I would never see them again.
The Embassy made it clear they were there to assist people but that Americans should leave the country as soon as possible. They needed to make room for the disaster relief teams that were already starting to pour in.
I knew I had to make a decision on whether I wanted to continue on with my planned travels to Sri Lanka to check on the progress of one of our projects there, or return to Washington.
As I was eating a breakfast of bacon and rice out of a plastic cup, the comforts of home didn’t sound so bad. But what I’d learned over the past couple of months, from travels to Armenia to my time in Nepal, was the power of presence. My three full working days in Nepal were a testament to this.
For the capacity building projects I oversee, the key is relationship building. While the projects have an implementer, we are still a key part of the equation. If we are not present, how can we be effective?
It didn’t take me long to decide that I wanted to continue with the mission. I had an opportunity to be a U.S. government presence in Sri Lanka. I feel strongly that when these opportunities present themselves, they should be taken advantage of and not taken for granted.
On the way to the airport I saw tent camps and debris everywhere. When we arrived, we found people who had been camped out for days trying to get a flight out to anywhere. Jessica and I found ourselves in the hands of one of the Embassy’s expediters who helped us navigate the craziness of the airport. They needed to evacuate me first to Thailand because the Secretary of State was visiting Sri Lanka and I could not get into the country as long as he was there. I was lucky to land a spot on a direct flight to Bangkok.
I was acutely aware that what had facilitated smooth transitions throughout my journey was my position as a U.S. citizen and employee of the U.S. government. There were times I felt some guilt over this — as people watched the motor pool pick me up from the Hyatt, as I journeyed to the secure section of the Embassy to sleep, and as the expediter ushered me through the airport. I am thankful for this care but also feel humbled.
While waiting for my flight, I found myself in the middle of a crowd of dozens of Nepali migrant workers headed for Korea as part of a government-to-government employment program. Each was wearing a blue jacket, a red cap marked “EPS,” and a giant identification tag around their neck. The identification tags were color coded to represent where that person would work.
I spoke with several of the men, and did not see any women. For many it was their first time leaving the country for work. Each person made a five-year commitment and went through an intensive Korean language program in preparation. One told me he was excited for this opportunity. His tag was green, so he was going to work in agriculture. Another, whose tag was yellow, was proud that he would be working in shipbuilding.
I’m sure some of these migrant workers lost family and friends, their homes and belongings in the quake. Yet the opportunity for work seemed to give hope to these men in the midst of a natural disaster that situated itself in an already struggling country.
What I saw in these workers was hope in a time of adversity, a chance for something better. This was inspiring to me, despite what I know to be the reality of working and living conditions for many who migrate for work.
At that moment, everything came full circle. The information gleaned from my first few days in Nepal came to life through my interactions with these workers. This was the one piece missing: the voice of the worker.
No matter your trade or occupation, earning a living is critical to survival — and the need to support yourself does not stop in the midst of disaster. Our work becomes a part of who we are and how we identify in the world around us. This is not a new realization for me, but an affirmation.
Those of us in the Department of Labor’s Bureau of International Labor Affairs have the ability, be it large or small, to make a difference in people’s lives. We can influence, even if in a very minor way, the situations these workers find themselves in, the conditions they work in, and their overall wellbeing. That’s why I came to Nepal, why I continued on to Sri Lanka, and why I look forward to the next destination where my presence might have some impact.
Acknowledgments: Special thanks to Deputy Secretary of Labor Chris Lu for encouraging me to share my story. Special thanks as well to Dan Arp for his patience and guidance through the revision process.
