In a tragic turn of events that manages to be both utterly predictable and deeply horrifying, the roof of a tuition centre in Pakistan’s Punjab province decided to retire from its structural duties with immediate and fatal effect. Fourteen children, aged 8 to 14, were crushed under the sudden weight of concrete and shattered aspirations as they sat learning multiplication tables or conjugating verbs. The building, a converted shop in the bustling town of Hafizabad, had reportedly been complaining of chronic weakness for years, but like so many other infrastructure complaints in the developing world, it was filed under 'tomorrow.' That tomorrow arrived yesterday, and it arrived with a thud heard around the world.
Now enter the United Kingdom, ever the gentleman at the scene of a global catastrophe, buttoning up its tweed jacket and reaching for the cheque book. Whitehall has pledged an initial emergency aid package, though details remain as blurry as a British summer. 'We stand with Pakistan in this hour of grief,' a Foreign Office spokesperson intoned, presumably while adjusting a tie and wondering if the gin trolley would be making an appearance. The UK, a nation whose own roofs are mostly kept aloft by health and safety regulations thicker than the Magna Carta, will now deploy funds to help with 'emergency relief' and, presumably, to buy better cement.
But let us not be churlish. The aid is welcome, no doubt. Yet one cannot help but notice the familiar rhythm of this dance. A tragedy occurs in a far-flung corner of the empire’s former stamping ground. Words of horror are typed and televised. A minister solemnly announces a donation. Cameras capture the tears and rubble. And then, as sure as the sun sets on the Union Jack, we all move on to the next disaster. Meanwhile, the underlying issues remain: a building constructed without permits, without oversight, without the simple respect for the lives it was meant to shelter. The children were paying customers, after all, seeking the very education that is supposed to lift them from poverty. Instead, they received a lesson in mortality.
The Pakistani government, for its part, has ordered an investigation. This is standard procedure. The investigation will likely conclude that the roof was 'overstressed,' or that an 'unidentified force' acted upon it. No one will be prosecuted because everyone who could be prosecuted is busy being dead or powerful. The building owner, a local landlord with connections to the ruling party, is said to be 'cooperating' with authorities, which is Pakistani for 'hiding in plain sight.'
Meanwhile, in Britain, we sip our tea and tut. We send our prayers and our pounds. We pat ourselves on the back for being a compassionate nation. But do we ever question why the world’s poorest citizens are forced to learn under roofs that are barely more than a promise? Do we ever wonder why a country with nuclear weapons and a booming film industry cannot afford to build a safe classroom? No, because that would require us to examine the uncomfortable truth that our own wealth is built on the same foundations of exploitation and neglect. But that is a thought for another day, perhaps a day when the gin has run dry.
For now, we mourn. For now, we give. And for tomorrow, we shall forget. The wheel of tragedy turns, and we are all merely passengers, clutching our tickets and hoping we are not seated under a faulty beam.
