A double tragedy

IT IS an ugly truth that tragedy falls disproportionately on the poor. Diarrhoea kills millions of people every year in developing countries, but few in the rich ones because of clean water and the easy availability of elementary drugs. Floods kill tens of thousands across Asia, Africa and South America every year—but, pace Katrina, seldom more than a few hundred in North America or Europe. And so it is with earthquakes. This week's quake in Pakistani-administered Kashmir was of magnitude 7.6, yet may have killed as many as 30,000 people or more. The earthquake in Gujarat in India in 2001, which was of similar magnitude, killed some 20,000. Yet larger quakes than Kashmir's, in San Francisco in 1906 and in Taiwan in 1999, killed far fewer—3,000 and 2,300 respectively, even though they happened in heavily populated areas. The Kobe earthquake of 1995 happened in one of the most densely populated places on earth, and killed only 6,400.

The reasons are obvious enough: more stringent building codes, rigorously enforced; and more rapid and effective rescue efforts after the event. Such things, of course, cost money. And for poor countries like India and Pakistan, there are a thousand urgently competing priorities for extremely limited government resources. Both have rapidly increasing populations, and cheap housing is in huge demand. Literacy, sanitation and electrification might all very well be considered better uses of taxpayers' rupees than guarding against disasters that could strike anywhere, or not at all. Might not earthquakes simply be too expensive, and too mercifully infrequent, a problem to be worth poor countries doing very much about? After all, in the last 25 years, earthquakes have killed “only” about 500,000 people worldwide—300,000 of them in the tsunami on December 26th last year. Yet 2m children under the age of five die every year in India alone, mostly thanks to poor nutrition or bad drinking water.

Fatalism in the face of the earth's convulsions, however, may no longer be appropriate, for two reasons. The first is that the danger posed by earthquakes to the northern subcontinent is greater than is often assumed. The mighty Himalayas are testament to the awesome forces being unleashed as the subcontinent continues its 40 million-year-long collision with the Eurasian landmass. Some of that energy has to be dissipated in the form of earthquakes, and recent studies (see article andsee article) suggest a much bigger quake is long overdue. Yet since the last big Himalayan quake, in 1950, India's population has trebled and urbanised. Delhi, population 14m, and Lahore, population 6m, lie well within the danger zone.

The second argument against fatalism is that there are new and relatively inexpensive techniques that might lessen the blow. Earthquake proofing to Tokyo standards might be out of reach, but there are much cheaper things that can be done that would at least prevent buildings from collapsing in lesser earthquakes. One study, done in India, suggests that for as little as an additional 2-4% of cost, a building can be made significantly better able to withstand vibration. Existing buildings can be “retrofitted”, but that costs two to three times as much.

The other key point is that these measures need not be applied universally. Much benefit would be derived from targeting the most important buildings—those whose survival is essential to any relief effort, such as hospitals, police and fire stations; and high-density precious locations like schools. And planning for swifter and better co-ordinated earthquake relief than the chaotic scenes now being witnessed in Pakistan need not cost much at all: for a country as militarised as Pakistan to be handling the aftermath so badly is a disgrace. The Gujarat earthquake four years ago should have sent these lessons to India, Pakistan and the wider world, yet it needs repeating: hundreds of thousands of lives could potentially be saved for affordable cost. If that is now learned, some good may have come from Kashmir's agony.

The waste of it

If only it were possible to say the same about the other, slower-burning catastrophe that afflicts Kashmir: the long war, both cold and hot, between India and Pakistan for the former princely state. Earthquakes have sometimes acted to bring peace out of horror, underlining in the most graphic way the impermanence not just of human territorial divisions but of the earth itself. The tsunami, caused by an earthquake of appalling violence, brought forth unprecedented generosity from around the world. In the civil war-wracked Indonesian province of Aceh, which bore the brunt of the destruction, it has been the catalyst for peace. In Sri Lanka, which also suffered badly, the need to work out how to spend the aid money drew the government and the Tamil Tigers into compromise, though progress has since faltered. And the 1999 earthquake in Turkey did a great deal to patch up relations between Turks and their hugely compassionate Greek neighbours.

So it is an additional tragedy for Kashmir that the earthquake has not, so far at least, called forth similar generosity of spirit from the rulers of Pakistan and India. India did immediately offer to send relief supplies and, on October 11th, a full three days after the earthquake, a small consignment arrived in Pakistan. But—and the blame here mainly seems to be Pakistan's—there has been no agreement to open the line of control, which divides Indian- from Pakistani-administered Kashmir, to make rescue work easier or swifter. India proposed joint search-and-rescue operations across the line, but has been rebuffed. Likewise an offer of helicopters, more urgently needed than anything else, has not been taken up, apparently for fear of the symbolism that Indian army uniforms on Pakistani soil would represent. (American helicopters apparently pose no problem, and the Americans should have sent more of them more quickly.)

Ordinary Kashmiris, keen to help their fellows across the line, have also not been allowed to cross. The earthquake, which in a couple of minutes killed almost half as many people as the insurgency in Kashmir has killed in 15 years, ought to be reminding both countries' rulers of the pettiness of their disputes. It is a matter of sadness that, so far, it hasn't.