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The fields along the highway leading from Karachi to Hyderabad are lined with tents - makeshift homes for some of the twenty million displaced by the worst floods in documented history that have ravaged Pakistan. There are many who haven't even a tent, and are forced to camp by the roadside. In the sweltering heat, with temperatures often touching forty degrees Celsius, you see sickly, dehydrated children lying under makeshift covers of blankets propped on sticks.  

While Karachi has not been hit by flood waters, it is temporary home to more than a quarter million internally displaced persons. I recently went to a medical camp headed by the Liaquat National Hospital & University in Gulshan-e-Maymar, which is approximately a forty minute drive from central Karachi. It is one of the more organized, systematic camps, with a waiting room, a consultation clinic and a dispensary. The medical team, consisting mostly of medical school students, sees nearly four hundred patients daily. Patients are made to register and then receive treatment based on the urgency of their ailment.

Most residents of Karachi speak English and Urdu, while the villagers speak only the provincial language, Sindhi. Since I speak Sindhi fluently I was asked to assist at the registration desk and in the waiting room. A father rushed in his son, frail from dehydration. It was one full hour after doctors attached a saline drip that Sikander, the eleven year old boy showed any sign of life and opened his eyes. There were tears in his father’s eyes. I had never felt so humbled.

Outside in the waiting room, there were pregnant, suffering women who were often too undernourished to feed their children. Children's stomachs protruded from severe malnutrition. Murtaza was bought in with a skin infection that had resulted in his face and body becoming dotted with painful scabs. His sister, Mehrunnisa was feverish and crying. Their mother told me that one of the most painful experiences for a parent is to hear their child cry and not have the power to help.

There was so much pain that cannot be captured in pictures or videos of the unimaginable devastation. A relief worker told us about how a desperate mother had begged for milk saying "Mera bacha doodh kai liyay taras raha hai" (My child is pining for milk). Another woman told us about how she saw her four year old son drown as her home was swallowed by water and how she could not save him. She showed us a tear stained picture of a smiling boy shepherding two baby goats. An old lady asked for news about her husband, whom she had not seen since he put her and her daughter on a bus to Karachi, promising to follow after. Two boys peered into the waiting room. One asked me for biscuits. At that point, I would have given anything to have some to give him.

I have a home and a family and someone to provide for me and am pursuing an education at a highly rated university. I have friends and a life full of warmth and laughter. I can't imagine living without any one of these luxuries. Imagine losing everything, and not knowing what your future holds. Imagine not knowing if you will get a meal to eat that day. I would leave only to resume my life in Montreal: just another day in Paradise. They were stuck there.

It is hard to empathize with the anguish and desperation that comes with losing everything until you see it on the faces of the people living in camps. These are citizens of Pakistan, people who had homes, jobs and a life that were swept away as the flood waters left behind nothing but devastation. They led respectable lives and are now forced to beg and line up for rations.

Interestingly, a lot of them echo the same sentiment, that this is God's way of reminding them of their sins. It is Ramadan, the month of fasting in the Islamic calendar. They fast despite extreme weakness. They pray five times a day and beg Allah to forgive them. Despite everything, they have so much hope.

A rickety ceiling fan rotated lazily. We sat in the waiting room and they told me their stories, of the villages, houses, relatives and children they left behind. Two women shyly eyed my ring finger and asked me why I wasn't married. (In rural Pakistan, it is customary for most people to marry by the time they are eighteen) I told the wide eyed crowd of young mothers that I was studying Engineering and would get married later. They giggled, and then together prayed for my speedy and prosperous marriage. They smiled as I laughed. Murtaza yawned in his mother’s lap. In that moment, it did not feel like we were at a relief camp surrounded by sickness and hunger. Maybe there is hope still.

Perhaps it is idealistic on the part of the mothers of Murtaza, Sakina and Ali Haider to have so much hope for a country going through one of its darkest periods, but maybe hope is what we need. While we are a flawed nation, we are also a nation with great talent, intelligence, and most importantly, compassion. As the flood proceeds from the North to the South of the country, leaving behind its path of destruction, Pakistanis – poor and rich alike, have come together in an unimaginable display of generosity. Why stop now?

This is our country. This is our land. These are our people and they need us. For those who do not hail from Pakistan, this is a humanitarian crisis and innocent people need your help. Do your part. Pakistan ko aap ki madad ki zaroorat hai. Reclaim Pakistan.