Orphaned by an earthquake almost eight weeks ago, Abdul Waheed watches other boys in a government-run refuge play cricket as he waits for his turn to bat. The 13-year-old Pakistani boy feels safer than at any time since the disaster killed his widower father, and left him and his six younger brothers and sisters homeless.
"It is our luck that we came here and got the chance to study," says Waheed, who dreams of one day becoming a fighter pilot in the Pakistan air force.
"If you want to take us from here we will not go," he says, revealing the insecurity that still plagues his mind.
Soon after the quake struck, the Pakistan government blocked adoption of quake survivors, knowing all too well that human traffickers would come sneaking round bereft families.
Every year thousands of women and children are trafficked from Pakistan to work as prostitutes or domestic servants.
It is not a problem unique to Pakistan. International aid workers say some survivors of the Indian Ocean tsunami fell into the hands of traffickers.
Called Ashiana, or the Nest, the sanctuary at Hattian in Punjab province where Waheed and his siblings are staying is a refuge for close to 250 others, most of them fellow orphans.
Eventually the project will provide a home for about 2,000 survivors who no longer have any menfolk left in their family who are capable of protecting them.
"If they are left out in the open alone anything can happen," said Minister of Social Welfare Zubaida Jalal. Her ministry is responsible for running the camp.
There are plans to set up similar facilities in Kashmir and North West Frontier Province so displaced people can be moved closer to their old homes in the stricken areas, so that they can benefit from a familiar environment and culture, she said.
But the site at Hattian was ready made -- an abandoned complex of living quarters for workers on a hydro-electric power project that was abandoned three years ago.
"It looked like a jungle when we came," said Mohammad Nasir, Ashiana's project director. "The grass was six feet high, there was mud all over and washrooms were blocked."
Now, the compound is a virtual village, with a hospital, school, common dining hall, mosque, general store and play grounds.
A smell of fresh paint hangs in the air and signboards direct visitors to the different sections for women, boys and girls.
Some rooms come with attached bathrooms, others have shared washrooms nearby.
It is also very quiet. The residential area is surrounded by fields and far from the road. The entrance is protected by security men and there are no male members of staff.
Young children play on swings as boys play cricket and girls chatter.
"This is paradise for the children," Nasir said, comparing their new circumstances to the poverty many of them grew up in.
But that in no way makes up for losing loving parents. As the eldest of his family, Waheed regularly has to comfort his little brothers and sisters when they cry over their father's death.
"There is a lot of trauma," said Nasir. "We have special social workers for rehabilitation and psychologists, but we still need female volunteers to help them deal with their trauma."
The October 8 earthquake killed more than 73,000 people, with nearly half the victims children. Close to 2.5 million people lost their homes.
Nasir said a study estimated about 5,000 children were orphaned. In many cases relatives have taken over the dead parents' role, but Nasir expects some will be forced by their own dire circumstances to hand over the children eventually.
"With the passage of time they will. It will be very difficult for them to maintain the children," he said.
The children who enter the project will be schooled up to college level, and thereafter the plan is that they will be assured jobs, probably with the government.
Nahida Bibi never went to school and thinks she is too old to start now.
She came with her injured mother and two brothers and two sisters from the Kashmiri village of Chinari, a tiny market town in the Jhelum valley that was completely flattened.
"It is our duty to recite the Koran," the 15-year-old says, as she unwraps her new Koran for the daily Islamic education in a dining room that serves as a classroom.
Rafia Bibi, 25, arrived from Muzaffarabad with her three young children. Her husband died at his military post.
Sitting in a wheelchair with a broken leg, Bibi stares disconsolately at the children's playground.
"I cannot get over it yet," she sobs, as she buries her face in her shawl.
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