For 12 years, travelled to and from school in Pakistan each day on the back of her brother’s bicycle. She became disabled after contracting polio as a baby and, with no wheelchair or social support, if she wanted to move around inside the school she had to crawl.
Six schools refused to admit her on the grounds that she would disrupt other pupils’ learning. At Candle Girls High School in the city of Multan, where she was finally accepted, she felt isolated.
“I felt deprived sitting alone at the desk while my classmates were moving in groups,” says Qureshi, now 41. “I was unable to participate in group activities and unable to use the white board. People portray disabled people as useless. For me, this is a kind of harassment.”
Her father bought her first wheelchair when she went to college, although she still faced obstacles.
“There were no ramps or elevators,” she says. “It was difficult for me to reach different classrooms and I sometimes missed lectures. After college, my friends and relatives suggested distance learning but I opted for university.”
In 2000, she completed a master’s in economics at Bahauddin Zakariya University in Multan, graduating into a world with few jobs for a disabled woman.
Pakistan ratified the in 2011 but it took nine years for the Disability Rights Act to come into force, and even that came after . There are no official statistics for the number of disabled people in the country and estimates vary widely between people.
Polio was a leading cause of disability in Pakistan, where vaccine resistance and misinformation lead to protests against vaccination campaigns and in some regions. Despite efforts by volunteers and the government, polio is threatening a resurgence. have been reported so far in 2022, most in North Waziristan, where the .
It is disheartening for Qureshi. In 2007 she set up the in Multan to make customised wheelchairs for children and adults.
Since then her organisation has given away 6,000 wheelchairs and her business is flourishing, producing 500 chairs in the first half of this year. “We receive almost 200 requests weekly,” says Qureshi.
The workshop offers six-month training courses for people, mostly those disabled by polio, and they are encouraged to make their own wheelchair to take away at the end. Usman Malik, 22, is four months into his traineeship. “My parents refused to allow me polio drops and they now regret not having vaccinated me,” he says.
Inside the noisy workshop, Malik is among 20 students being taught welding by mechanic Muhammad Kashif, who has built 1,000 wheelchairs in his five years here.
“I learned the cutting and fitting of the wheelchair apparatus,” says Malik. “I’m excited that in the next few months I will make my first wheelchair.”
Wajid Ali, 27, another student, has completed his training, and is ready to move on.
“I feel proud that I have learned something and plan to train other disabled people. I want to help as many disabled people as possible,” says Ali. “[With] this wheelchair, I plan to run a tailoring shop to support my family. Without this training and wheelchair my life would be useless.”
Qureshi also wanted to ensure that her wheelchairs could be used properly in public places. In 2011, she launched a campaign called Accessible , to install ramps in mosques, toilets and other buildings. It ensured accessibility at polling stations in Multan in the 2013 election and Qureshi is now an adviser to the Punjab government on policies for the disabled community.
Qureshi says she feels “proud and happy” of what she has achieved but wants to reach more people, especially in remote areas.
“This idea of manufacturing and donating wheelchairs was in my mind for years,” she says. “When I think of my early life – it resonates with the difficulties and woes of millions of people with disabilities in Pakistan.”