Author: Tina Babarovic
Publication: ABC News
Date: October 25, 2001
QUETTA, Pakistan, Oct. 25: Many
people will remember his voice because it was his voice that first attracted
our attention. I will remember his eyes, and his schoolmates'.
Six-year old Hamidullah is a student
in one of the hard-line fundamentalist schools known as "madrassas." They
are considered privileged places, where many families believe their sons
will get an education, have a better life.We first met him at a pro-Taliban
rally, where this little body with a booming voice screamed out at the
crowd. Dressed in his small black turban, he shouted his hatred of America
and thousands of men responded, fists in the air, vowing to fight and defend
Islam.
An Uncomfortable Encounter
We traced this little boy back to
his madrassa. Although women are not allowed in the madrassas, I was permitted
to enter the school along with our male correspondent and camera crew to
interview him. Although I was dressed in traditional clothes of Pakistan's
women, with my head covered, my presence was an uncomfortable one for everyone
at the school including me.
As ABCNEWS sound man Abed Itani
told me: "There is no place for you here. You do not belong here." And
I sensed that feeling, no matter how respectful my behavior.
I was not allowed in the area where
the boys studied, nor was I allowed in the mosque. The rest of the ABC
team went inside to take pictures of Hamidullah and the other students
as they studied and ate their meager
lunch of bread and water and observe
them as they prayed.
I stood out in the empty courtyard,
listening to the boys relentlessly recite the Koran through the open windows.
Class Without Books
The courtyard was incredibly hot
and dusty. I was surprised to see that this courtyard was also part of
the boys' classroom. One by one, they filed outside with folded arms already
a small army, ranging from only 4, to 12 years old.
They marched past me and sat down
in the dust. I was watching math and English class conducted without books,
lasting only one hour a day.
Every Thursday there is a class
on political speech. And it was here that Hamidullah learned how to deliver
such venomous anti-American rhetoric. The words were not his. They belonged
to his teachers.
I wondered about the emotional speech
that we saw Hamidullah display at the rally. Was that his?
It seemed so out of place as I looked
at the faces with no life in them: These young boys who looked straight
through me. Those who did register my presence just looked tired and sad.
How to Learn Compassion
I wondered how these boys will learn
compassion, have any real contact with women or develop any sort of connection
with people other than the students and their teachers. We asked Hamidullah
if he knew where America was. He only knew that it was far away. We asked
him if he wanted to hurt Americans. Hurt us? He told us that his teachers,
his leaders, had not ordered him to do so. And as he said this, his eyes
stared straight ahead.
Like his fellow students, there
was no trace of emotion at all. I do believe, after spending two days at
this school, that the anger Hamidullah feels toward the Americans is real.
But he has no understanding as to why he feels this way. This small boy
is, in one colleague's words, an angry puppet. His thoughts are not his
own; they belong to those men who are grooming the next generation to carry
on their radicalism, their fight against "the infidels."
And as the large iron gate closed
behind us, I had such a foreboding that we would hear Hamidullah's voice
again, years from now, speaking to a crowd with the same venom and hatred
as he did when he was 6.
