Author: Aryn Baker
Publication: Time Magazine
Date: May 14, 2009
URL: http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1898251,00.html
In the Himalayan resort town of Nathiagali,
a party is under way. Ice clinks in tumblers and corks pop while the conversation
- an amalgam of English and Urdu that is the mark of Pakistan's élite
- flows from meditation techniques to a heated debate over a U.S. politician's
warning that Pakistan is on the brink of collapse. The hostess, Rifat Haye,
54, is one of two female pilots with the national airline and is celebrating
her promotion to captain. She wears jeans. Her hair is streaked with blond,
and a diamond nose stud glints in the sun, as does the jeweled Allah pendant
around her neck. She is frustrated with the image the world has of Pakistan,
that of a failing state overrun by Muslim fanatics. Pointing first to herself,
then at her guests, she says, "This is Pakistan." Then she waves
her hand over the valley beyond the deck of her summer cabin. "But that
is also Pakistan."
By that she means all those Pakistanis who
do not belong to her class and who have as much to do with the Taliban as
she does, which is to say nothing at all. But her sweeping wave inadvertently
encompasses a part of Pakistan she has failed to address - the Swat valley,
where the army has embarked on a campaign to rout out Islamic insurgents who
threaten to destroy the Pakistan Haye knows and cherishes. (See pictures of
Pakistan beneath the surface.)
Pakistan is a complicated country, one of
religious and political diversity, fractured by class and ethnicity. Pakistanis
like to quip that they have a population of 170 million - and as many different
opinions. Which is why defensiveness sets in when outsiders attempt to reduce
the country to a terrorist statistic. The problems in Swat don't define Pakistan,
says Haye. It's not that she doesn't care - she does - but that Pakistan has
very little to do with her Pakistan. "What is all this talk of Talibanization?
Not once have these maulvis [religious leaders] complained that a woman is
flying their plane," she says. Guests nod in agreement. "There is
no way the Taliban can take over Pakistan," says one. "We are too
many, and they are too few."
It is indeed unlikely that Pakistan's Islamic
militants can seize power. But to spread fear and insecurity and slow down
economic development, they don't need to. Hundreds of terrorist attacks have
taken more than 2,500 lives in the past 18 months. Talibanization may not
have reached Pakistan's élite, but it is already threatening others.
Women in the city of Rawalpindi complain that they are harassed if they don't
wear headscarves. In Lahore, a prep school for girls has banned the wearing
of blue jeans, for fear of a Taliban attack. In the capital, Islamabad, the
Red Mosque's prayer leader, Abdul Aziz, sanctioned vigilante squads of baton-wielding
women to go out and threaten video stores, barbershops and massage parlors
for being un-Islamic. Two years ago, his followers kidnapped six Chinese masseuses,
calling them prostitutes, and held them hostage. The army eventually cracked
down, launching a siege and battle that saw the death of nearly 100 militants.
Last month, Aziz was released from prison on the condition that he would not
preach against the state. But residents in the neighborhood fear that the
vigilante squads will soon be back. Talibanization doesn't start with a military
takeover. It happens when there is a Red Mosque in every city and citizens
are afraid to stand up to its edicts. (See pictures of Osama Bin Laden.)
The government, at last, seems to be fighting
back. On May 7, Prime Minister Yousuf Raza Gilani announced a military operation
in Swat. "The armed forces have been called in," he said, "to
eliminate the militants and terrorists. We will not bow before extremists."
Only weeks before, the government had finalized a peace deal with the militants
in which their principal demand - the establishment of Islamic law in the
area - was granted in exchange for giving up arms. At first officials defended
the deal, even as the militants moved on a neighboring district and their
leader announced that democracy was contrary to Islam. But in a move that
coincided with Pakistani President Asif Ali Zardari's visit to Washington,
the government declared the deal over. "The militants have waged war
against all segments of society," Gilani said. "I regret to say
that our bona fide intention to prefer reconciliation with them was perceived
as a weakness on our part."
The fighting in Swat masks far more serious
problems. In Waziristan, a region on the Afghan border, security forces have
ceded control to the militants. Outlawed sectarian groups are gaining a foothold
in Punjab province. And in the financial capital of Karachi, where Pakistani
Taliban insurgents raise funds, ethnic clashes claimed more than 30 lives
last month. When U.S. President Barack Obama commented during an April news
conference that the Pakistani government did not "seem to have the capacity
to deliver basic services - schools, health care, rule of law, a judicial
system that works for the majority of the people," the nation erupted
in fury, and effigies of Obama were burned. But privately many Pakistanis
agreed with the U.S. President; their nation, for all its people's many talents,
has failed to develop the education, economic-development and justice systems
that are the bedrock of modernity and stability. "These guys have been
in power for more than a year," says lawyer Anees Jillani, speaking of
Zardari's government. "What have they done? We still have acute poverty,
joblessness and injustice."
A Crisis of Identity
To criticize Pakistan's leaders, however -
much though they may deserve it - is to miss the point. It is ordinary people,
locked in a series of personal Pakistans, who seem unable or unwilling to
unite over the threat to their nation. Pakistanis will point to the oppressive
hand of history or the machinations of foreign nations to explain their descent
into chaos, and to a certain extent both have played a role. But no one bears
more responsibility for a slow collective suicide than Pakistanis themselves.
A set of failures has contributed to Pakistan's fall.
Founded as a Muslim nation carved from British-ruled
India in 1947, Pakistan has long struggled to unite a population divided by
language, culture and ethnicity. It is quite true that Pakistan may never
have resolved what Sabahat Ashraf, a Pakistani blogger now living in California,
calls its "existential dilemma: Are we an Islamic state, or are we a
state of Muslims?" but Islam has always been a common denominator. When
the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan, the nation rallied under the banner
of jihad. Today any attack on Islam, even the perception of one, is akin to
an assault on Pakistan's very identity. When the militants say they too are
fighting for Islam, just as the mujahedin fought the Soviets, it creates a
sense of paralysis. (See pictures of Pakistan's vulnerable North-West passage.)
Pervez Hoodbhoy, a professor at Islamabad's
Quaid-i-Azam University, pulls up on his laptop the pages of a first-grade
primer distributed in private religious schools. "A is for Allah,"
he reads. "B is for bandook, or gun." T, for thakrau, collision,
is illustrated with a drawing of the World Trade Center in flames, while Z,
for zenoub, the plural of sin, is depicted with alcohol bottles, kites, guitars,
drums, a television and a chess set. Any attempt to change the religious curriculum
is met with fierce resistance. "Many fear that to be seen protesting
against the extremists who are pushing Shari'a [Islamic law] would be seen
as protesting against Islam itself," says Hoodbhoy.
The paradox here is that historically, Pakistanis
have practiced a syncretic version of Islam that venerates saints and emphasizes
a personal relationship with God. But the influx of Arab preachers during
the war against the Soviets brought a more austere form of the religion. Shayan
Afzal Khan, an Islamic scholar who writes about women and Islam, thinks Pakistanis
lack the confidence to defend their moderate beliefs. "People are afraid
to take on the mullahs because we can't quote the Koran the way they do,"
Khan says. "We have to take our religion back," but fear gets in
the way. She has decided not to publish her most recent book, about early
Muslim women, in Pakistan "because the situation these days is too unstable."
Blaming India
If Pakistanis have defined themselves by their
religion, they have also defined themselves by what they are not - Indian.
The bloody cleavage that marked the birth of two independent nations began
a long enmity cemented by three wars and the threat of mutual nuclear annihilation.
The contested territory of Muslim-majority Kashmir is the flame that keeps
the pot boiling. In Pakistan every prayer ends with a thought for Kashmir.
Pakistanis find it impossible to believe that India, with its booming economy
and flourishing democracy, has moved on from the rivalry; India, many believe,
still seeks the destruction of its neighbor. (See pictures of two days of
terror in Mumbai.)
One afternoon in early May, an upscale audience
gathered in Karachi to hear veteran journalist Ahmed Rashid speak on the Taliban
threat. For years, Rashid has been Pakistan's Cassandra, prophesying an extremist-led
doom to deaf ears. Now that the threat has become reality, he is a sought-after
speaker. "I no longer say that there's a creeping Talibanization in Pakistan,"
he warned. "It's a galloping Talibanization." For 45 minutes, he
expanded on his theme, explaining how the Pakistan Army's narrow focus on
India has allowed the militant threat within the country to fester, how money
that should have been spent on helicopters to combat the insurgency was squandered
on fighter jets better suited to attacking India. But the message failed to
sink in.
After his speech, Rashid was peppered with
questions about India's designs to destabilize the country, until he exploded
with frustration: "We are still getting told every night on our TVs that
these Pakistani Taliban are all getting their money from India, that they
are armed by India. Until we recognize the fact that this is a homegrown phenomenon
and that the people throwing acid into girls' faces are Pakistani, the problem
will continue."
Yet continue it does. Every day, it seems,
another police official or politician proclaims that he has definitive proof
that a "foreign hand" (read: India) is behind the latest bombing.
The proof is never produced. It is enough that it bolsters the delusion that
Pakistanis are not responsible for the crisis in their own country and thus
are exempted from dealing with it.
Resenting the U.S.
Of late, the U.S. administration has sought
to convince Pakistani leadership that the Indian threat on the eastern border
has passed and that troops should be moved to the west, where both Pakistani
and Afghan Taliban have set up training camps. To many Pakistanis, that message
is suspect. The Americans have too long a history of pursuing their own interests
in the region, they say. The rapid U.S. withdrawal at the end of the Soviet
war in Afghanistan left Pakistan in chaos. America's long support for former
President Pervez Musharraf's military rule alienated Pakistanis even further.
Now it is commonly accepted that every political move in the country conceals
an American motive, a belief shared by many Pakistanis living abroad. "It's
well known that the present civilian government headed by a corrupt psychopath
was conjured up by the U.S. and U.K. to push their agenda," says Dr.
Riaz Ahmed, a pediatrician practicing in the U.K. "Pakistan has been
helping the Americans with their war, and what do they get in return? Violence,
drugs, instability. We Pakistanis think we are being bullied into somebody
else's war."
That resentment is fueled by a belief that
Pakistan is suffering for Washington's failures. Zardari may say that the
war on terrorism is as much Pakistan's as it is the U.S.'s, but that message
has yet to take root. The growing militancy in Pakistan's tribal areas "is
the price we are paying now for supporting the American war on terror,"
says Ahsan Iqbal, information secretary for the opposition party Pakistan
Muslim League (Nawaz). "If we stopped supporting the American war [in
Afghanistan], we would have peace tomorrow." Iqbal dismisses recent accounts
in the Western press of growing Talibanization in the country as "propaganda."
Shireen Mazari, a right-wing columnist, sees even more sinister plots afoot.
"Is it really in the American interest to have a stable Pakistan right
now?" she asks. "Or is it actually pushing us towards instability
in order to achieve its agenda of obtaining access and control over our nuclear
assets?" Says Rashid: "All of us go by conspiracy theories. We are
all blaming somebody else for our mistakes. Why don't we wake up and start
blaming ourselves?" (See pictures of Pakistan's lawyers celebrating victory.)
Missed Opportunities
One answer to that question is, because Pakistan's leaders have been so feckless.
When Benazir Bhutto was assassinated in December 2007, her husband Zardari
assumed leadership of her political party and then the presidency. Zardari
swore to bring his wife's killers to justice. He has not done so, instead
wasting an opportunity to rally the nation against terrorism. There is no
national media campaign to combat Taliban propaganda and no clerics on TV
or radio denouncing suicide bombers. See pictures of Bhutto's Village in Mourning.
"What we need is a national change in
consciousness," says Supreme Court advocate Aitzaz Ahsan, who led a lawyers'
movement that brought about the downfall of Musharraf. "People need to
be bombarded with the reality of what the Taliban represent." Ahsan wants
to see videos of Taliban atrocities broadcast every night. Only then, he says,
will people understand and act against extremism. "The whole nation needs
to see what is happening. Not just the floggings by the Taliban but the beheadings,
the digging up of the graves of our saints, the burning of our girls' schools."
Instead, says Samina Ahmed of the International
Crisis Group, Zardari's government has muddled the message: rather than punish
those who used terrorist tactics, he originally met their demands in Swat.
Wajiha Ahmed, a Pakistani-American graduate student at the Fletcher School
of Tufts University, hopes that the current chaos holds a "silver lining
... It might put pressure on the military élite and the political oligarchy
to finally change the country's outlook so that it focuses on bettering the
condition of its people." But for decades, talented exiles - writers,
bankers, software engineers and international civil servants - have been devoutly
wishing for such a consummation. It hasn't happened yet.
That sad reality is sinking in back home.
In a phone call a few days after her party, Haye, the airline pilot, worried
that she might have been too dismissive of the threat. "If the Taliban
infiltrates Pakistan, of course that affects us. But what can we do?"
One part of the answer, for 170 million Pakistanis, is to recognize their
shared destiny. Only when the entire nation understands the threat to its
existence - and acts accordingly - will its people be able to confront it.
- with reporting by William Lee Adams / London,
Ershad Mahmud / Islamabad and Frances Romero / New York
