Day 7
This morning Nadeem is getting ready to leave for the UK. Zulfiqar and Zakia Abbassi call by to drive Nadeem to Benazir Bhutto airport in Islamabad. The airport is actually situated in Rawalpindi, but as the city adjoins the Capital they raise the airport’s profile by naming it after the former President and the Capital’s namesake.
Over breakfast I talk with Zulfiqar about his invitation to Washington to receive an award for promoting peace. He will meet President Obama but he plays down the importance of the event as he will be one of a few hundred guests.
I decide to go with Nadeem to see him off at the airport and convey my thanks. We wait with the Abbasis in the Rawal Lounge and enjoy chai and biscuits. I am really very gratelful for this unique experience he’s given me and I hope I can live up to his expectations. He says he wants me to finish this work and become, by doing so, a more organised and sharp individual, focused on my goals and ready to achieve anything I set my heart on.
On the way home Waheed buys me a sim card, finally I can call home and I do. Although I’ve only been away for a week it feels I have been gone for far longer and the cultural differences make it obvious how far from home I am. My morale is boosted when I get to speak with my parents and my friends in Yorkshire. Its one thirty in the morning and I finally get up to date with my journal and emails. On Monday I am off to buy sharwal kameez and provisions for Noon Bagla. Its bed time, and almost fittingly, in the distance, I hear another gunshot.
Day 8
I finished writing my journal late last night, and because I was tired I forgot to mention that my visit here has made national news. Yesterday morning Zulfiqar Abbasi brought a newspaper to Nadeem’s house. It was the Daily Khabrain, a widely read broadsheet in the Kashmir region written in Urdu. On the front page is an image of Mehmood Riaz (the Kashmir Information Minister) sitting in his armchair, with me and Kabir engaged in discussions with him. I am quietly alarmed by this development. Firstly we had not given permission nor been told this photograph would be used for publicity, I had assumed it was for records. Secondly I cannot read the text; if it reports that I am a politician and gives the game away that I am living in Pakistan for three months I had better think seriously about ending this trip. No doubt the Taliban or other extremist groups will read these papers and in my opinion a member, no matter how lowly, of Her Majesty’s government would make an obvious target. I cannot let an unquantified amount of people know what my travel plans are.
I ask Zulfiqar to translate and later, to be sure, I ask Waheed separately. Both translations corroborate. It reads, “Information Minister Mehmood Riaz meets with British Councillor Mr Michael and Royal Bank of Scotland’s Kabir Sabar”. It could be a lot worse: they could have published my surname; you can only see one side of my face; and I am in Western clothes (for the rest of the journey I plan to wear sharwal kameez). It does not state what my movements are and one can infer from the caption that I have probably already left the country. I am convinced that there is no way anyone reading this could know where my location will be in future. I search the internet to be sure and of all the other people I have met, I can only find one further piece of information: Marvi Memon has written on Twitter that she had evening tea with two British politicians, but does not elaborate any further. So I feel more relaxed and will be much more careful about the media in future. I save the paper for posterity. It was a close call.
So it is Monday morning and I have a full day planned. I get up early and Waheed and I go to buy sharwal kameez for me to wear. We go to an outdoor shopping area in the Blue Zone (a so-called district in the city), compared to Western standards it is unsophisticated, dusty and tatty. In Britain, whenever one sees a Pakistani immigrant in sharwal kamis and topi they usually wear an old-fashioned dogtooth blazer, Oxfam shop-esque jumper, or baggy beige anorak. I had up until now assumed that Pakistani immigrants had made an unsuccessful attempt to fuse Western and Eastern fashions by picking these items from the clothes rails of 1960s and 70s Marks and Spencers and never adapting the style. Actually, it was a misjudgement on my part. These anoraks, jumpers, and blazers spill out onto the streets of Islamabad from various clothes shops and I realise that they have not picked up the style in Britain, but have imported it from Pakistan. Waheed and I pick out three sharwal kameez: one grey, one white with embroidery, and one “skin colour”. I dislike the latter but feel I should get it because it is the most prevalent colour worn by Pakistanis over here. There is a power cut, the first I have experienced since arriving. Waheed pays and tells me if it was I who had brokered the deal it would have cost twice as much. I get three suits for about £35, Waheed will not let me pay him back.
We also need to buy a phone card (I have used all my credit last night on two phone calls back home) and an internet top up card. The shopping district, the further one explores into it, turns into a bizarre; a labyrinth of narrow streets with shoe shiners, dozens of mobile phone accessory stalls, axe grinders and blade sharpeners. Almost every shopper and shopkeeper is male; it is midday and few women come out in the midday sun. Although I am with Waheed and our driver, Faisal, I really do not feel comfortable here. I stick out like a sore thumb, the place is bustling and there are absolutely no tourists or foreigners about.
We have finished shopping in the Blue Zone and we head to the car because we need to change some money. En route there are men having their beards trimmed in the street, boys pass us carrying plates piled high with hot naan breads and I see a school bus drive by. Pakistanis have no regard for road safety, the bus is crammed with children, heads poke out of the windows and on the roof of the bus twenty teenagers sit perilously holding on for their lives; no seats, no seatbelts, a roof rack similar to a camper van’s to keep them in. Oblivious to their likely impending doom, the children are having a bloody fantastic time.
Even the very richest in Pakistan have decidedly average cars; this is because they would have to pay enormous duty on importing a luxury vehicle and they probably do not want to chance getting it scratched and bashed on the disorderly roadways. Motorbikes snake in between traffic and women ride sidesaddle on the back; sometimes four people squeeze onto one motorcycle. Waheed does not know any specific reason why the shopping precinct is called the Blue Zone, and I ask him if there is a Red Zone. He says we are driving through it, I tell him that in the West a Red Zone is where prostitutes can be picked up and he laughs. Apparently the Red Zone in Islamabad is where the diplomats and politicians reside…
Before I left the UK I had done extensive research about my destination; Pakistan has had very bad press in Britain and although I knew the country to have dangerous areas, I wanted to make sure I was going with my eyes open. I had seen an Australian news clip on YouTube about the women of the Red Mosque in Islamabad. It reported that they were extremists that wanted to clamp down on the liberalisation of dress codes in the city and had even kidnapped and tortured a well-known madame who ran a well-frequented brothel. En route to the bank we pass the the same Red Mosque and many of the out buildings have been destroyed. Waheed, who sent two of his daughters to the Madrassa there, offers a different story to the news article I saw. He said the women of the Red Mosque did not torture the madame but convinced her to repent her sins; they are religous but not violent and had only wanted to ensure standards of decency were not compromised. The images of the burqa clad women brandishing sticks and marching through the city, chanting “Allah Akbar”, was a relatively peaceful protest in retaliation to two of their teachers being arrested for false counts of inciting terrorism. Whether they were extremists or they were devout sisters, Musharraf ordered the Madrassa section of the mosque to be bulldozed. According to Waheed many died whilst staging a protest inside the Madrassa as it was demolished, no one knows how many. Waheed thinks the value of the land played a part and that Musharraf had manfactured the atrocity to appear tough on terrorism. Either way, this crisis became the catalyst for major cities in Pakistan to be repeatedly attacked by terrorists; Islamabad has been on high alert ever since.
It is a beautiful day and we try one bank which has four guards armed with the customery baretta pumps action shotguns and AK-47s, but because they have run out of receipts we decide to go to another. We need to change £5,500 cash into rupees so the charity can pay builders who have completed the final parts of the BHU. The next place we try is a money exchange, and the job is done. This money exchange has no guards and no CCTV so I am on high alert in case some chancer decides to steal two years’ wages from the unprotected counter. Unlike the UK, people wear ordinary civilian clothes when doing official jobs here. For instance, roadside repairs are done by people in everyday sharwal kameez, it looks as if someone has decided to take their home tools to the pavement just for fun, whereas in britain they’d at least have a fluorescent yellow jacket on. The same is apparent in the currency exchange; employees coming to bring large bricks of rupees from an undisclosed safe, looked like passers-by wandering in to peer over our shouldes and eye-up our £20 notes. At times it was unnerving and I constantly imagined myself running after a would-be thief in the forethcoming moments.
When we get back I try on my sharwal kameez, Waheed says “Oh! Mr Michael sir you look very smart, just like an Afghani, or an Uzbeck or a Chechen Taliban”. I’m not sure how much this is a compliment, but I think he is part gesting. I’m getting on well with Waheed and he takes me very seriously, he respects what I have to say about the BHU and I am thankful for that. The rest of the day is taken up with me writing reports to Nadeem and arranging business meetings. Tomorrow we go shopping for more provisions because on Thursday I travel to Noon Bagla for the real hard work.
Day 9
Last night before going to sleep, I spoke with my friends in London and Liverpool, and I cannot tell you how much it boosts morale only to share my experiences with them for a small while. I can tell that they are still concerned for my safety in Pakistan; but I have to say I do feel that everything is under control here and I have my wits about me. For every extremist wanting to attack foreigners, it feels there are a dozen Pakistanis who totally adore having us around and, certainly in my case, will go out of their way to make you feel comfortable, show you off to their family and friends, feed you, and keep you safe.
I am sitting in the covered porch way at the front of the house in Bani Galla and watching the servants’ children playing cricket and badminton on the driveway. When I watch, I realise that Pakistan will always be a great cricketing nation; ten-year old boys catapult full-sized cricket balls at dangerous speeds towards a friend who effortlessly taps it away with a full-sized bat. No pads, no fear, these children make it look easy and I am not joking, they would get into the Carlton Club Cricket 1st XI without a problem.
Over breakfast Waheed teaches me some Urdu and I have agreed to teach him some advanced English to reciprocate. Today I tell him about the Philosophy of Mind and the differences between Epiphenomenalism, Dualism, and Materialism. I also teach him a bit about “Paradise Lost” by John Milton.
Waheed invites me to meet his bother-in-law’s family in Islamabad and I agree; he says he is going to get his hair cut too, I ask if I can get mine done at the same place and he resists. He thinks the barbershop will be too dirty for me and that I should go to one of the hotels. I scoff at this and insist that I have my hair cut at the same place he always goes; I will have no refusal. Forty minutes later I am sitting in an antiquated barber’s chair, in a room only about 10ft x 8ft. The shop is in the middle of a dusty and impoverished suburb. The standard of the neighbourhood is one up from a shantytown; the roads are mud tracks, the houses are flat-roofed clay boxes, countless telephone wires swoop from overhead and at the side of the road green algae creeps its way out of the open sewers. The barber’s tools are basic, the shop is filthy, they have never had a white customer and, with a cigarette in his mouth, he begins to cut my hair without even consulting what style I want. I start to have my regrets. Forty minutes after that, I am convinced I have never had such a skilful and excellent haircut in my life! The barber, who scrutinised every hair on my head and face through his spectacles, moved at great pace snipping away and turning his arm, elbow and wrist at different angles to give me a short back and sides, plus beard trim which easily outdid the so-called traditional barbershops in St.James’s. A British haircut of that standard would cost £30, this Pakistani barber resolutely refused to take any money and said if I left any it would be an insult; I was a guest in his neighbourhood. In many ways the common Pakistani is far poorer than we, but he never has to shave himself, clean his own shoes, or tailor his own bespoke clothing; those are all provided for him at cheap, affordable cost.
I visit Waheed’s house, I meet several of his wife’s family and one of his sons, a polite and lively ten year old. The house is very tidy and clean, the various members of his family are quiet and respectful towards me. I am made to feel very welcome and we have tea whilst discussing education; it seems that many send their children to Madrassas (religious schools, some quite hard-line) because they are free or very heavily subsidised. The state education is an aberration and private, secular education is for the elite – so this is how the Mullahs are able to sustain their congregations, by providing free education in exchange for indoctrination.
In the evening, I have my first independently arranged engagement. Dr Donya Aziz (the Member of the National Assembly I met at the Marriott) has invited me to a British Council talk on corruption in politics and its affects on the Pakistani youth. I am dressed in white embroidered sharwal kamis and sit near the front. True to form with all things here, it starts well over an hour late. The British High Commissioner sits on the front row and so do several of his assistants, two sit next to me. I decide not to let them know I am British and just to listen into their conversations for the time being. There is nothing of interest to overhear, Donya Aziz comes up and asks me how I am, shakes my hand and I strike up a conversation with her. Then Faisal Kundi, the Deputy Speaker, arrives and calls me over, slaps me on the shoulder and shakes my hand vigorously. I return to my seat and notice the very intrigued looks from the British delegation, I’ve not been on their radar and they are clearly interested to know why I am so familiar with the main speakers. One asks what I’m doing in Islamabad, I tell her about the AHS Foundation’s charitable mission. The only bit of gossip I overhear is a man from the High Commission in Kabul and the woman from the High Commission in Islamabad are dating. All the British are in Western attire, they clearly think I have gone native.
When I get home I have dinner and talk more with Waheed. One of our dishes has red carrots, I ask how they have become this colour and apparently its natural. Carrots in Pakistan are a bright red colour, I’ve never heard of red carrots before now. I ask what other unusual dishes there are and there is one called Kapoora, which is lamb’s testicles, and there is also lamb’s brain. I decide it would be a shame not to try these at some point.
Day 10
Waheed, Sabar (the driver) and I go shopping for essential items in the morning. We return to the same market we always go to; it is still bustling but because I am in local clothing and I can make basic conversation in Urdu I find it far less threatening. In fact, I am getting used to the culture and I am fitting in well.
I have organised a tour of two facilities today; they are both owned by Khaqan and Saleha Khawaja. One is a General Hospital giving free and subsidised treatments to the poor, the other is a Dental hospital of the same ilk. The General Hospital is in Rawalpindi – a major city adjoined to Islamabad; the area is dirt poor and many of the houses are clay huts with corrugated tin roofs, I see a beggar with twisted legs shuffling along the road with the help of his hands. We are driven straight to the front door and are received by the Chief Executive, several professors and doctors, its as if it were a Royal visit. The hospital, by British standards, is antiquated, crowded, and dirty. The Chief Executive takes us to every department including radiology, labour, dental, laboratory, blood bank, operating theatre, sterilisation etc. Even though each facility has only one room, the hospital has one hundred beds. Zakia, who has joined us, tells me that this place is remarkably cleanly; the government hospitals for the poor are so bad you have to wear a facemask to stop yourself fainting from the stench.
The Dental Hospital is actually part of another business they own called the Margalla College of Health Sciences. They have 320 students all being taught dentistry alone, paying privately and no doubt, contributing to the success of the subsided Hospitals. Admittedly, within the context of similar Pakistani ventures, I found the facilities here impressive. They employ several of the country’s leading dentists; one I spoke to was trained at Edinburgh University. The equipment is as good as any you would see in a British Practice too. I am successful in getting them to donate two wheel chairs and three beds for the Noon Bagla BHU and after the high profile tour with our entourage of cameramen and lakhees with pads, we leave for lunch.
Saleha books us a table at the Pearl Continental Rawalpindi. We go to the Chinese cuisine restaurant and despite being closing time, they keep it open especially because she has asked.
Finally, we drive to Zakia’s house for tea and biscuits. The conversation in amicable and Khaqan shows me the hand gun he carries around for personal protection. It is a 9mm Taurus and he always leaves the safety off in case he needs to use it quickly. I take out the magazine, cock it and practice. He asks me what gun I have with me and I tell him none. He then asks if I have a security detail and what guns they carry. When I tell him I do not have a security detail he speaks with Saleha and Zakia in Urdu for ten minutes; he is obviously under the impression I should carry a gun, the others obviously think he is overreacting.
Later that night I ask Waheed if he thinks I should buy a gun and he is emphatic that I shouldn’t. The village is a community and they will all be looking out for my welfare. The BHU has a guard called Bashir who will be acting as my nightime security anyway; but he says it is on the honour of the village to make sure I have a comfortable and enjoyable time. I ask him about hunting in Noon Bagla and he tells me there isn’t any. I am surprised and so I ask if there are any tigers, he replies “no”. Any bears? Not that he’s seen. Elephants? Only in India. Any deer? Never reported. Wild pigs, rabbits even? “No Mr Michael, but there are plenty of rats.”