the_taliban_shuffle_-_kim_barker

CHAPTER 13
UNDER PRESSURE
T
housands of people blocked the road, swallowing the SUV in front
of us. They climbed on the roof, pelted rose petals at the windshield,
and tried to shake or kiss the hand of the man in sunglasses sitting
calmly in the passenger seat. Some touched the car reverently, like a
shrine. I knew I couldn’t just watch this from behind a car window. I
had to get out and feel the love.
Wearing a black headscarf and a long red Pakistani top over jeans, I
waded through the crowd to the vehicle carrying the most popular man
in Pakistan. Iftikhar Mohammed Chaudhry was an unlikely hero, with a
tendency to mumble, a prickly ego, and a lazy eye. President Pervez
Musharraf, the mustachioed military ruler known for his swashbuckling
promises to round up the country’s miscreants, had recently suspended
Chaudhry as the country’s chief justice, largely because Musharraf feared
that Chaudhry could block his impending attempt to be reelected
president while remaining army chief. But Chaudhry had refused to go
away quietly, becoming the rst top ocial in Pakistan to object when
Musharraf demanded a resignation. Now Chaudhry was a celebrity, the
focal point for the fact that most Pakistanis wanted to throttle
Musharraf and permanently end military rule. Anywhere Chaudhry set
foot in the spring of 2007 quickly turned into a cross between a
political rally and a concert.
Standing near the Chaudhry-mobile, I took notes—on the rose petals,
the men shouting they would die for Chaudhry, the nearby goat
sacrice. And then someone grabbed my butt, squeezing a chunk of it. I
spun around, but all the men, a good head shorter than me, stared
ahead blankly. Pakistan, where even the tiny men seemed to have
nuclear arms. Sometimes I hated it here.
“Who did that?” I demanded.