the_taliban_shuffle_-_kim_barker

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seizing power almost eight years earlier and holding on to it through sham elections, had somehow convinced the West that he was setting up a democracy. A mother and son holding hands at the Karachi airport summed up Pakistan for me. She wore a black abaya and heavy eyeliner. He wore jeans and a T-shirt proclaiming NO MONEY, NO HONEY. Given my new penchant for punching at rallies, I knew Pakistan had shortened my fuse. What little restraint I had acquired elsewhere had evaporated, largely over issues of personal space. (I was still a Montanan at heart—preferring few people, lots of open range, and boundary lines meant to be respected.) But I knew I needed to dive into the country. I had to stop resisting Pakistan’s pull, because Afghanistan and Pakistan fed into each other, and I needed to understand how. It would not be easy. Reporting a story here was like trying to nd a specic needle in a stack of needles using a needle, an endless attempt at sorting through anonymous quotes from anonymous intelligence sources and anonymous diplomats. Most terrorist plots in the West traced somehow back to Pakistan—as many as three-quarters, according to some estimates. After a plot was linked to someone in Pakistan, journalists like myself predictably converged on the alleged militant’s home village in the middle of nowhere, where the most powerful spy agency, the Inter-Services Intelligence Directorate (ISI), tried to convince us that what we had been told was wrong, and that this was not the village we were looking for, and that there was no way any terrorist would ever come from Pakistan. Wrong town, wrong country. We weren’t allowed to go to the tribal areas where many militants had supposedly trained, we weren’t supposed to roam free, and we were told that this was all for our safety. The subterfuge here was an art that had been institutionalized. I blamed India. Everyone here did. To understand Pakistan, India was the key. Why did Pakistan direct its militant groups toward disputed Kashmir instead of disbanding them after the Soviet Union left Afghanistan? India. Why did Pakistan support the Taliban regime in Afghanistan? India. Why did Pakistan develop a nuclear weapon? India. Why did Musharraf support the country’s homegrown militant groups even as he arrested Al-Qaeda’s alleged number three at any given time?
even as he arrested Al-Qaeda’s alleged number three at any given time? India. And why did Pakistan continually give me such a crappy visa? India. Being based in New Delhi did not help my attempts to cover Pakistan. India-based journalists were usually given two-week visas. We were only supposed to go to Islamabad, Lahore, or Karachi, and we were automatically assumed to be spies. As soon as I checked into a hotel, the ISI knew where I was. My phone was tapped. The driver from the Marriott Hotel reported back whom I had talked to and what I had said. Or so I was told. Covering Pakistan was an excuse to let my paranoia run wild. It was like starring in The Benny Hill Show, trying to run slightly faster than that creepy old man. If Pakistan had a soundtrack, it would be “Flight of the Bumblebee.” If it suered from a psychological disorder, it would be bipolar. But the chief-justice controversy was a relatively easy way to dig into Pakistan—obvious, messy, and important. This spat between the judiciary and the presidency was the biggest threat Musharraf had ever faced, bigger than the assassination attempts, the Islamic extremists, the squabbling with Pakistan’s neighbors. It could inuence the country’s presidential elections and the country’s future. It was that big. After the suspended chief justice Chaudhry refused to step down, the lawyers nationwide rose to defend him, saying that the country needed rule of law and the judiciary needed to be independent from the messed-up executive branch. Wearing their uniforms of black suits and white shirts, the lawyers held demonstrations, picking ghts with police, who retaliated with tear gas. Some lawyers beat a supposed spy with their shoes right in front of me, even ripping o his tie. Momentum built. Lawyer protests grew into anti-Musharraf protests. Every few days, people met in Islamabad, shouting catchy slogans such as “Go Musharraf go,” which meant he should step down, not run for a touchdown, and, my personal favorite, “Musharraf doggie, son of Bush.” Chaudhry’s legal team decided to take the chief justice on the road, on a speaking tour to various cities. But the goal was not speeches, as Chaudhry was no orator. The goal was a forever journey, a slow ride. Like all political campaigns in Pakistan, these road trips aimed to yank people out onto the streets to prevent the chief justice’s vehicle from moving much at all. The team’s top lawyer even drove, at times slower
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Copyright © 2011 by Kim Barker The
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Cover Title Page Copyright Dedicati
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KABUL
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CHAPTER 1
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enough to make it into my newspaper
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championship game. Like everyone el
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grueling way we came, seven hours,
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nothing like the Taliban. But they
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clear sign I was a foreigner, we dr
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I CHAPTER 2 MONTANA ew home to Chic
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nancial ruin. I cobbled together re
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city of about three or four million
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one is supposed to be happy at an A
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CHAPTER 3
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can work with someone who says bad
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thrown at their palace compound. I
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confused with the recently opened A
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smiled, even when talking about tra
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convinced Ismail Khan to abandon He
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CHAPTER 4 THERE GOES MY GUN D espit
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U.S. troops were killed in the ghti
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John Wilson. And always, their miss
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I knew this from Afghans—they fea
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A boy poured the sweet milky tea fr
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watch me take notes. In return, I w
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I CHAPTER 5 ONE WAY OR ANOTHER n Ka
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We said goodbye to the taxi driver
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Nasir looked at me, as if I had any
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“They want money,” Farouq told
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CHAPTER 6
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Warlords then took positions outsid
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three pigs were elsewhere at the ti
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me back and all was forgiven, espec
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Sean, the British journalist who wa
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eversed one of its only decisions t
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I CHAPTER 7 MONKEY GONE TO HEAVEN l
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oy. But now it was too cold for suc
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pressure cooker, going from home to
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Kabul High. One night, as I sat wit
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force, maybe two to three thousand
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CHAPTER 8
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landed rst in Pakistan, then the Un
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Indian capital’s dingy airport be
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laid out carpets in the dirt for us
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simply lming a documentary on the h
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sleep early. At 3 AM, my phone star
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CHAPTER 9
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neighborhood of Shir Pur, where the
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“Sami thinks he’s got a way to
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seemed adamant about returning norm
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Page 108 and 109: apart, and entire chunks had crumbl
Page 110 and 111: years, no one will recognize you li
Page 112 and 113: 1980s, they had been reluctant to l
Page 114 and 115: mysteriously end up dead. We soon d
Page 116 and 117: CHAPTER 10 HELL YES S ure, Operatio
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Page 120 and 121: out two large guns on the side of t
Page 122 and 123: so thin, they had no time to worry
Page 124 and 125: screen, we watched the bomb hit, se
Page 126 and 127: CHAPTER 11
Page 128 and 129: would be the rst to have sex outsid
Page 130 and 131: Alaska if you were a woman—the od
Page 132 and 133: omber had hit a U.S. military convo
Page 134 and 135: I could do, and I had to work. This
Page 136 and 137: in Kabul. The Fun House would soon
Page 138 and 139: CHAPTER 12 BARELY LEGAL M y eccentr
Page 140 and 141: good rule of thumb for most Afghan
Page 142 and 143: “He thinks you love him,” she s
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Page 146 and 147: “My idea is this,” I told the N
Page 148 and 149: PART II WHACK- A-STAN
Page 150 and 151: CHAPTER 13 UNDER PRESSURE T housand
Page 152 and 153: and West Pakistan, nearly a million
Page 154 and 155: ght. Throughout the 1980s, the Unit
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Page 160 and 161: whenever we hit a town, or even an
Page 164 and 165: were killed. One head cleric, who h
Page 166 and 167: Samad called me “boss.” Often h
Page 168 and 169: platform just above the driver, we
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Page 174 and 175: frantically called people in Pakist
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Page 178 and 179: deep-fried packets, and sweet milky
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Page 188 and 189: nally told me, referring to Sharif
Page 190 and 191: “Yes, Mian Sahib’s schedule is
Page 192 and 193: “That was bad planning,” Sharif
Page 194 and 195: I snapped a photograph with my Blac
Page 196 and 197: CHAPTER 17 LUCKY STAR B uried by th
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CHAPTER 18 SUSPICIOUS MINDS M y new
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up plates lled with various lukewar
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“Pull over,” I told Samad. We s
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kidnapped.” I felt ill. As far as
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handed me the keys. “We’re hiri
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CHAPTER 19 REBEL, REBEL S omething
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“What the hell?” I asked myself
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a very poor job keeping current pla
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minutes than we did in six hours.
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“All my ex-boyfriends? There’s
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I CHAPTER 20 WHY CAN’T WE BE FRIE
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President Pervez Musharraf, who had
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directionless as a headless chicken
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“Lady, give me your CV. CV,” he
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I had no idea who sent the message.
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CHAPTER 21 LONDON CALLING A fter na
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ad economy, the war, the Pakistani
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shook Nawaz’s hand—he had soft
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“BlackBerry, Nokia, or iPhone, Ki
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CHAPTER 22 DEADBEAT CLUB A s soon a
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ut it had always been Silver Fox pr
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probably killers. “Farouq?” I s
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the deal, reporting that the video
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CHAPTER 23
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eturned from Pakistan. He hadn’t
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against temptation” but with thes
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“I can’t take it.” “Why not
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cassettes (DVs). The mayor called u
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CHAPTER 24
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Farouq, helping the New York Times
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world believed the country was abou
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Why did I want to stay so much, in
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CHAPTER 25
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time seeing Afghans as the other. T
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turn to the right,” the first lie
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And then, in another nine months, t
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police riding tractors that ripped
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I CHAPTER 26 WHEN THE MAN COMES ARO
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actually might win. For the past tw
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Farouq had told me how he would pol
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and without telling my bosses. And
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CHAPTER 27 HOTEL CALIFORNIA U nempl
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paying my salary. Many diplomats ra
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wrappers. After the usual deep-tiss
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heavy makeup, $70,000 worth of gold
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to do here. Karzai would eventually
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the air. For hours we danced, that
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EPILOGUE
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Helmand district of Marja ended up
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Taliban’s clutches in Pakistan.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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my absurd vision. I’m indebted to
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