the_taliban_shuffle_-_kim_barker

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deep-fried packets, and sweet milky tea. Yet unlike many of the movers, who believed that the country’s economic future rested with Musharraf, Tammy was passionate about the need for a functioning legal system. Tammy counseled me repeatedly to hold my temper with the ass grabbers; she navigated countless reporting trips for another close friend and me; she dodged tear gas and rocks at lawyers’ protests in Islamabad, running from danger in high heels. Tammy’s family, although Muslim, saw nothing wrong with observing Christmas, as did other moderates, since Jesus Christ is considered to be a major gure in Islam. As soon as my boss gave me the go-ahead I immediately ew to Karachi. I ate a lot of food, walked down a beach, and touched my rst actual Christmas tree in four years. I relaxed. Two days after Christmas, Tammy and I prepared for the shooting of the TV reality show Enter the Prime Minister, where Pakistanis could vote on their favorite candidate for prime minister. It was like American Idol meets C-SPAN, reality TV for political junkies, only possible in a politically obsessed country like Pakistan. Tammy was a judge. I planned to write a story. So I packed a backpack—my computer, a notebook, two cell phones. I didn’t bother to bring my power cords, as I planned to be back at Tammy’s house in a few hours. Unfortunately the show was as scintillating as static. At one point, bored and concerned about how I would ever make a reality show about politics interesting, I checked the news wires. Somebody had red shots at a rally of Nawaz Sharif, who like Bhutto had just returned from exile. I worried that I was in the wrong place, out of position again. During a break in lming, I told Tammy and the show’s other participants about the attack. A few crowded around my computer. Then I checked the Pakistan news again. This time a breaking-news bulletin ashed an attack on Bhutto’s rally in Rawalpindi, although the former prime minister was safe. Most of the high-powered people on the TV show were friends of Bhutto, and they started making calls. The head of Pakistan’s human-rights commission soon received a text message saying that Bhutto had been wounded. Minutes ticked by, all confusion. Then Bhutto’s longtime friend from the human-rights
confusion. Then Bhutto’s longtime friend from the human-rights commission answered a phone call. She cried out and hung up. “She’s gone.” Benazir Bhutto, the daughter of the East, had been killed at a rally a few miles from where her father had been hanged, as she stood and waved out the sunroof of her white SUV. Maybe a bomb, maybe a gunshot, the conspiracy machines were already spinning. Like the country, I found this impossible to process. But I had no time. Events soon overtook even her death. Tammy and I looked at each other; she had been frustrated with Bhutto’s willingness to make a deal with Musharraf, but she still saw Bhutto as a preferable alternative to the military. Almost immediately, Tammy started to cry. “This is very bad,” she said. “It will rip this country apart.” She needed to visit Bhutto’s relatives and friends, so I rode with her to the home of one, a cousin. The receiving room was elegant, chandeliers and wooden furniture. Everyone hugged and sobbed. I was the stranger, the lone non-Pakistani, the lone journalist, the other. At one point, I slid out my notebook, guring I should write something down. Tammy glanced at me and shook her head. Her message was clear: This was not the place, and I should have known better. She soon sent me o in a carload of people from the TV show toward the Pearl- Continental Hotel, where they were staying. “You can grab a cab home from there,” she said. “I need to stay.” But the turbulent city of Karachi was Bhutto’s home, and it was catching re. As darkness fell, young men threw rocks at the Saudi embassy; others set re to tires in the middle of intersections. Already Pakistanis marched with ags of Bhutto’s Pakistan Peoples Party and yelled “Bhutto lives!” Some red guns in the air. In my car, crammed with seven people, one woman threw a scarf around my head. “Cover yourself,” she said. “You’re an American. You never know what will make these guys angry. It’s very volatile.” Eventually we made it to the Pearl-Continental. I called Tammy. “You’ll never make it back tonight,” she said. “They’re already rioting. Cars are on fire. The neighborhood has been sealed off.” I was in poor shape. The hotel was sold out. I had no computer plug and only about thirty minutes of battery power remaining. I had two cell phones—but each was close to running out of batteries. I camped
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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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for everything. In short, he needed
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apart, and entire chunks had crumbl
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years, no one will recognize you li
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1980s, they had been reluctant to l
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mysteriously end up dead. We soon d
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CHAPTER 10 HELL YES S ure, Operatio
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this to be the best embed possible.
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out two large guns on the side of t
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so thin, they had no time to worry
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screen, we watched the bomb hit, se
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CHAPTER 11
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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 162 and 163: CHAPTER 14
Page 164 and 165: were killed. One head cleric, who h
Page 166 and 167: Samad called me “boss.” Often h
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Page 174 and 175: frantically called people in Pakist
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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
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Page 196 and 197: CHAPTER 17 LUCKY STAR B uried by th
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Page 200 and 201: audience, who booed Lima. Some of t
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Page 204 and 205: Only then would I learn that everyo
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Page 210 and 211: “Pull over,” I told Samad. We s
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Page 214 and 215: handed me the keys. “We’re hiri
Page 216 and 217: CHAPTER 19 REBEL, REBEL S omething
Page 218 and 219: “What the hell?” I asked myself
Page 220 and 221: a very poor job keeping current pla
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Page 224 and 225: “All my ex-boyfriends? There’s
Page 226 and 227: 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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