Pakistan in 1985 and Today

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Michael’s Recollections of Pakistan in the 80’s Compared with Recent Events in 2011

The killing of Osama bin Laden in an upstairs room of a mansion in a sprawling compound in the heart of a military town begs many questions as to possible prior knowledge of the Pakistan Intelligence Services.

Unlike other democracies, the cultural order in Pakistan is different whereby the Military and the Intelligence Services enjoy enormous freedom. As much as we like to think the government has ultimate control, it does not.

From my personal experiences in managing businesses of an American multinational company in South Asia in the mid-­‐eighties, I can attest that such agencies operate quite independently of the government. From my personal experiences in managing businesses of an American multinational company in South Asia in the mid-­‐eighties, I can attest that such agencies operate quite independently of the government.

1985 -­‐ Intelligence Agency Arrests 2 of My Young Staff

I received an urgent call at my home in Hong Kong after dinner on a Thursday evening advising me that two of the staff of the Islamabad office had been arrested and taken away by the Intelligence Agency for Foreign Exchange violations. The local police had nothing to do with the arrest. The charge was baseless but the monetary demands for resolution real. I was further advised that if we did not respond immediately the two young staff involved would spend the long weekend in a notorious prison and their lives would be in danger.

“Michael Sahib, please help us!” was the plea.

I flew to Pakistan that evening after consulting with legal counsel at our US head office. By morning, I was on another plane to Islamabad with Hasan, a member of staff with close connections to the government of the day. In a culture like this, we needed such a popular, well-­‐ connected person on staff simply to ‘open doors’. Hasan had an office, and a person to make tea for his many important visitors. And I was about to witness first-­‐ hand how he truly earned his keep.

In the car on the way from Islamabad Airport to the home of the Interior Minister of the Military Government he briefed me on the current scores of the Trusting locals purchasing Saudi Riyal Travellers Australian Cricket team in the West Indies, Cheques from our Foreign Exchange staff in and the latest Squash scores so that we Islamabad before setting out for the Haj in Mecca could have a jolly good ‘blokey’ conversation with the Minister. And he advised me to let him do all the talking.

Over orange juice and a lot of backslapping, we discussed the cricket and squash and before I knew it, Hasan got up and bade our leave without a word of what I’d flown thousands of miles to discuss. Making gracious farewells at the front door, the Interior

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Minister gave a nod to Hasan saying, ‘by the way, I will look into that matter you phoned me about’, and we were out of there.

Back in the car, grinning, Hasan said, “See, that’s the way we do things in this country”.

The government Minister wasn’t in a position to interfere with what was a Federal Intelligence matter and order release, but using a similar grace and favour approach that we’d used to gain an audience with him on the weekend, it was understood that he’d approach those involved to at least ‘temper their demands’. (Today’s situation where the democratically-­‐elected Government does not have control over the Intelligence apparatus is nothing new!)

Nevertheless, the young staff members were still in custody, so I couldn’t sleep! In the meantime, my headquarters in the States had spoken to a leading lawyer in Karachi, who was waiting to receive me at his home when I returned that evening. He knew what the Intelligence Services were capable of and recommended we engage the services of a judge in Lahore with personal contacts in the Intelligence Service. Happily in the end, we followed the Lahore judge’s expert advice and guidance, and resolved the matter.

I returned to Hong Kong on the next plane much the wiser on how the delicate workings of business, legal, governmental and intelligence work in a culture so very different from our own.

My Innocent ‘Team-­‐Building’ Practices Attract Intelligence Services Surveillance

This was not my only encounter with the Intelligence Services in Pakistan. Encouraging cooperation, and aiming to foster respect and friendship between the Pakistani and Indian managers, we would meet regularly in each other’s country.

Perhaps naïvely, I didn’t give thought to alarm bells that might start ringing in the Federal Investigation Agency or with Inter-­‐Services Intelligence in having a Sikh general manager applying for visas to travel back and forth between Delhi and Karachi at a time when India and Pakistan were on heightened alert over the disputed territory of Kashmir.

Innocently, I invited the five Indians and seven Pakistani members of my management team to meet on a weekend away from the office. Aiming to foster respect and friendship between the Pakistani and Indian managers and to encourage closer cooperation on business initiatives, we would meet regularly in each other’s country. On this occasion, we piled into four cars in Islamabad and drove along winding roads for a couple of hours till we reached the hill station at Murree. (There is a popular belief it is named after the Virgin Mary.)

In days of the Raj, the British would retreat to this hill station 2,200 metres up in the Himalayan foothills on the border between Punjab and Azad Kashmir. They went in search of cooler climes and even conducted government from there in the summer months, prior to moving to Simla in India. In the creaky colonial hotel where we were staying, I can still remember the lumpy mattress piled high with blankets on an old iron bed, and finding a hot water bottle between the sheets when I climbed in; high wooden ceilings; the old black Bakelite light switches; and the knock on the door with an early morning pot of tea -­‐ vestiges of old England..

Unbeknown to me, the Pakistani underground nuclear facility was sited not too far from where we were gathered. And here we were with a group that included individuals from the ‘enemy’ India, whose many 'cross-­‐border' visits had come to the attention of the Intelligence Service. It was one of the Indians who first noticed the men smoking cigarettes and trying to look inconspicuous observing our every movement. If they’d come a little closer, or disguised themselves as waiters they’d soon know we were

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simply discussing a common approach to the computerisation of front and back office processing for our foreign exchange transactions.

Later that evening, back in our hotel in Rawalpindi, our suspicions were strengthened when we looked out the dining room window and saw the same men in the same shiny car parked in the hotel yard. A phone call the following day to an ‘inside’ contact in the Security Service confirmed that we were indeed under surveillance and it would be advisable if I didn’t invite the Indians to visit Pakistan again for a while.

Now in 2011, we see the world’s #1 Wanted Man, Osama bin Laden safely bedded down for years with his wife and children in a mansion in a leafy suburb with Pakistan’s military elite as neighbours, going apparently unnoticed by the Military or the Intelligence Services.

It beggars belief!

Local General Manager – Likeable ‘Rogue’, Raconteur and Holy Man

Living as an expatriate in hotel rooms in a foreign country for ten days on end is not without its challenges. In a country like Pakistan, it means different cuisine; long hours at the office; adapting to a male-­‐ dominated cultural landscape; and weekends that could have been very long and lonely had it not been for a special Pakistani, who wanted me to experience the best that his country had to offer.

My monthly visits to Pakistan over a span of four years were not always as dramatic as the earlier stories. My general manager, Zia Sahib, had worked for the company for decades and if nothing else he was the best raconteur. He would faithfully meet my plane from Hong Kong at four in the morning on each visit and drive me to the hotel where over a cup of tea we would review the business agenda for my visit. In almost every instance, as I was escaping upstairs for a couple of hours rest, he would have some excuse as to why we couldn’t do what I had in mind that would involve change, and upset his equilibrium. God Forbid! Change!

Zia’s obstructionist behaviour hidden beneath a velvet glove drove me mad, but it had a positive side. Frequently, he would have made plans for us to travel together to distant parts of Pakistan on very short notice in what turned out to be vain attempts of his to distract me from my purpose. For the record, with much finagling, invariably “my will was done!” before I left the country.

Enjoying a cup of tea somewhere in the Northwest Frontier Province

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On one particular occasion the dear old rogue had conjured up a quasi ‘important’ meeting for me with the head of one of our large commercial accounts, in fact the Air Vice Marshall of the Pakistan Air Force at his barracks in Islamabad.

Flight to K2 -­‐ High in the Karakoram Ranges

After a brief meeting over Australia’s cricket scores in the West Indies and fresh orange juice, we returned to the airport to take a flight on a Fokker to Skardu in Pakistan’s Northern Areas in the Karakoram Ranges. The only other passengers in this tiny propeller plane were eight turbaned mountain men, huddled on the floor wrapped in their blankets, terrified at the flying experience.

At Gilgit – high in the Karakorams with Zia Sahib

I was awe-­‐struck at being so close to K2, the second highest mountain on Earth after Mt Everest, with a peak elevation of 8,611 metres, I felt I could almost touch it. The terrified mountain men could not have cared less. We flew through grey-­‐brown mountains into the Skardu Valley along the Indus river that flows through neighbouring Ladakh all the way from Tibet. No sooner had we climbed down the stairs into the brisk fresh air and were welcomed by the Air Force personnel at this Pakistan Shangri-­‐La, we were told “Get back on board. Get out of here. The weather is closing in”, and we made a quick getaway.

My first year of travelling into Pakistan was probably the most exciting. I was feeling my way in a completely foreign land, and I was working through an older man running what was essentially an international business as his own personal fiefdom. Our main office in the main street of downtown Karachi still had a dirt floor in the back rooms.

In those days, women in Pakistan did not leave the home and go to work. However, my dear Zia Sahib was so holy and such a good man that he convinced the fathers of some bright young girls that he would protect them and they could come and get experience not only in a commercial venture, but in a multinational company. Money was of no interest, and they were paid little. All were happy until I came along and wanted to be more equitable. But that’s another story.

Zia also liked to instruct me in local etiquette and he found it most frustrating when I’d slip back into western practices like extending my hand when being introduced to a young woman and dared to shake her virgin hand. On evening social visits to private

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homes, men would sit in one room, recalling in ever-­‐increasing crescendo a BBC commentator’s ball-­‐by-­‐ball description of a Cricket Test of ten years ago, while the ladies remained cloistered in the kitchen. When I would go to the kitchen to interact with the more interesting, well educated and socially adept women, Zia would stand at the door and all but pull me out by the ear.

Weekends in ‘Distant Lands’

Moenjodaro

Weekends could be deadly dull sitting home alone in a hotel room in Karachi, but this was never to be my fate with a man as hospitable as Zia Sahib. His story telling was not only educational but also amusing. And his powers of persuasion with the local airlines delivered so many free tickets to all parts of the land.

One of my first weekend excursions took us 400 kilometres north of Karachi to one of the ancient world’s greatest cities, Moenjodaro. It was once was the leading metropolis of the Indian sub-­‐continent. “Discovery of this 4,500-­‐year-­‐old city early in the 20th century was a major archaeological breakthrough, establishing the Indus Valley as one of the cradles of civilization. Only slightly younger than those of Egypt and Mesopotamia, it was a pioneering civilization, spreading across an area greater than both combined. It was one of the first to develop city-­‐ planning and underground drainage; it is probably here that cotton cloth was first woven.” Source: Wikipedia For all the rich history, I saw Moenjodaro simply as a stark series of crumbling walls of red bricks, stairways and pillars on the bank of the Indus. There were no magnificently carved temples here, nor opulent royal tombs, but Zia brought the place to life with his stories.

The Arabian Sea I never imagined Karachi and beaches in the same breath, but the city is located on the Arabian Sea coast. On another weekend, we drove to the beach outside the populated area of town where I had my first experience riding a camel. The animal took a distinct dislike to me and no matter how hard the camel driver tugged on the ropes attached to the poor beast’s nose, it wouldn’t rise. When he did, I knew it and almost lost my precarious balance and toppled head over heels onto the sand. The Pakistani picnic in a rather Spartan white brick house in the dunes was more fun.

Swat Valley now the home of Taliban Militants

We don’t often think of Pakistan as having high mountains, green meadows and clear lakes, but 160 kilometres from Islamabad lies the Swat Valley, a place of great natural beauty that used to be referred to as “the Switzerland of Pakistan”. Sadly, in more recent times, Taliban militants have been beheading and burning their way through this picturesque valley, and residents say the insurgents now control most of the mountainous region outside the lawless tribal areas where jihadists thrive.

I can still recall my first lesson in the Moslem washing rituals before prayer outside one of the small mosques in the valley. We had stopped by the side of the road to pick the plumpest yellow loquats from a tree and were sticky with juice. I needed water to wash my hands. A little further along the road we stopped at a small mosque and not only did I get the ritual lesson of washing ears, nostrils, hands and feet before prayer, but I had the chance to clean my sticky fingers.

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Zia was anxious that I understood as much as possible about Islam, but was never a proselytiser. In fact he was truly ecumenical. On a Sunday (a working day in Pakistan) he would insist that I give a good example and accompany the only Christian on the staff, Rosita, to St Joseph’s Cathedral to attend Mass. Then during the holy month of Ramadan, at Zia’s urging, I would show my respect and refrain from eating and drinking in the office. When I finished for the day, I would return to the hotel and order plates of dates and jugs of orange juice. At sunset, the staff would come to the hotel and we would ‘break the fast’ together.

Hunza Valley

Over three years of travelling together, Zia would ‘romance’ me with his dreams of travelling over the yet to be completed Karakoram Highway through the mountainous regions in the north of Pakistan into Kashgar at the western extremity of China near the border with Tajikistan. He has me travelling in my mind back along the old Silk Road, with its exotic insinuations. Unfortunately, the road was not completed before I left to work in Europe. We did get fairly close to part of his dreamland though when we flew into Gilgit and drove on into the Hunza Valley.

We were ringed by snow-­‐covered mountain peaks and surrounded by spectacular views and springtime blossom. In a special hidden corner of the world such as this, the freezing nights and one star hotel weren’t even of a moment’s concern. Could it have been this valley that provided the inspiration for the mythical Shangri-­‐La in James Hilton’s 1933 novel Lost Horizon? It’s been said so, but so have so many other beautiful spots. I loved the warmth and friendliness of the simple inhabitants in this valley. Some of the males were unusually tall, and fiercely handsome with eyes so blue. Some proudly believe they are Macedonian, or at least part descendants of Alexander the Great’s Army from centuries ago.

Peshawar and the Khyber Pass In 1985, Peshawar, the capital of the North-­‐West Frontier Province, engendered excitement and intrigue more than fear and trepidation as exists today.

After the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 Peshawar served as a political Centre for anti-­‐Soviet Mujahedeen, and was surrounded by huge camps of Afghan refugees. The Peshawar valley is nearly circular, extending from the Indus to the Khyber Hills.

On this weekend, Zia suggests that I travel in local dress that I borrow from our tall Islamabad manager, Afzal. (He turns up in sports jacket and tie!) Zia ardently wants me to meet the local people, and eat with them. We visited markets. We stopped by the side of the road and engaged locals, wrapped in blankets and wearing soft round-­‐topped Pashtun hats made of camel wool, in conversation.

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One group of men invited us inside their dimly-­‐lit, mud-­‐walled ‘hovel’ for tea. There was no ‘lady of the house’ to serve us but a copper samovar on burning coals was sitting on the dirt floor. We sat on mats in a circle, and I made gestures of sipping from the old broken utensil while smiling and nodding a lot, appearing to agree with Zia’s explanation in Urdu of what we were doing in the area. I don’t know what they thought when I left without drinking any of the tea.

Walking through the markets is definitely more fun for me. Outside one stall, I saw three plucked chickens with their legs tied by rope to a pole cooking in a copper cauldron with a fire underneath it. The meatballs were skewered and charring nicely over a charcoal brassiere on a ledge near the front of the shop. My health concerns were allayed by Zia’s assurances that the meat was halal and charring made it completely safe to eat. He sent the owner scurrying to find a china cup that he washed in the soup before presenting the steaming fragrant broth for me to drink. I think it was the unusually mild taste and aroma from local herbs and spices that made the experience so special. I declined the offer to try the sheep’s testicles steaming away in another pot of broth at a stall further down the street.

We drove as far as the Khyber Gate but time didn’t permit us to continue the few extra kilometres to the Afghanistan border. Looking back, perhaps I should have succumbed to Zia’s entreaties to leave him to manage the business as he’d done for years, and extended the weekend sorties to include even a visit over the now impassable Afghanistan border.

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Michael and Zia Sahib near the Khyber Gate on the road into Afghanistan

Not all my time in Pakistan was spent out of Karachi, and out of a business suit.

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A meeting of South Asian managers at the hill station outside Islamabad in Murree

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