by Deva, Mukul
‘Does anyone know of any other way to get to Mianwali?’ Yasin asked.
‘Not from here,’ replied the man next to Iqbal, ‘but if we turn back towards Hadali, I can take us through Chinji to Talaganj.’
‘There will definitely be a security checkpoint on that road too,’ Yasin countered.
‘Yes, but I know that area well. We can stay off the road and go on the kuchcha track through the fields,’ the man said with the confidence of someone talking about his home turf.
‘Will we be able to drive on it?’ Yasin asked, tapping the steering wheel.
‘Well, it will not be very comfortable but we should be able to get past.’
And get past they did. The drive was bumpy; in fact, at some places the track winding through the muddled fields was so narrow that they barely managed to squeeze through. But eventually they made it, without encountering a single man in uniform.
There was something familiar about the building the van pulled up outside after twelve gruelling hours on the dirt track. As Iqbal dusted his clothes like all the others and stamped his feet to get his blood circulating again, it occurred to him that this was the same place they had halted at when they had driven down from Karachi to the training camp at Muzaffarabad after the Lashkar had recruited him in Delhi and sent him to Pakistan for training.
The Talaganj madrassa, Iqbal recalled. A glance at the dusty signboard confirmed it. Nothing seems to have changed. The jihadi mill continues to operate just as it did then.
Iqbal followed the others inside. There were two men in the front room, which seemed to be some kind of office. One of them recognized Yasin and greeted him with a bear hug. He showed the men to a dormitory and allowed them to freshen up before cornering Yasin again.
‘It is not going well, bhai,’ one of the men said when Yasin had told them about the roadblock they had encountered. ‘From now on you will meet police patrols all the way. The slightest doubt and they will take you in. I suppose they are aware that our men are moving to Swat from all over. They must be trying their best to ensure reinforcements do not get in before they start their operation. Two of the last three batches that left from here have been apprehended.’
‘So what do you suggest we do?’ Yasin asked. ‘We need to get to Swat, no matter what it takes.’
‘That is true, but you will have to stay off the main roads. Perhaps the best thing would be to get you to one of the camps and then…’
‘What camps?’ Yasin interrupted.
‘The refugee camps, miyan,’ the other man replied. ‘They are now all over the place and each one is bursting to the seams with people who have fled from the Swat Valley.’
‘How will that help us?’
‘It will. Several of the camps are being run by the Jamaat-ud-Dawa.’
‘I thought the Jamaat had been banned.’
‘It has, but that is no big deal,’ the man snickered. ‘Only the name had to be changed. Now we call it the Falah-e-Insaniat Foundation and everything is back to business as usual. In fact, now we are even working with the United Nations to provide relief to the refugees from Swat. It gives us easy access to the area and it’s also a good opportunity to recruit more people. Many of them are really angry with the government for allowing them to be driven out of their homes.’
They all laughed. Watching them from across the room, Iqbal felt a pulse of anger spike through him. Nothing is sacrosanct for these bastards. It makes no difference to them that hundreds of thousands of people are being rendered homeless.
‘So, from the camp you guys will be taken across in our aid vehicles most of the way and you can do the rest on foot,’ the man resumed. ‘Once you get to Buner you will be safe. Don’t worry,’ he reassured Yasin as he saw the doubtful expression on his face.
‘I hope so. We have not come all this way to rot in some prison cell.’
‘Don’t worry, miyan, you won’t.’
‘Inshallah!’ Yasin turned towards Iqbal. ‘What about you? Do you want to come with us or will you find your own way from here?’
‘Where is he going?’ the man asked before Iqbal could answer.
‘He needs to get to Waziristan and report back to his group.’
‘In that case, he can go with us up to Kohat or Peshawar and head to Waziristan from there.’
‘That is what I’ll do then,’ Iqbal agreed at once, anxious to get them off the topic before they could ask any more questions. That settled the matter and the conversation turned to other things.
After another day of bumpily inching along potholed dirt tracks, the group finally reached the first refugee camp a few miles before Kohat. When Yasin brought the van to a halt, a wave of relief ran through Iqbal and his five travel companions. They quickly got out, aching to stretch their stiff, frozen limbs.
Then Iqbal’s eyes took in the sight in front of him and he felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach.
As far as he could see, a massive sea of plastic lay like a ghastly shroud over the huge camp. No attempt had been made to put a boundary wall or fence around it, as though the organizers knew they would soon need space for more tents. Swarming with people, this place was beyond anything Iqbal could have imagined in his wildest dreams. The stench of excreta from the open latrines that had been dug on one side of the camp was a mark of the inhuman conditions that prevailed. The cries of unfed children could be heard among the mass of men and women, most of whom looked thoroughly beaten and defeated. Desperation, disease and death loomed over the camp like an insidious pall. Iqbal did not know it then, but over the coming months, just as it had happened in Afghanistan, over 3 million people would be displaced by the Pakistan Army action and end up in camps like this.
Yasin and his group were led by their guide through the unending rows of tents towards the centre of the camp. They had gone about a hundred metres when they came across a man addressing several youngsters gathered around him.
‘Have you ever asked yourselves why you are living like animals in these camps?’ The man’s voice rose angrily as he spoke. ‘Because these corrupt politicians and army generals have been paid off by the fucking Americans, that’s why! Why else do you think they are ready to take up arms against their own countrymen? Against the men who have given up everything for the sake of the jihad, for the glory of Islam. Now the army dogs are calling these brave lionhearts terrorists and are ready to kill them just because the gora bastards want them to do it.’
‘What do you want us to do?’ Iqbal heard someone ask.
‘What else is there to do?’ the speaker retorted. ‘Join us and fight these traitors. Do you see anyone but us helping you people? Who is giving you food, shelter, medicine and clothing? Who is getting doctors here to treat you? Who is supporting you when everyone else is stabbing you in the back? But remember, we can do all this only if you stand by us…’
His vehement voice faded away as Iqbal followed the others deeper into the desolate camp, his mind in turmoil. Much as he wanted to, he knew it would be suicidal to go back and tell those people the truth, to warn them of the senseless death and destruction that lay ahead on the path they were being conned into. Instead, Iqbal closed his mind and focused on the task ahead. He knew that these low-level leaders did not matter in the long run. It was men like the Ameer who had to be taken down if the war against terror was to be won; they were the ones who posed a real threat to peace. Only when the ones at the top were cut down would the body begin to atrophy.
Iqbal returned to reality with a jolt as the man in front suddenly stopped walking. They were in front of another plastic-sheeted tent. It was much the same as the others except that an unarmed man stood guard at its entrance, though not so obviously as to draw attention.
‘This is where you will be staying,’ the guide told Yasin. ‘Rest today. Tomorrow we will get you out with the relief convoy that leaves for Buner.’
‘What about weapons?’ Yasin asked softly.
‘No weapons, miyan. Someti
mes the army searches the convoys. But don’t worry, you will find enough at Buner. We have adequate stocks there.’ He turned to leave and then stopped. ‘I suggest you don’t mingle with anyone here. The fewer people who know about you, the better. These days, you never know who is an informer.’ With this warning, the guide left.
Yasin went inside and the others followed him in, one by one. Iqbal was acutely aware of the pistol tucked into his belt. He would be in trouble if the others spotted it, but he did not want to give it up yet. There was no knowing when he would be able to get his hands on another weapon.
The tent was as pathetic inside as it was from the outside. The plastic covering ensured it was stifling despite the cold. It promised to be a long, uncomfortable night. The constant wailing of sick, hungry children and the high-pitched grumbling of men and women continued unabated. It was as though the camp never slept.
Where is the Pakistan government? Why isn’t it doing something to help these people? Does it not understand how many of them will soon find themselves with guns in their hands and the killing heat in their hearts? Where is all the aid from America going? Iqbal’s head reeled with questions. Does no one here realize that Pakistan is facing the consequences of breeding and fostering terrorists all these years?
Iqbal found himself feeling almost triumphant that the Pakistanis were finally suffering what they had inflicted on the world for over three decades. He knew the feeling was not right, but each time that guilt nagged at him, he heard the voice of the Lashkar handlers talking to the ten men who had attacked Mumbai the previous year.
‘Line them up against the wall, brother, and shoot them in the back of their heads… don’t worry, brother, jannat is waiting for you… Inshallah.’ The echoes of the conversations between the two terrorists who had seized the Jewish-owned Nariman House in Mumbai and their LeT handlers in Pakistan, which had been recorded by various intelligence agencies and played on television channels all over the world, reverberated in Iqbal’s head.
The suffering around them seemed to have no effect on the others. This was evident from the snores that resonated through the tent. Somehow, Iqbal was not surprised.
After all, how much compassion can a man retain once he has learnt to kill so easily and thoughtlessly?
Iqbal was glad to finally be on board the convoy that left the camp early the next day. The group was split in ones and twos in the five-truck convoy. Loaded with an assortment of clothing, blankets and food items, the old decrepit trucks thunderously belched smoke into the cold morning air as they headed north.
An hour later, when they halted after crossing Kohat, Iqbal hopped off and bid farewell to Yasin. As he was talking to him, two jeeps roared down the road and stopped next to the truck. A man waved at Yasin from the first jeep.
Yasin swung out of the truck and went up to him. They greeted each other warmly. ‘I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you, Shahbaz. I was going crazy with all this.’
‘So you finally got here,’ Shahbaz said. ‘Good. We need every man we can get. Come on, get your men out and hop in. We are not going through Peshawar; too many checkpoints on that route.’
Yasin hollered to the others to leave the relief convoy.
They were moving their bags to the jeeps when Shahbaz noticed Iqbal standing to one side. ‘Are you with Yasin? Why aren’t you coming with us?’
Before Iqbal could reply, Yasin murmured something to Shahbaz, who raised his eyebrows and then gestured to Iqbal to come forward.
‘Is it true what Yasin bhai is saying?’
‘I don’t know what he said to you.’
‘Have you just returned from a mission for the Ameer?’ Shahbaz asked in a low voice. Iqbal nodded. ‘You are going back to him now?’ Another nod from Iqbal. ‘Well, his messenger was here a few hours ago. Had you reached here just a little while earlier, you could have gone back with him.’
‘Really?’ Iqbal controlled the flush of excitement that ran through him. This is just the lead I need. Allah is certainly on my side. ‘Where is the messenger now?’
‘He left for Jalakhel about three hours ago. If you hurry, you might catch up with him.’
‘Is that where the Ameer is?’
‘I have no idea where the Ameer is.’ Shahbaz shrugged. ‘That is where the messenger came from and I know that is where he is going only because he mentioned it.’
‘Right. I’ll try and catch up with him then.’ Iqbal shouldered his rucksack and began to stride away.
‘Cut across that way and hit the road,’ Shahbaz called out. ‘You will get there faster.’
Iqbal turned to see him pointing to the right and changed direction. ‘Shukriya. Khuda hafiz,’ he said with a wave.
‘Allah hafiz,’ Shahbaz emphasized, reminding Iqbal to make sure he got the greeting right from now on. Such slip-ups could be fatal in the long run.
Behind him Iqbal heard the engines rev up as the men drove off in their jeeps. He picked up his pace.
As he walked, he began to thread together the information that Captain Manoj Khare had given him about FATA, during the final intelligence briefing at the Force 22 base in Kasauli.
In addition to the four provinces of Pakistan, located along the Afghan-Pak border are the Federally Administered Tribal Areas, spread over nearly 27,000 square kilometres of some of the most brutal and rugged terrain in the world, with Afghanistan lying to the north-west, NWFP to the east and Baluchistan to the south.
A creation of the illogically drawn Durand Line, which split the Pashtun people in two different countries, the FATA comprises seven tribal agencies, namely, Khyber, Khurram, Bajaur, Mohmand, Orakzai, North and South Waziristan besides the six frontier regions of Peshawar, Kohat, Tank, Bannu, Lakki and Dera Ismail Khan.
FATA’s location, terrain and largely Pashtun population with strong links in Afghanistan are mainly responsible for the Islamization of this region. By virtue of its location along the Af-Pak border, during the years of Russian occupation of Afghanistan it was the ideal launchpad for operations against the Soviet troops, thereby becoming a hub for intense mujahideen activity.
The rapid induction of Saudi petro-dollars and the compelling Wahhabi need to wrest control over the hearts and minds of the people saw the emergence of hundreds of madrassas and mujahideen training camps all over the FATA.
In cahoots with the CIA, the ISI pumped in thousands of young, illiterate Muslim youth from all corners of the world into these seminaries. All of them eventually emerged as singularly focused, rabidly fundamentalist killing machines who followed whatever convoluted brand of Islam was fed to them by the right-wing, subversive, mostly self-appointed mullahs who ran these madrassas.
The nature of the inhabitants of the FATA and their determination not to accept any governance except their own once led Lord Curzon to comment: ‘No patchwork scheme will settle the Waziristan problem. Not until the military steamroller has passed over the country from end to end will there be peace.’
Fortunately, Curzon never had to do so, but it was now clear that if America wanted to solve the Afghanistan problem, the steamroller would have to enter the FATA, especially the severely rugged Waziristan area, and eliminate all traces of Al-Qaeda and the Taliban from there.
Looking at the prevalent situation, it would have been impossible to tell that this very same region had once been a bastion of Gandhian non-violence. It was in the Pashtun area of Pakistan (Pashtunkhwa) that, in the first half of the twentieth century, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the Frontier Gandhi, raised a non-violent army of 1,00,000 volunteers known as the Khudai Khidmatgars. These volunteers played a vital role in freeing the Indian subcontinent from British rule.
To counter the KK, the British played the religious card, not allowing political parties a free hand while simultaneously giving carte blanche to the religious groups. This process was continued by the Pakistan government and led to the emergence and strengthening of mullahs who had been, at best, marginal political players in Pashtun society un
til then. The lack of political activity, the continual weakening of the tribal power structure by the state, and their replacement with clerical fiat allowed the transformation of the FATA into Taliban Central.
For several years, the no man’s land of the FATA remained a key area for the high stakes double game played by Pakistan. While General Musharraf allegedly cooperated with the US-led war on terror, he gave free reign to the terrorists in this area.
On the day Iqbal set out towards the FATA he had only a vague idea of the turmoil prevalent there. As the Pakistan Army marshalled its forces to seize control of the Swat Valley, hundreds of fighters from different jihadi groups were flocking towards Swat to defend it. Simultaneously, several Taliban leaders were quietly slipping out and filtering into the much safer FATA.
This oft-threatened invasion by the Pakistan Army added to the tension already simmering in the region. Suspicion stalked the streets, breaking loose with deadly force at the slightest provocation. In all jihadi camps frantic preparations were underway to counter the army. Iqbal saw repeated evidence of this from his precarious perch on top of the lorry that had given him a ride. The cold wind made it a miserable ride, but the hope that he would be able to catch up with the Ameer’s messenger kept him going.
Night was setting in by the time the driver dropped Iqbal off near Jalakhel. Iqbal had not caught up with the messenger yet. He swung his rucksack over his shoulder and walked into the gathering gloom, down the winding track the driver had indicated.
Iqbal crested a slope and reached the periphery of Jalakhel. He was almost at the village when a strange whooshing sound erupted out of the darkness. He stopped at once. Although physically exhausted, his senses were alert and working overtime. His ears perked up as he tried to decipher the strange sound, which was increasing with startling speed. Then realization struck like a shockwave.
