It seemed to weigh heavily on him, this bespectacled middle-aged man opposite me. Alternately hunching his shoulders when lapsing into deep thought, and then rising up again when making a vital point, he would continue to talk, at times lowering his voice to a whisper, conscious not to allow his voice to reach the surrounds of others seated nearby. After a conversation would die down he would smile rather sadly, shake his head and then look down and away.

“They do not know,” he said on more than one occasion, looking around at a bunch of young Japanese travellers seated nearby. “They do not believe me.”

We had started talking sometime before, as most of us travelling are inclined to do, about our travel plans, across a table crowded with guidebooks and water bottles in our hotel in Lahore. I had said that I would be going to Iran next, after some more time in Pakistan. He had been to Iran seven years ago, he told me, particularly remembering the hostility he had witnessed in the north towards what Ayatollah Khomeini had brought about in the country, resentful of the fact that the society which Khomeini wanted was not similar to theirs. He was planning to return there on this trip to see the changes, but first he was toying with the idea of going to Afghanistan, a little unsure of the safety situation that would await him.

“They have AK-47s. What can you do?”

I nodded, telling him about the recent news report quoting the Taliban as saying that they would be deliberately targeting foreigners. A little later he leaned towards me.

“We have done some terrible things. But we do not want to say. Why?”

He had earlier been conveying to me a meeting with an old woman he had once had whilst travelling in China, who told of being a seven year old when she was beaten up, during the Nanking Massacre of 1937, when hundreds of thousands were murdered.

“Just seven,” he repeated. “Why?”

Japan has never completely apologised for the atrocities it committed in the twentieth century. Relations with Korea and China, amongst others, are strained in part because of the way in which Japanese textbooks have treated their past actions, or rather, have not, and it is this culture of denial that troubles him so. That Emperor Hirohito was rehabilitated by MacArthur, even if for political reasons, and many were never held responsible for what they did, is unforgivable in his eyes.

“Those responsible should have committed suicide,” he suggested.

He saw the future as quite grim.

“We can never go forward. There will never be any trust between us,” he continued, referring to Japan’s aggrieved neighbours.

The potential threat of nuclear war also bore down on him, with nuclear warheads aimed at Japan from China and North Korea. The memory of Hiroshima and Nagasaki still, of course, lives on in Japan, and the thought that Japan can come under attack again is now a constant source of worry; this is understandable, due to recent tests conducted by the Stalinist North Korean regime in the vicinity of Japan’s waters.

But it was the past he wanted to talk about most, recounting discussions he had had with some South Korean’s whilst in that country, as they recalled terrible things afflicted upon their female relatives by the Japanese army.

“I believe them when they tell me what happened. Why did we do this? It is so crazy……There are those who say we are not responsible, we were not there. But it was our country; our country. We must talk about it. Why do we not?”

For him, it is the conservatives in Japan who refuse to accept that Japan’s glorious military and imperialist past (as they see it) is over, that are the internal obstacle for Japan truly moving on. I asked him about the controversy a while back over Prime Minister Koizumi’s visit to the Yasukuni shrine to pay his respects to Japan’s war dead. The Shinto shrine, built in the 19th century, is home to the souls of millions of war dead. Its significance lies in the belief that once a soldier has been enshrined there, he becomes a national deity who looks over the nation; a guardian angel of sorts. However, it is the inclusion of fourteen convicted class-A war criminals there that has raised the ire of Japan’s neighbours. Koizumi defended his visit, stating that the convicted war criminals were sentenced to death. But this was not good enough for him.
“It should not happen. How can he do this? We honour our dead, but not those people.”
He feared that Japan’s militaristic past was not truly behind it and that his people were too easily influenced by the government, a government that was unwilling to face its problems head on, including its closed political system and its disastrous banking policies, the country mired in debt.

Interestingly, he suggested that the presence of the United States military in Japan should continue. Pointing to a full water bottle nearby that had been under the sun the whole day, he said: “It is like that bottle over there. If you take off the cap, you never know what might be released.”

Before he got up to get some dinner, he concluded, somewhat regretfully,
“Both sides from World War Two have their own version of history. But they never meet. They never agree.”
And then he shuffled away down the stairs, the weight of his country’s past seemingly all on his shoulders, a past he had nothing to do with, but nevertheless still with him, following, like a ghost.

Cross late in the afternoon from Pakistan into India through the Wagah border point, complete immigration and customs formalities, walk a further couple of hundred metres down the road and you’ll find crowds of people, predominantly Indians, assembled outside a large closed gate. They are not touts awaiting tourists leaving Pakistan; you’ll find them a few metres further along the road, near the food stalls and tables and chairs adjacent to a few convenience stores. Rather, these are tourists waiting to witness the famous flag lowering ceremony that takes place less than an hour’s drive west through green countryside from Amritsar, a major tourist destination in western India, most legendary for its (Sikh) Golden Temple.

After being let through a small side gate, and with a couple of hours to spare before sunset, I made my way to the food stalls and took a seat, grabbing a bite to eat as well as changing my Pakistani rupees with eager moneychangers. With the dearth of tourists entering and leaving Pakistan, the main business of the shop owners is aimed at the aforementioned Indian tourists milling around, champing at the bit for the show to begin, as well as chomping on samousas and sipping soft drinks, all the time battling the incessant flies. There was a contagious electricity in the air, as families and friends, variously decked out in saris, turbans, western-style clothes and baseball caps, chatted amongst themselves. Hindi music pumped out from a sound system nearby. The excitement picked up a little later on as people began to wander over to, and gather around, a couple of television sets set up above the sandy ground, exhibiting a DVD available for purchase; a patriotic-documentary on the upcoming ceremony, plus other popular tourist attractions in the region. A man high on the occasion, and clearly having imbibed too many Hindi music videos, took centre stage, blocking my view of the television, and began to bump, grind and writhe to some Hindi pop classic, his stomach catching up half a second later. Beads of sweat quickly appeared on his forehead. Another man joined him, to the roaring approval of the crowd. The spectators began to clap, slowly at first, but then with a sense of coordination. Those who were seated got up out of their chairs, nodding approvingly. The Wagah Fever Dancers, taking this as a signal to up the tempo, rocked on, sweat by now swimming all over their faces and snaking around their ears, singing out to all. The crowd then joined in the vocal extravaganza, building up to the climatic chorus. The dancers had reached their zenith but continued to push their tiring bodies. Hoarse from shouting my approval, I sipped my drink. Alas, it had to come to an end; I ordered another one. Finally, the song faded and the spectators, after much effusive applause, drifted away, just in time for me to see the end of the DVD as the camera zoomed in for a close-up of the Indian flag swirling in the breeze on top of a flag pole.
The rattle of opening gates an hour later was the signal for us to make our way down towards the ceremony’s waiting area, first passing through security checks, then standing around on either side of the road. A border guard, dressed in khaki uniform with a beret on his head, took a whistle from a shirt pocket and placed it in his mouth to organise the sprawling crowd into a group. But what is the point when standing in a queue in these parts is a sign of weakness; the whistle was not to see the inside of his pocket again. The order was then given to make our way to the arena near the border gates. The chase was on for the best seats. A mass of people roared around a bend to the right, transforming into a running queue, Indian style, and then turned left towards the spectator stands specially built for the occasion.

Across on the Pakistan side could be seen the Pakistan stands, holding hundreds rather than the thousands that can be accommodated on the Indian side. There are in fact two separate stands, segregating males and females, divided by a cream coloured fort-like structure with domes on either side, a mural portraying the founder of Pakistan, President Jinnah, in its centre, with the Pakistan flag towering over it. Some spectators, unable to find a seat, leaned over white railings, flags in hand.

Music pumped out from large speakers across the road from us, as we sat and waited. Border guards, some with huge moustaches, directed those people who continued to throng along the road below the stands. Several men and the occasional woman, danced on the road with large Indian flags in their hands. The guards stepped in when the right balance between order and crowd excitement in the stands was disturbed.

The stands soon began to fill up. The result of India’s movement towards a free market economy, with its attending burgeoning middle class, was highlighted by the ubiquitous display of newly acquired digital cameras, as friends and family posed for photos, with huge Indian flags their backdrop, swirling onto the heads of spectators nearby. Others chatted amongst themselves. If I was on the Pakistani side I would certainly have by now been flooded with questions along with much pumping of hands, yet there was no acknowledgment of my presence from the Indians around me who are much more used to western tourists than their neighbours. I felt the same way towards this new anonymity as I did to the steaming hot summer that had enveloped me ever since I had left those cooler parts of northern Pakistan; when it was cold I wished it was warm, but when I reached the warmer climes, I wished it was cold again. The assembled spectators soon became restless. A hefty and boisterous man seated in the row in front, who had earlier berated an older married couple next to him to move along and make some room for him and his friend, only to mock them afterwards for doing so, joined in the party atmosphere, shouting his encouragement to its vanguard down by the border gate.

As the sun began to set, the guards hurried up the latecomers with a fortunate few being allowed to stand on the other side of the road opposite the VIP stands. Ritualistic cries in Hindi of “Long live Hindustan…Long live Hindustan…Death to Pakistan” continued to echo out intermittently from various spots in the stands. The assembled crowd responded emphatically, more with effervescence than belligerence, which belied the frequent strong feelings of animosity and distrust that many Indians hold towards Pakistan and its people, although it is not as manifest as the rhetoric emanating from their government. I had the feeling that this day the assembled crowd, on balance, was more interested in exultations of being Indian, than an overt release of antagonism.

At last a small group of Indian Border Security Forces lined up on the road. They were strikingly attired in khaki uniforms, complete with black shoes, wide belts, multi-coloured cravats, black turbans with multi coloured striped headbands supporting gold tassels that tickled their left ears, peacock-like red fans rising imperiously from the tops of their heads, with medals attached to their shirts over their left pockets, name badges pinned on the right. After a signal they proceeded to march, with a mixture of pomposity, goosestepping and high kicks that ended in thuds on the ground so forceful that I instinctively did stretching exercises. Their opposite numbers, the Pakistani Rangers (who were similarly attired with the exception of their black hue), expertly mirrored these pouting and provocative manoeuvres, with their air of hostility and condescension towards the other side. A guard revved up the crowd from the front of the stands. After a bout of this synchronised taunting, they made their way to the massive metal grilled gates with much gesticulation and fuss, and flung them open. Opposing officers briefly shook hands and then the flags were slowly lowered in theatrical fashion. The flags were carried away and the officers then returned to shake hands ever so briefly and aggressively, as if each other’s hand was burning hot. The gates were slammed shut.

I had heard that usually, after the ceremony was over, crowds would swarm towards the gate, shouting and waving their fists towards the opposing side, less than demonstrative spectators being whistled at to increase their intensity. That didn’t happen the day I was there, with the spectators clearing the stands, some milling around below, and others wandering back towards the buses and cars, satisfied at the just completed show. While it doesn’t take one long to surmise that the Indian and Pakistani governments have been inefficient at providing bread for their citizens, they sure know how to put on a circus.

Someone once told me that he was all for free trade but couldn’t understand why free trade agreements needed thousands of pages. The simple answer is that this is not free trade. All that is required for free trade are willing buyers and sellers agreeing voluntarily to deal peacefully with each other, the eradication of protectionist tariffs, quotas and subsidies, and the presence of important foundations of a free market economy such as secure property rights and sound money. So instead of a massive, detailed agreement between governments (which, to be fair, would make a handy doorstop) that invariably includes a witches brew of subsidies, bailouts, aid programs, bogus regulations, exceptions, bureaucracies, quotas, favours, cartelisation, etc. one would really need a commitment by governments to stay the heck out. And there is a Father Christmas.

Bill Clinton had more than a passing resemblance to Santa, with his hearty laugh, desire to be liked by all, and his showering of gifts on many off the backs of the little people. His commitment to free trade was also the stuff of fiction. Witness NAFTA, with its expansionary bureaucratic structure, the bailout of Mexico, exclusionary deals, subsidies, dubious spending programs; all hardly the stuff of free markets. The bullying of foreign countries like Japan over their automobiles and photographic film, Thailand’s rice, the birth of the WTO, export subsidies, tariffs, production subsidies, and other monstrosities. While free in Clinton’s slictionary may mean what he wishes it to mean, in most other people’s books, free, like say, liar, is pretty clear.

The current leader of the free world President George W. Bush likes to portray the image of a straight shooter. In his election campaign he sounded dedicated to promoting free trade to the world, saying it had not only an economic but also a moral basis. But somewhere along the line he dropped his free trade commitment and replaced his blanks with deadly protectionist cartridges. The signing of the massive farm bill with its subsidies for farmers of $180 billion over ten years (an increase over existing spending programs of $73.5 billion) was a large blow against free trade and free enterprise. As were the likes of the textile, lumber and Catfish industries running for protection. In the meantime, the United States has been negotiating a series of regional and bilateral trade deals around the world, all for various reasons. For example, trade representatives have been in talks with Australia over a “free trade” agreement but not New Zealand, with the former supporting the US over the Iraq war and the latter not. So because governments disagree with each other, its citizens should suffer from possible benefits from reduced tariffs and the like that may arise from “free trade” agreements. Thus reducing barriers to trade is seen as some form of gift or favour to be handed down by benevolent governments. But producers and consumers don’t normally enter into foreign trade because they are feeling generous (as opposed to those in government who spend other people’s money); the quality of the product or its price usually determines whether a trade will be entered into. If they could get a better deal elsewhere they would pursue that opportunity. So not only are the wishes of buyers and sellers being interfered with, but scarce resources are also being directed away from more to less valued lines of production, meaning lower overall wealth. And then there were, of course, the steel tariffs of last year. Some defenders argued that this cave-in was necessary for Bush in order for him to get Trade Promotion Authority (formerly known as “fast-track authority”) whereby he could take a trade agreement to Congress and they could have an up-or-down vote on it (ie. either vote to accept or reject it with no amendments). Clearly, if he needed to compromise on steel, he would have to buckle on other things in his “free trade” deals to retain his fast track authority.

So what of the steel tariffs then? The US International Trade Commission came out recently with its report on their impact. It is a case study in the effects of tariffs. A politically well connected group, the steel industry, gained special protection, ostensibly to give it some breathing space and allow it to restructure even though this industry has pleaded for special protection in the past for the same reason and imports have been decreasing of late. Its share of the US market increased from 79.6 per cent to 81 per cent (although its share of worldwide steel production fell from 12.4 per cent to 10.2 per cent). But even despite the steel tariffs, thirty-one steel companies went bust and employment in the industry has dropped 10 per cent. Prices have gone up and, as expected, those manufacturers who use steel in their products and the consumers of their products have been slugged in the process, with thousands and thousands of job losses in related industries. The Bush administration is now under pressure to drop the tariffs, not only by the WTO who have just ruled the tariffs illegal, and the EU, Japan, China and South Korea who have promised to apply their own tariffs and sanctions on unrelated US exports (the law of increasing protectionist stupidity), but also by opposing forces in the United States representing steel producers and consumers in the run up to Presidential elections in 2004.

The European Union was up in arms over the decision. However, the hypocrisy of European Union politicians stinks like surplus piles of taxpayer-subsidised Common Agricultural Policy cow excrement. European taxpayers have the misfortune to subsidise mostly rich agricultural interests (around half of the spending goes to the largest 17% of farming enterprises) by $41 billion per year and put up protectionist barriers against the imports of those poor countries that try and compete with European agriculture. These subsidies, which make up half of the EU budget, lead to overproduction, crowding out competitors from the Developing World, with deadly effect. The Centre for the New Europe estimates that “[o]ne person dies every 13 seconds somewhere in the world – mainly in Africa – because the European Union does not act on trade as it talks.” Quotas and tariffs on non-agricultural products are also rife. Jacques Chirac, for instance, seems (allegedly) to care for Iraqi war victims, but not much (do they ever?) about taxpayers and (conclusively) not for African trade victims.

It’s no wonder then that many in the Developing World are losing faith in the “Developed” World and their continued proclamations of commitment over the years to free trade. Unfortunately, much of the blame for their lack of development is being placed on “free trade” which is in actual fact a mix of protectionism, mercantilism and managed trade.

So what then are the economic arguments for free trade? Well, just as it makes no sense for a doctor to grow his own potatoes when he can get them cheaper from a farmer, also enabling him to treat patients instead of them treating themselves, and it makes no sense for a farmer to make his own jeans when he can buy them from a clothing manufacturer, nor does it make sense for those in a specific district to be self-sufficient. And just as it makes no sense to create barriers between various districts within a state, or between states within a country, which would interrupt the regional specialisation and division of labour, so does it not make sense to apply barriers to international trade. The theory of comparative advantage, the ultimate economic basis of free trade, demonstrates that even if a country (that is the individuals or groups of individuals within it) can produce certain goods (eg. apples) more efficiently than another country, it might still pay for the former to buy from the latter. This would be so if the value from alternative production (eg. wine) it could have entered into (ie. the opportunity cost) exceeds the value arising from the production of apples. What tariffs, quotas, subsidies and other protectionist measures accomplish is to distort production and trade, interfering with the international division of labour and specialisation, and as a consequence lowering overall wealth. Restrictions by governments on foreign investment in the material means of production, capital, which is the key to the raising of productivity and hence wage rates, will also ensure that the poor stay poor. Unfortunately, as is the case with many beneficial principles, genuine free trade has been distorted and trashed. That its so-called defenders and proponents in government have been party to it says nothing about the case for free trade and a lot about them and government.

(Oxford University Press – 252 pages)

Reviewer – Luke Brown

Having seized power of Russia in the 1917 Revolution and being subsequently disappointed that it didn’t have a snowballing effect on Europe, the murderous, tyrannical, communist dictator Lenin decided that it was through the East that he could hope to conquer the West. As Britain was considered his biggest rival for power, British India was his initial target for fomenting revolution that he hoped would then sweep the region in order that his vision of total control could be achieved throughout the world. Setting The East Ablaze is primarily concerned with this attempt, and the opposition to it by the British.

Like his other works, Peter Hopkirk ensures that the characters who populate this story receive the greatest attention, at rightly so. The most intriguing one, Colonel Frederick Bailey, whom had previously visited the holy Tibetan city of Lhasa with the legendary Francis Younghusband, was to play a vital role in combating the Russian threat. A master of disguise and a skilled operative (who, in a bizarre set of events, to effect his escape from the hands of the Bolsheviks, managed to get himself hired by their secret services to track himself down), he was a constant thorn in the side of the Bolsheviks. M.N. Roy, an Indian revolutionary, who became a member of the Comintern, was also, at times, a thorn in the side of the British, as he schemed to spark off a revolution in British India, and throw off the yoke of India’s British colonial masters. In addition, a brutal civil war was under way in Russia and beyond, between the Red Bolsheviks and the White Russian counter-revolutionaries. One such counter-revolutionary was Paul Nazaroff who had a torrid time escaping from the clutches of the likes of the Cheka, the secret police. Further east, a psychopathic and brutal White Russian baron, Ungern-Sternberg, with his visceral hatred of Bolsheviks and Jews, was attempting to take control of Mongolia (he was under the delusion that he was a re-incarnated Genghis Khan) for its use as a base to bring about a Greater Mongolia, and also from which to attack the Bolsheviks.

Aside from an extraordinary cast of characters, this period of intrigue was characterised by enough misinformation, psy-ops and treachery to fill a multitude of spy novels, and these are detailed expertly. All in all, Setting The East Ablaze is highly recommended, principally for throwing light on this little-known aspect of 20th century history, all in Hopkirk’s trademark witty and discerning style

(Oxford University Press – 277 pages)

Reviewer – Luke Brown

Posted: 29 September, 2003

During the 19th century the Great Game (see Peter Hopkirk’s excellent book by the same title for more details) was being played between two imperial powers, Russia and Britain, for control of Central Asia. British India was deemed to be under threat from an encroaching Russia. The Gilgit region, which bordered India’s Kashmir region to the south, Afghanistan in the west, Xinjiang in the east and Tashkent in the north, was thus of great strategic importance. As it had practically been unexplored by the British up until this time, the need to do so, plus ensure some control of it, was considered of the upmost importance. Thus the Gilgit Game was born.

While the various power plays and machinations are important and interesting in themselves, John Keay concentrates mainly on the actors involved in the game, without losing sight of the greater picture. Using a biting wit and a nice turn of phrase, he manages to successfully cut through the pomposity of some of the participants in this fascinating story, and get at the heart of what made them go out into the unknown at great personal risk, whether it was personal prestige, an unquenched thirst for adventure, spiritual fulfilment or just plain eccentricity.

One of these characters was the arrogant, opinionated, and rather strange Dr. Leitner, who managed to pack in a lifetime of experiences before he was even twenty-six (when he entered Gilgit). Fluent in several languages, he was a veteran of the Crimean War having joined up at the age of fifteen, starting at the improbable rank of colonel, despite not even being born in Britain (he was born in Hungary). After the war he became a lecturer and eventually moved to Lahore to be a Principal of a college there. His appetite for knowledge led him up to Gilgit, where in a moment of pique (detailed in the book) he entered this unknown territory.

For Francis Younghusband, his journeys were more spiritual in nature, seeing in the mountains that he loved so much a mystical quality that heightened his interest in religion.

For James Kelly, with an up to then unheralded career, the Gilgit Game was to prove the making of his legend, as he led a group of men from Gilgit across hazardous terrain towards Chitral, to try and rescue Sir George Robertson who was under siege from a coalition of those wishing to see the British depart their region.

It is these types of characters that John Keay, critically but with some fondness, details in this tremendous work, that is a must for anyone with the slightest interest in the exploits of a bunch of unique and brave explorers and adventurers.

(Oxford University Press – 562 pages)

Reviewer – Luke Brown

Posted: 15 September, 2003

Although the phrase “The Great Game” was immortalised in Rudyard Kipling’s turn of the century adventure novel, Kim, it originated decades earlier, its source Captain Arthur Conolly, one if its early players. The phrase refers to that period in Central Asian history, mainly in the 19th century, when Russia and Britain were engaged in a power struggle for the region. In the expert hands of Peter Hopkirk, this story and its main characters are brought to life.

Although the game only really began in the first half of the 19th century, Hopkirk begins his story with the Mongol hordes that attacked Russia in the 13th century, the ensuing destruction scarring her enormously. Determined to strengthen herself, she expanded her existing territories (using the natural resources of some of these territories to do so) over the centuries. Eventually an imperial rival, Britain, with territorial conquests of its own, felt that its sphere of influence was under threat, in particular the jewel in the Crown, British India.

So both imperial powers sent forth a series of spies, explorers and political agents to map and research areas considered of vital importance to both Russia and Britain, as well as to form political alliances with the attendant tribesmen and chieftains. From a seemingly safe distance of 2,000 miles between the two of them at the beginning, Russian outposts, in the end, were as close as 20 miles away from India.

The beauty of Hopkirk’s book is his ability to successfully lay out a narrative of the strategic thinking behind the various moves of Russia and Britain (in areas such as Iran, Afghanistan, China, modern-day northern Pakistan, Bokhara, Tashkent, Khiva) and detailing the action being played out, all in broad enough strokes so as not to become bogged down in intricate details, but not vague enough for the story to become incoherent. As with most good stories, it is the existence of a mix of interesting and colourful characters that makes this a gripping read. A panorama of adjectives only begins to describe the cast: colourful, brave, foolhardy, idealistic, ruthless and eccentric.

While one would have to read up autobiographies and biographies of such legendary figures in the Great Game as Henry Pottinger, Arthur Conolly, Francis Younghusband, and Alexander Burns to gain a more complete picture of their personalities and exploits, Hopkirk does a good job of gleaning the relevant aspects of their characters to explain their different drives and motivations, all in his own discerning way. The Great Game is a highly recommended work.

(Crown Publishers – 284 pages)

Reviewer – Luke Brown

The momentous failure of intelligence agencies, in particular the CIA, to prevent the horrors of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Centre and Pentagon is obvious, certainly with the benefit of hindsight. For Robert Baer, an ex-CIA field officer in its Directorate of Operations division from 1976 to 1997, that it was able to occur was not so surprising. Along with recounting the career of a spy who would go on to recruit agents in such places as India, Lebanon, Sudan, France and Tajikstan, See No Evil also details, in Baer’s opinion, the CIA’s decline from an agency that would do whatever was felt necessary to achieve its goal of eliminating security threats to the United States, into a toothless, politically correct organisation run by bureaucrats.

The strength of the book is the interesting and dangerous nature of the experiences he is able to relate to the reader, in his engaging storytelling style. Conversely, its weakness, quite naturally, is what he is not able to tell us. Due to his employment contract with the CIA, there are operations he isn’t allowed to divulge the details of, some he cannot acknowledge and even places where he operated that he cannot reveal. Undoubtedly the secretive nature of his job has also contributed to his personal life not receiving more than a superficial airing, resulting in only a modest insight into his personal motivations and drive.

What we do know is that ever since the age of nine, Baer lived a relatively adventurous life. His divorced mother took him to Europe for a couple of years, where he would travel extensively, ski, learn about politics and philosophy from his mother, and get a taste for the exotic. Moving back to the United States he went to school, doing so badly that he was sent on to military school. Next was University and then, as a “prank,” he applied to and was accepted in the CIA. It was then onto spy school, to learn such things as how to use weapons, use explosives (“By the end of the training, we could have taught an advanced terrorism course”), survive deserts and mountains, jump out of planes, as well as evade surveillance. His first assignment was India, then under the sphere of influence of the Soviets, where after a couple of nerve-racking and aborted agent-recruitment attempts, he finally found his feet. It was in Beirut, Lebanon several years later, that it seems he really came into his own, arriving right after the bombing of the US embassy. It was the mystery surrounding this attack that drove Baer to undertake his own investigation of the attack, as well as to become frustrated by the bureaucratic nature of the CIA and the direction it was taking.

It was in the mid-nineties, in Iraqi Kurdistan, where Washington’s unwillingness to support efforts to overthrow Saddam Hussein, that he concluded his last foreign mission for the CIA. He was called back to Washington and was by this time rather disillusioned. In his view, the CIA had a near complete lack of interest in the human intelligence side of spying, in favour of technology-driven surveillance. This combined with their unwillingness to get their hands dirty and deal with unsavoury types, its see no evil-hear no evil-speak no evil attitude (hence the title of the book), and the politics of Washington, finally took their toll, causing Baer to resign.

Of course, the CIA has also had its external critics, but for different reasons. Its involvement with coups, funding of armed opposition groups in sovereign countries, and the like, has brought about calls for its reigning in or downright scrapping, whether it be due to concern over human rights abuses or its critics’ ideological differences. While that side of things (documented elsewhere) does not really get a mention in Baer’s book (the closest he gets is in recalling his Beirut embassy bombing investigation, where he had the opportunity to have a terrorist suspect assassinated, but turned it down; regretting it later) that is not a reason to ignore this particular work, with its insight into a true believing ex-spy.

(Penguin – 193 pages)

Reviewer – Luke Brown

Sometimes a book is published that is virtually unreviewable. Not because it is a mess, but rather because one can not do it justice. Published in 1979 and still being reprinted, Karma Cola is one such work. Recommended to me by someone who had just left India, the subject of the book, I was handed a passage to read. It detailed the story of an English aristocrat who had heard about a guru in the mountains who was reported to be able to turn urine into scented rose water. And so this Englishman went out to find the guru and sampled his wares, which, it turned out, smelt and tasted remarkably like urine.

Although the book is widely known for its collection of stories of western disciples seeking out mystical gurus and their tailor-made truths, it is its study of how India discovered that they were quite hip after all (in the eyes of some westerners) while they were turning to western culture, makes it a must read. Although the times have changed since it first came out, its biting and well-observed satire mixed with Gita Mehta’s electric writing style (on occasions reminding me of Tom Wolfe) stand out. But I’ve said too much. Here is an early passage from this most funny and insightful work that will give a taste of where she is coming from and where her book is going:

“American mass-marketing had penetrated so fast to the Indian interior that its experts were invited by our government to popularize contraceptives with the same panache. While population control and pop culture raced hand in hand through the Indian countryside, we of the cities and the universities were getting restless, too. But just when the accelerator seemed within our reach, the unthinkable happened.
The kings of rock and roll abdicated.
To Ravi Shankar and the Maharishi.

As the sitar wiped out the split-reed sax, and mantras began fouling the crystal clarity of rock and roll lyrics, millions of wild-eyed Americans turned their backs on all that amazing equipment and pointed at us screaming,
“You guys! You’ve got it!”
Well, talk about shabby tricks. We had been such patient wallflowers and suddenly the dance was over. Nobody wanted to shimmy. They all wanted to do the rope trick.
The lines were kept open in spite of the political static.
“Excuse me, operator, what did they say? What have we got?”
“Hello, India, my party is saying you have the Big Zero.”
Mao had lost out to Maya. The revolution was dead.

So we tagged along with the Americans one more time. Not because of right thought, right speech, right action. But because of the rhythm section. Never before had the Void been pursued with such optimism and such razzle dazzle. Everyone suspected that whatever America wanted, America got.
Why not Nirvana?”

A particularly contentious insult utilised occasionally by some Pathan people, when challenged or insulted, is to point to one’s groin and invite them to “take it”. It is only used rarely, usually when the circumstances are heated and one is willing to back up the challenge, sometimes with their own life. An argument once broke out in the market area of Madyan, Upper Swat region of Pakistan. Clearly piqued by what had gone on before, one of the men, in a loud enough voice so that bystanders could hear, directed the other to “take it.” He didn’t and couldn’t. Turning to the witnesses around him and noting that they had heard what he had, he explained that he had no option but to seek out the transgressor in the future and kill him. And in time he was true to his word.

The Pathans have never taken kindly to being subjected to any outside rule, or, in fact, any attempt to interfere in their lives; just ask the British who were never able to subdue them until they left after Partition. Or the rookie policeman once on duty in the main street leading to and running through Madyan. A driver, well known and liked in the community, was once asked, upon entering the town, to show the policeman his registration papers. The driver was not amused, considering his status in town. Pointing to his groin, he indicated that there lay his registration. The rookie pulled him out of the vehicle and a tussle ensued. It soon developed into a free for all, the rookie soon outnumbered by the growing and angry crowd. Soon other police arrived, hoping to rescue their comrade. Unfortunately for them, they were light in numbers in comparison. With the rookie a bloody pulp on the road, the locals turned their attention to the police station, trashing it. (The station has now been moved to new quarters) As for the rookie, he was swiftly transferred to another region; his boss another casualty of the fracas, losing his job.

Madyan, once a popular haunt with hippies on their cross-Asia journeys, where up to 300 of them used to fill the town at a time (where bemused locals once wondered, upon seeing their raggedy clothes, who the poor ones actually were), is now suffering from the events that evolved directly post-9/11 and the recent scare over SARS emanating from Pakistan’s neighbour, China. Up until a few days before I arrived, the situation was made even worse with the requirement by the local police that a security guard was to be on hand to watch over all tourists, even if they wanted to take a stroll down to the market for a pack of cigarettes. Some guests at the Caravan’s Guesthouse, owned jointly by Fida, a local, and Michael (a Danish Muslim), predictably balked at this arrangement and left after an hour. This situation was especially galling for the locals, not only because it was bad for business, but also due to the implication that they were too dangerous for tourists to be around them, as they usually treat tourists extremely well.

About the only danger seemingly existent on the surface in Madyan (if one doesn’t wander into the hills unaccompanied), are some of the teachers. As luck would have it, two Czech guys and I were nabbed by a local English teacher from a private school nearby, who waltzed into our guesthouse unannounced, requesting (if requests can be forceful and consistently annoying, that is) our presence at his school to sit in at one of his classes, the nabbing taking place mid-morning.
“It will be great for the kids,” the teacher stressed. Certainly.

The next morning he arrived.

“The class is on now. I am very pleased to see you are true to your word and waiting for me.”

It took all about two minutes on our walk to the school down the hill from our guesthouse for us to dislike him, particularly his convoluted ideas on how a guest is to be treated. In these parts, a guest (foreigner or otherwise) is premium. What is mine is yours, and so on. Another aspect of being a guest is that you do what your host tells you to; for example, if it is time for a meal, you have the meal. Unfortunately our teacher took this to the extreme, practically instructing us as to what our programme would be this day and possibly in the future. Petty stuff, perhaps, but when one is a guest it is common that the host feels he is doing you a favour and not the other way around; he was part of a rare group that one finds in Pakistan who like to get over familiar with the foreigner, knowing that most will be polite or bite their tongue. But it was for the kids after all.

A strange aspect of some private schools in Pakistan is their military bearing (not that they are military institutions). It is more their routines of drilling and marching in the morning and, as we were to discover, the act of saluting by the children to the civilian teacher.
“It gives them discipline,” he assured us, as he mentally polished his imaginary insignia.
We sat down in front as he, standing at the lectern, introduced us as the foreigners who had promised that we were to attend today and observe him in action.

And what do you know, they had. Unfortunately the results were too much Beetle Bailey and too little V-Day. He read from some drab text about the origin of the phrase “the midas touch,” they listened. I read something else out. Any questions for the foreigners? None. He read out some other irrelevant text and turned to us, clearly satisfied.

“How is my teaching?”

Where is General Patton when you need him. We all joined the headmaster for tea (our teacher stoutly informing us that we had promised to do so, being good guests and all), joined soon after by a fellow teacher, Brother Number Two. Instead of telling us about his teaching or his kids, he was more interested in us. I, being from Australia, was particularly enthralling to him.

“You know, according to their history,” he opened to the two Czech guys, “there were no people on Australia when the first settlers arrived.”

“Actually, that was legally until…”

He waived this away with a flick of his hand.

“It was called terra wallis.”

“Nullis. And was.”

“And you know, they poisoned the Aborigines there and slaughtered them,” he added, a self-satisfied grin spreading all over his face. Hilarious stuff. Imagine if I had mentioned my South African connection, I mused; he’d be rolling all over the floor.

“It’s called irony,” was his afterthought. Really. Sensing my irritation, he leaned back.

“I like to talk about politics. It’s all about sharing our different histories and experiences.”

He turned away from me.

“So we are you two from?”

“The Czech Republic.”

“Ah. Czechoslovakia.”

“Czech Republic.”

“So what is life like know there in Czechoslovakia, after the fall of Communism? Do you remember Communism?”

“We were kids then, so yes. We have more freedom now.”

“But there are poor people there.” Unlike under communism.

“Yes, but for instance, we can travel.”

“If you have money.” History obviously wasn’t this teacher’s strong point.

“Socialism. I like the idea,” he remarked, a dreamy look appearing on his face. Talk about irony. He missed it completely.

We emerged from the clutches of the teachers a little later and walked with the much more agreeable headmaster who we had had the chance to chat with before. He had explained the hardships of his position and the lack of funds for the school; very real problems in a town like Madyan, where once the residents of a potholed and filthy pathway leading onto the main street were asked to pay 500 rupees (less than US$8) for its upkeep like the rest of the town had done and weren’t able to be persuaded to do so; a town where so many pharmacies exist partly due to the fact that its streets and drains are cluttered with waste that is rarely cleared, ensuing health problems hardly a huge surprise. And one must feel sorry for the teachers in private schools who do work their guts out for poor pay and minimal reward in a system that educates by rote; but not for those who spend some of their time allotted to teaching their kids, running up to seek out foreigners to boost their own self-importance.

A few hours north of Madyan, on a less than adequate road, is the popular tourist destination of Kalam, in the Swat Kohistan region. Even further north is Lake Mahodand, with reportedly great views of Mt Falaksair, which reaches nearly 6000 metres. At the time I was there, the road to the lake was unfortunately obstructed by a snow landslide. Together with two Swedish journalists I had met earlier in Lahore, Carl Godani and Daniel Wilby (www.logiks.com/carl/index.htm), and an acquaintance of theirs from Lahore, Bilal, we hired a 4WD to drive as far as we could.

The less said about Kalam the better, it merely being a town where a multitude of hotels had been dropped from the sky alongside Swat River. The only excitement we witnessed in the town was a few bus loads of students from Rawalpindi, choosing to sit on top of the bus instead of inside, shouting out excitedly to all and sundry. They were on a Spring Break of sorts, except for the girls, booze and Spring. Driving alongside tall mountains on either side, their peaks covered in snow and ice flows on their sides, the temperature dropped. It wasn’t too cold though for a string of kids who sat on the side of the road (there and back), waiting to either sell you pieces of wood, attempt to throw stones at us in the back of the 4WD, or chase after us and jump on the back. Once they managed to get on they were quite unsure of what to do next. Our Pathan driver, after stopping, provided them with some options. Passing the small village of Ushu we came across the end of the road, a huge mound of snow preventing us from going any further. Getting out of the car, Carl made his way up the rock-strewn hill to at least glimpse a sight of the glacier, which turned out to be rather unspectacular. Oh well.

Up in these parts one used to be able to pay locals to fire their weaponsfor a fee. Once, according to a story told to me by Michael, a group of Punjabis on holiday stopped on the side of the road in this region where some Kohistanis were sitting, Kalashnikovs at their sides. The tourists inquired whether they would be permitted to fire one of the weapons. They would, but it would cost them ten rupees a bullet. No problem, one of them replied. He only wanted four bullets. Taking the gun, he aimed and then pulled the trigger. The Kalashnikov kicked him back as a multitude of rounds sprayed up and in front of him. Shaken, he handed back the gun. That will be 300 rupees, was the response of the Kohistani; he had put it on rapid fire.

Coming down the hill from the direction of the glacier we saw a lone Kohistani man, his body and head wrapped in a blanket, a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. The practice of shooting weapons has now been disallowed and all they can do is allow you to take pictures of your and your friends with the gun, which we did. I asked the man whether I could take a picture of him with his gun. He shook his head shyly. I’m willing to pay, I told Bilal to inform him. He seemed reluctant. Well then, how much does he want? Peering out from under the blanket, he asked us what we were going to do with the picture. We couldn’t come up with a good enough answer.

“Life is slow here,” remarked the thirty-something man next to me, as a cock crowed outside the door of the pharmacy of a friend of his we were in, a few kilometres from the centre of Muzaffarabad. A cow lazily walked by along the dusty path running parallel to the flowing Neelum river nearby, emphasising the point.

Muzaffarabad is the capital of Azad Jammu and Kashmir (AJ&K), a province of Pakistan, with a High Court, Legislative Assembly and President of its own. Ultimately though it answers to the authorities in Islamabad, Pakistan’s capital, a point of contention and frustration with many locals who support the push for independence, and who refer to the collective regions outside of AJ&K as Pakistan, as if they were a separate country. Not so with John (not his real name) as he didn’t really want to be there in the first place. (In fact he thought it would be much better if the British were back in control). After having lived in Britain for a few years, with its attending western freedoms that he craved, he had been recalled to Muzaffarabad, ostensibly to help out his father with his road construction business. As for me, the lack of local political clout was to prove fairly debilitating for my trip to this troubled region, lying on the north-east edge of Pakistan.

My problems, irrelevant in comparison, were over a No-Objection-Certificate (NOC), a permit issued by the authorities, essentially proclaiming that you are permitted to travel in the province, subject to certain restrictions. In the case of AJ&K, no foreigner is officially, and quite understandably, allowed to travel within 16km of the Line of Control (LOC) with India; understandable because there is continual shelling from the Indian side; but still rather disappointing as the mountain peaks you usually see on television along with rugged-up soldiers, weapons at the ready, standing guard, must be an awesome sight in person, even from a distance. That a foreigner is not allowed to travel within 16km of the LOC is a given, even with a NOC. The rest of the region is fine at present, although a NOC is still required. The trouble is is that previously one could arrive in Muzaffarabad and apply for the NOC then, and I had assumed this would still be the case. Now a NOC must first be obtained in Islamabad. DAMN. (I heard from one source that it could take up to two weeks but I was unable to confirm this, as time was ticking and I didn’t want to have to traipse around Islamabad to find out; Islamabad, as I was to discover later on, is a hole.)

I found out the details of the current situation the previous evening from a local policeman, just before midnight, as John and I pulled up to my hotel in his 4WD. This being Pakistan, these kind of predicaments can be dealt with quite quickly, and so it was; the policeman had seen nothing. This would continue to be the case with other authorities if a low profile was maintained, a nosy and attention-gathering camera to be firmly stowed away in my bag, I was advised.
I met John at my hotel in Muzaffarabad, after a four and a half bus trip from the Pir Wadhai bus station in Rawalpindi. The road to AJ&K heads up into mountainous terrain, subsequently cooler, more scenic and pleasant than the Punjab. Not that the driver seemed to notice, as he tore dangerously around sharp bends and crumbling road, ignoring a sign that read “We love our children. You too? Drive Slowly” and on cue sending a bunch of kids walking around a hair-pin bend hurrying onto a barricade preventing a fall down a sharp drop. The further we drove away from Rawalpindi, the more the colour palette changed from light brown to the greener shades of its forests, a welcome refreshment at the mere sight of them.

Near the border of AJ&K is the town of Murree, a hill station established by the British to get away from the heat of the Punjab and now a popular tourist spot for better-off Punjabis. The former Prime Minister of Pakistan, Nawaz Sharif, before being sent to Saudi Arabia for a luxurious exile after his conviction of attempted murder against current President Pervez Musharraff, was sent to Murree after the military coup in 1999. Detention with a view. Tough punishment indeed.

Entering AJ&K itself one hardly gets the impression that one is reaching a somewhat restricted travel area, with less than cursory police inspections alongside shack-like border huts. We passed by rather easily a sign requesting that foreigners register at the border. What was more distinct about AJ&K’s status was the condition of its roads. Although much work seemed to be going on, with large tractors and bulldozers in operation, digging up roads and shifting large rocks to the side of the roads, one shudders to think what the state of them was before the work was undertaken. It was as if the poor roads were the real demarcation between AJ&K and the rest of Pakistan.

I arrived in Muzaffarabad around 7pm and checked into a hotel. An hour later I got a knock at the door. An hour in and the police are around already, looking for permits, I thought. I opened the door, prepared for the inevitable question about my lack of permit. Instead a rather tall and youngish-looking man, dressed in western clothes and wearing glasses, stepped in and greeted me rather hiply, as more western-influenced locals are inclined to do. It turned out that he owned the hotel as well as a number of other properties in the vicinity. His manager had told him that a foreigner was at the hotel and thus he wanted to meet me in person and offer his services. As he would remark later while driving me around the capital that night, its hills filled with houses lit like Christmas trees, stopping in at his family-owned sumptuous three-storey house currently being renovated, he was already quite bored and needed a little western company. As it happened, a project of his father’s company was underway down south and despite some work he had to do in the capital, he would take me down there the next day, along with some friends of his who were working on the same project. And that is what we were waiting to do, in the pharmacy of his friend, next to the river, with the cow and the crowing cock.

“We can be independent,” stated the pharmacist.

“How?” asked John.

“We can produce things.”

“What?”

“Power. The Mangla Dam.” Mangla Dam, an earthfill dam on the River Jhelum contains a Hydro power Station.

“You can produce two things. Power. And babies.”

The pharmacist grinned at the cheap shot.

“What else can you produce?”

“But look at our history.”

Unfortunately for those who seek independence and see that what went before must necessarily direct the future are living under a false hope. What both Pakistan and India can most probably agree on is that independence for Jammu and Kashmir is not an option for both their states. Whether this is just or not is ultimately irrelevant. When Partition between India and Pakistan came about in 1947, the status of a number of “princely states” in greater India were still undecided. Jammu and Kashmir turned out to be the most contentious one. Back in 1846, The British East India Company sold Kashmir to a maharajah. In 1925, Maharajah Hari Singh conquered the throne of Kashmir. While he was a Hindu, he ruled over a majority Muslim state. When it came time for Partition he was still undecided on which way to lean, not sure whether to opt for control by the Hindu-majority India, or less likely Muslim-majority Pakistan. His real wish, hoping that he wouldn’t have to do either and be able to remain independent, able to maintain his glorious lifestyle, was not seen favourably by those organising Partition. In the end he was made to make the choice sooner than he would have liked, as some Pathan tribes charged in after a few months after Partition in August 1947, fearing that the Maharajah would sign over to India. He did sign up to India and they sent in their own troops to secure their new land from what they saw as a Pakistan-led invasion, although Pakistan insisted that it was a spontaneous uprising. (A similar argument reigns today, with India charging Pakistan with funding and directing “terrorists” while Pakistan contends that it only supplies moral support to Kashmiri “freedom fighters.”) War then broke out between India and Pakistan, which was halted by a UN cease-fire in 1949, with the promise of a referendum by its people on the status of the state, a promise yet to be fulfilled. What remains is India-controlled Jammu and Kashmir alongside Pakistan-controlled Azad (“Free”) Jammu and Kashmir.

Business also seems to work slowly here, readily apparent from the interminable waiting around we had to do before we could go down south. The ubiquitous mobile phones that can be seen in the Punjab are less apparent in AJ&K. Instead a system of driving around and waiting in offices, meeting up on side-roads with messages to be conveyed in person, seemed to be how things were conducted. It did afford a good opportunity to see a little of Muzaffarabad, albeit from the vantage point of a window-tinted 4WD, away from the prying eyes of police, if they were even to care, judging by the casual following out of their duties and their time to chat to passers-by. Its heart, in the north of the city, is situated along the banks of the Neelum river. Down the main thoroughfare which leads south and towards AJ&K’s western border can be found various government buildings, as well as the President’s lavish residence. A few bridges span the river, enabling traffic and persons to cross over to either side, although those in the south of the town will have to wait a little longer for work on a new bridge to be commenced, cut-off from the main hive of activity in the city.

A common topic of conversation that was struck up in my presence, besides politics, was the desire of many to leave, not to the rest of Pakistan, but overseas. Australia and Europe were the most common choices for many, although they were more pipe dreams than options. Even those who could afford the plane trip abroad would soon find it a struggle to live overseas.

“Take this one friend of mine,” John said, referring to a man who owned a small convenience store selling packaged food, drinks and cigarettes, across from an office we were sitting in.

“He has a good life here and makes good money. Look. He just woke up half an hour ago.” The clock above us on the wall struck midday.
“But if he goes overseas to see some girl and spends thousands of pounds to do so, he can only survive for a week or so and then his money runs out. I say to him stay here and he can live well. He can’t make a living over there like he can here. But he doesn’t listen and wastes his money. Please take him.”

Eventually we gathered up all our passengers and after making a stop in Murree to pick up some supplies, we returned to AJ&K, and started our way up the hill down south, passing at the border post a bunch of refugees from Afghanistan, camped near the border post, sitting idly around tents, with the women dressed in colourful green costumes, their hair covered in a cloth-like cap. We stopped for a drink in a teahouse where one of our travel companions met up with some friends of his, “freedom fighters” he knows through his work with a pro-liberation Kashmir political party he belongs to. (This guy turned out to certainly be the most annoying person I had met so far, constantly asking me for a gift, as well as a visa sponsorship. About the only sensible thing he had to say about anything, unfortunately only rather early on, was his perception that it was the arms dealers who were profiting from the conflict thanks to their mates in various governments around the world who poked their noses in the region.)

We then headed out into the approaching darkness towards the small town of Paniola, roughly halfway down the province of AJ&K. Our other passenger, a Pathan who was travelling with us, checked in on the progress of his bulldozer, wise enough to pay someone else to operate it, before we pulled into the grounds of a government resthouse under renovation, walking along a treacherous path in the dark of the night to a small house up a hill where a road construction crew were basing themselves for their current road project. I, of course, was the unexpected guest of honour, and the chief recipient of many looks over a meal of bread and spicy chicken.

The next day the routine was the same again, this time waiting in a little village of Paniola, with the usual array of a post office, a police station of sorts, and small convenience stores. The further south one goes in AJ&K, the hotter and drier it gets, the local dogs certainly knowing what awaited them that day, lounging under cars, looking out hopefully for a spot of food. After a little more waiting we headed out to Rawalakot, a bigger town than Paniola, and there we waited, ate and conferenced in various spots around the town.

About ten years before, John had undertaken his first road project, leading out of Rawalakot on the way to Bagh. As the terrain in these parts is quite mountainous, a project such as building roads is arduous, with the roads literally having to be dug out of the side of a mountain in some parts. First rock must be dug out and removed, the proposed road then being smoothed out in various stages, and the relevant materials being applied to making it a tarred road, the process taking well over a year for a 30km stretch. Or something like that. John was more interested in telling me about what you couldn’t do whilst organising the project, moving from house to house as each stage of the project was completed, stuck in the middle of nowhere looking out over the road they were blasting out of rock. No more nights at the pub or at the club, meeting women and having a worthwhile conversation, but terminally stuck in a lifestyle of doing nothing slowly, much like the local inhabitants do today, at least the way we would see it. But it did at least provide employment for the fortunate few who could get the work. Those who couldn’t get work at the time were probably much like those who cannot at the present, sitting around on the side of the road, watching those being paid to work in turn watching one man doing all the work.

We passed through the town of Bagh, on the edge of a huge valley with a river struggling hard not to be classified as a steam, a wide-river bed full of sand. Its main thoroughfare was just a compilation of rocks and stones piled on top of each other (with one guy banging them with a hammer to make them smaller), its width suitable for a mini to pass through quite comfortably, but not a road to be utilising hand signals if one’s indicators were bust, not that anyone seems to use them in these parts.

Completing a sweep of the area, we climbed up a mountain pass, passing villagers sitting on the side of the road, picked up his friend and then twisted and curved back to Muzaffarabad, night falling rapidly. The trip back to Muzaffarabad took a few hours, John contemplating out loud the extended stay he would have to endure back in AJ&K, although he admitted the money would be good. But you could tell this would be slight compensation, as he mused about how we have it good in the West and how one is expected to act in his culture.

“You don’t have the responsibilities I have,” he said, following up on a point he had brought up earlier regarding the fact that he, as a breadwinner, was in a sense responsible for the rest of his family, particularly his siblings, even if they were able to earn a living of their own.

“You don’t have to care for them like I do. You can have weekends off. Here we have to work. I know, I lived there.”

We pulled into Muzaffarabad, finally, and drove up to the hotel. In my absence, a member of the Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) had made their regular visit to the hotels in the region, checking the books. Upon inquiring at my fate, the hotel manager, who had removed my bags from my room, told them I had checked out and left. With the clock nearing ten pm I gathered my bags, said my goodbyes and left in the bus heading to Rawalpindi in the pitch black night, slightly earlier than I had wished, but longer than could be expected under the circumstances.