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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  Australian  Cricket  team  in  the  West  Indies,  and   the   latest   Squash   scores   so   that   we  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  

Trusting  locals  purchasing  Saudi  Riyal  Travellers  Cheques  from  our  Foreign  Exchange  staff  in  Islamabad  before  setting  out  for  the  Haj  in  Mecca  

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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.    

 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  

At  Gilgit  –  high  in  the  Karakorams  with  Zia  Sahib  

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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