Return
of the Pathan
By
My childhood Kabuliwala was
not trapped in the pages of a book or rolls of a film. We lived in Old Delhi,
in a small bylane of Chandni Chowk near the fabled Fountain. It was called
Katra Lachhusingh. Come winters and two kinds of aliens descended on Delhi. One
was the Tibetans. No, these were not refugees fleeing Communist persecution. It
was 1955 and Dalai Lama was still happily settled at Potala palace. The
Tibetans used to come to plains in winters every year to trade and to escape
the cold in the bargain. While the young bought and sold, the older ones
visited the bylanes for alms. Dressed in their multi-layered cloaks, their
prayer wheels whirring, they presented to me a peep into the world beyond the
immediate surroundings.
The other aliens were the
Pathans. The Kabuliwalas never asked for alms. The song about Abdurrahaman, the
pistewala Pathan was very close to reality. These tall Pathans, with flowing
beards and bellowing voice, attracted a large crowd of urchins. They spoke in
reasonable Hindustani. We questioned them about their country, their camels and
their gardens. Then, on being prompted to do so, we goaded our mothers into
buying some of their pistachio and almonds. Thus, the visit of the Pathan was a
pleasure in more ways than one.
Another Pathan known in
those days was Khan Abdul Gaffar Khan, better known as the Frontier Gandhi. He
did not have a flowing beard and there were no fundamentalists around to
dictate the length you were obliged to sport. This tall man, with slightly
bowed head, as if in deference to those over whom he towered, considered
himself a human being, a Pathan and a muslim, in that order of priority. If
there could be a visual image of the ideal of his followers, the Khudai
Khidmatgars, it was the Khan in person.
That was the image of
Pathans in the minds of children in the early fifties. We did have jokes about
the Pathan eating his bar of brown washing-soap which he had bought, thinking
it was a piece of cake. We had stories about the bravery and bravado of these
tall men, stories of how they would lay their lives to protect someone who
sought refuge with them, stories of their kindness to children, a trait which
only the brave can possess.
Then came the Russians and
their retreat that strengthened the image of Afghans as a brave people, firm in
their resolve, invincible. On the day of the invasion, a magazine cover showed
the Russian bear getting his foot caught in the Afghan trap. On day one of
Russian occupation, the world believed that once you get involved in
Afghanistan, you want to get out and it is not easy.
The Russians got out with a
bloody nose and the Arabs and Pakistanis moved in. That changed the image of
the Pathan forever. He was forced from the status of ever-independent,
self-willed bloke to the scheming, wily, meek follower of foreign mercenaries.
He slid into the role of the hated terrorist. In all the battlefields of the
world where someone or the other was pitted against someone fighting in the
name of Islam, we heard of the presence of Afghans.
All theaters of conflict
boasted of the Afghan terrorist who would kill innocent, unarmed men, women and
children, who would attack stealthily and then slip away like a rat.
I saw these images and
compared with those childhood memories. These are few renegades, who are there
in every society, I told myself. These do not represent the Pathans. He was
kind and ruthless. He did not know how to slip in and out. He looked the enemy
in the eye. Then I saw images on the TV, which shook this belief. In Kabul, a
woman in burqa was led to the middle of a football stadium packed with
thousands of cheering Afghans. She was made to kneel, a turbaned Taliban
brought a Kalashnikov to her head, there was the report of the weapon, a small
plume of dust rose a meter ahead of the kneeling figure where the bullet hit
the ground, and the woman pitched forward.
Public executions do take
place in many Islamic countries. I expected the crowd to be somber, reflective.
They did not even know who she was, what was her offence, whether she got a
fair trial, what she looked like behind that all-covering burqa. Yet, when the
shot was fired, the crowd went ecstatic. There was jubilation. I had only one
word for each person in that crowd. They were cowards.
I could have been wrong.
After the Taliban fled from Kabul, I saw in a newspaper the image of an old
Dervish in tears, as he could whirl around again for his prayer-dance ritual, a
blessing he had been denied during five years of Taliban rule. I saw Pathans making
a bee-line for the barbers' shops and for the music stores. The tears of the
Dervish seemed to be pleading the defense of compulsion. The crowds at the
barbers' shops and music stores seemed to corroborate it. Yes, we were misled
into welcoming the Taliban in Kabul, the simple Pathan was honest enough to
admit. The rest was compulsion.
Finally, came the admission
at Konduz that it was the Pakistanis who played the controlling role in Taliban
affairs. A large number of Taliban who wanted to surrender were shot dead by
these foreigners, who had come as guests of those very hosts whom they were
killing. With General Musharraf pleading for the lives of his countryman
trapped in Konduz, the picture of the Pathan again underwent a change. What we
thought was the deranged, degraded Pathan was actually a different animal
called Taliban. An animal on a leash held by Pakistan.
Pakistan, which has not seen
a day of peace or prosperity since it broke away from India, has been always
led by those who live on alibis. Unable to create an atmosphere for democracy
in their country, these self-appointed rulers look for reasons for Pakistan's
misfortunes beyond their borders and they tend to create their power base too
beyond these borders. The 1971 debacle forced Pakistan to look elsewhere for
recreating a justification for its existence as an Islamic State. The Russian
misadventure provided that opportunity in Afghanistan. Osama bin Laden brought
in money and Arabs. In these calculations, the Afghans became willing tools. Any
tool is discarded when it becomes useless. The Afghans, with their confidence,
sense of honour and long tradition of hospitality could not even imagine this
exploitation by their guests.
Is there a lesson for anyone
in the traumatic experience of the once-proud Pathan? Past is meaningless
except that it helps us in avoiding falling in the same pit twice, it helps
others too avoid it. Pakistan's Afghan misadventure is not the end of its
attempts to expand its influence through Islamic bandwagon. There will be
future victims of Pakistan's undemocratic leaders' desires to build popularity
through foreign alibis and foreign successes. There are clear indications that
Myanmar is about to fall in this trap. The military leaders of that country
have been hobnobbing with Pakistan Generals to gain nuclear know-how as well as
some relief from their present international isolation. It will be an irony of
the highest order if Operation Enduring Freedom results in the rise of another
renegade nuclear power close to India. Meanwhile, with Pakistan's role in
Afghan affairs fully exposed before the world, the Pathan can cast aside this
image-sullying yoke. In India, at least, he will be welcome this winter with
his pistachios and almonds.