by Saba Imtiaz
‘Abbu is back,’ Samir’s e-mail read. What? How? I sit up and re-read the e-mail. I haven’t heard about this at all. Granted, I’ve been at fashion week for two days but there is no way I would have missed the story of a Guantanamo detainee being released.
I send Samir a quick text message. ‘Can I come see him?’
After about ten minutes, I get an e-mail from another address. ‘Cannot use phone. You can come, but please don’t inform the media. And be careful.’
I’m not sure what that last sentence implies, but I have an idea. Samir has been picked up five times by intelligence agencies for questioning, and if he isn’t using his phone it means that it’s tapped. This also means his house is probably under surveillance. I am still staring at the phone, filled with a sense of nervous excitement. And if he’s told me not to inform the press, then I am the only person who knows.
This is a scoop, and I can’t wait to get out of the hotel and figure out what I’m going to do.
Jamie returns to find me staring at my cell phone. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘Oh,’ I say, suddenly remembering why I’m here. ‘Yep. Just got a heads-up on a story so a bit distracted.’
‘Oh,’ he says, disinterestedly, stirring his coffee. ‘Anything good?’
I can’t resist the urge to brag. ‘Oh, just a little story about a Gitmo prisoner being released.’
Jamie stares at me somewhat incredulously before he breaks out into a wide grin. ‘That’s fantastic, Ayesha,’ he says warmly. ‘I’m really happy for you! We should get champagne!’
‘This is Pakistan,’ I reply, pointing to my cup. ‘A cappuccino will have to do.’
‘No, seriously, this is a big deal! How are you going to do the story? Are you thinking about multimedia options?’ Jamie fires off a bunch of questions, and I dig out a notebook and begin jotting ideas down.
‘So who’s the prisoner?’ Jamie asks, as he calls the waiter over for the bill. I tell him. The prisoner’s case made headlines when his presence at Guantanamo Bay was first announced, because he was extremely wealthy and well known in Karachi’s business circles. No one has heard from him or from his family in the past seven years. If I actually pull off an interview, it could mean a permanent reprieve from researching timelines and sitting through boring press conferences.
Jamie looks thoughtful and puts his hand over mine. ‘This is fantastic, fantastic,’ he says. ‘Let me know if you need any help? I’d love to help edit if you need it.’
I am touched. It’s so refreshing to meet a man not turned off by my profession. ‘Now,’ Jamie says. ‘Let’s really celebrate.’
He smiles and tugs my hand so I get up. ‘Oh,’ I say, momentarily disoriented. Did I completely misread this situation?
We head upstairs.
Two hours later, I could kick myself for a) having spent the entire day mooning around b) not looking even somewhat desirable. Jamie is the same wonderful person. I am the crazy person who was over-thinking this to death. And this is SO not a one-night stand.
‘Don’t leave,’ Jamie drawls, as I slide out of bed and call for a cab.
‘I have to,’ I say. My father is back in town and I do not have a compelling excuse for staying out all night. I also have to get sorted with the interview.’
‘Oh, of course. Let me know how it goes?’ he says as he reaches for his phone and begins tapping away. ‘I’d really like to read it.’
‘Sure,’ I say, and smile. It feels so different to be with someone who understands what I do for a living, unlike Hasan. With Jamie, it’s as if we’re on the same wavelength, bound by a connection that I wouldn’t be able to replicate with anyone else. Saad always says that if he needs to ‘talk’ to someone, he calls me—so why would he need a girlfriend? I used to agree with him but looking at Jamie tangled up in bed sheets, smiling at me adorably, I feel like I’ve managed to strike gold in this barren city.
I kiss him goodbye, which takes another ten minutes because I can’t manage to tear myself away. Jamie whispers that he’ll miss me. I smile and walk out of the hotel, feeling exhilarated. I look back at the doors, through which I had walked in defeated just a few hours ago. I look up at the sky and smile. Perhaps my luck has finally changed?
I feel water drops on my face. Is it raining? This has to be a sign from god that everything will be okay. I look up and realize it’s just the air conditioner above dripping water. Huh. Whatever. I don’t need a sign. My luck HAS changed.
CHAPTER 8
Wednesday, April 6, 2012
Headline of the day: ‘Pakistan bans condom ad starring controversial actress’
11 p.m.: I’m weaving all kinds of excuses to explain to my father why I’m only just getting home. ‘I had to work late and then had to meet someone for dinner,’ I say, trailing off. Luckily it’s the cat’s dinnertime and he’s not really paying attention to me.
I open up my laptop to get started on the research for the piece. There are no news updates on him, which is fantastic. I trawl through news archives for the past decades, scribbling down points about when he was first reported missing, a petition filed by his wife and son about his disappearance, a file detailing his initial interrogation at Guantanamo Bay, where he insisted he was just a businessman who had no idea that a client his company had billed was a front man for Al Qaeda. There’s another report, from 2008, about him requiring emergency surgery. These are the two things I really want to talk about.
It’s a one-line e-mail titled: ‘love you’. A jolt goes through me at seeing the word love, before I shake myself. It’s Saad. We’ve always used ‘love’ as casually as most people say hello or goodbye. I scroll down. He’s sent me a bunch of scanned photos of us at school and university. We’re in our geeky glasses, drinking Pepsi at the school canteen. There’s another one of us on a school trip to Mohenjodaro, goofing around next to a stupa. We’re posing at interminable weddings, throwing our mortarboards off gleefully after graduation. But instead of looking older, these photos make us seem younger and happier as the years have gone by.
The last photo makes me laugh hysterically. It’s from a late night at home last year, and I’m wrapped in a shawl to go outside to meet the bootlegger. Saad’s girlfriends have often told me they find him far too aloof and emotionally detached, but as I stare at this e-mail I realize they only know the urbane, suave Saad with the highflying job, not the gawky teenager who threw up after his first beer.
Wake up from a nightmare in which Saad is interrogating Jamie regarding his relationship with me. What does this mean? Perhaps I should consult some sort of dream analyser. Do these people even exist? The last time I saw an analysis of dreams was in the back pages of the weekly Urdu magazine Akhbar-e-Jahan. Check phone.
Jamie has sent me a bunch of texts, wishing me luck for the interview. I smile. It is kind of heartwarming to have someone care about you.
11 a.m.: Get to work to find Kamran poring over a couple of lunch menus. ‘Chairman Mao or Okra?’ Kamran asks as I walk into his office. ‘Chairman Mao, always,’ I reply, hoping Kamran will order me some of their amazing prawn toast and green curry as well.
I run Kamran through the interview.
‘This is fantastic,’ I urge, as he looks thoughtful. I know that look on his face, it’s the same one he gets right before he tells you that you’re not being paid on the 1st, or the 5th of the month. Must sell. C’mon, Ayesha, use your business school degree and pitch the hell out of this. ‘This is the first exclusive interview with an ex-Guantanamo Bay detainee who no one has heard from in years. He was a businessman—someone everyone who reads our paper knew and socialized with before he was arrested—so we’ll get a lot of name recall,’ I confidently rattle off, hoping Kamran can’t see that my hands are sweaty with tension. ‘And it’ll be a great interview, y’know? Can you imagine the stories he’ll have about his life in jail, the torture, the other inmates, the investigation into his case?’
‘Do you want to do this?’ Kamran says
. ‘We can send a guy…’
‘Kamran, no,’ I retort angrily. ‘This is not something a guy can do better. I’ve covered everything that most of your male reporters have said no to: Interviewing gangsters—I’ve interviewed so many that I have more of them on my phone than actual friends, for the love of god—seminaries, rape victims, bootleggers, even the bloody fashion designer lot. I won’t be unsafe, I promise.’
‘Sure, then,’ Kamran says. ‘Oh, and can you order a meal from Chairman Mao for me please?’
I exchange a few e-mails with Samir, asking for directions to his house and to set up a time for the interview—3 p.m., which should give me enough time to come back to work and perhaps even file the story—and I’m now sitting around, willing the clock to tick faster so I can head out.
Now that I have a few minutes to absorb this, I realize I’m filled with an odd kind of nervous energy. The cloak-and-dagger way in which the interview has been scheduled makes me a bit wary of what I’m getting myself into. At the back of my mind, I know that there’s no real danger. This is not like walking into a training camp for militants or a mosque best known for inciting violence in the Friday sermon. This is just an interview. At the most, I could be followed back to work, but I have a massive dupatta that I plan to wrap firmly around myself, which will help disguise my face. Thank goodness I don’t report on television so no one will recognize me.
This is going to be fine, I tell myself.
God, I need a drink.
2 p.m.: I head out and find a rickshaw, promising the driver that I know the address and we won’t be driving around in circles. But the house is a nightmare to find. I used to live in the neighbourhood six years ago, but nothing seems familiar. Samir told me the house has a black gate and is near the bakery, but there are about five bakeries in as many lanes. How do these stores run!? Don’t flour prices affect them? Must ask someone to come back to this area and investigate the odd rise of bakeries.
I can’t recognize anything here. There used to be rows of houses, all designed with the same art deco balconies and low gates—sigh, all built at a time when break-ins were rare—and painted in odd shades of green and beige. Most of them have been torn down and replaced by four-storey apartment buildings. There are about a dozen more mosques than I remember. I look around idly for my old house. The walls used to be routinely defaced by young boys, who thrilled at spray-painting their Internet chat room handles on them. They’ve been replaced by the Jamaat-ud-Dawa and a bunch of religious parties, all calling for jihad in Kashmir via painted slogans on the walls. I ditch the rickshaw before the driver tacks on another two hundred rupees to my fare for making him drive around. I call Samir. Not unexpectedly, he doesn’t answer. Crap. I could be here forever. I start walking through the narrow lane, lifting my dupatta to avoid it touching an overflowing gutter.
‘AYESHA! What are you doing here?’
Where did that come from? I look around. Can’t see anyone. Am I hearing things now?
‘HERE!’
‘Where?!’ I shriek. A stone lands next to me. I look up and its…
… the Sipah-e-Sahaba spokesperson, waving at me from a balcony.
‘This is my house. What are you looking for?’ he says. ‘House number seventy?’ I ask. ‘Oh, that’s two lanes away. Just go straight and then turn left, and then take a right at the bakery and then another left. Do you want me to walk you?’
‘Uh, no,’ I mutter, and back away. What are the chances I’d run into him here?
Suddenly, I spot a couple of cops sitting outside a house, which is odd. This is a middle-class neighbourhood and the cops can’t be guarding anyone here. I approach it and look at the house numbers as I walk past them. Seventy-two, seventy-one, sixty-nine… hmm. One of the signs is missing. This could be it. I head to the door when a cop looks up at me. ‘Why are you going in?’ he asks. ‘I’m their cousin,’ I say nervously. The cop jumps up and knocks on the door. Thankfully, it’s opened by Samir, who greets me exuberantly. ‘Baji, so good to see you again!’
The house is decorated in the style that was last fashionable in the 1980s: painted deco furniture, room dividers made of shells and beads, and sofas upholstered in floral-print fabric. Samir leads me through the living room and stops at a door. ‘Dad is very weak,’ he says. ‘Please don’t be too harsh.’
He flings the door open, and I freeze in my tracks. The last photograph taken of the guy was at his eldest daughter’s wedding—he was laughing, dressed in a three-piece suit, and weighed about 250 pounds. This is a ghost. There is a ghost lying on the bed. He’s frail and weak. I gingerly step in and sit down. He has a prolonged coughing fit, then looks at me and croaks, ‘Do you want to hear how I ended up like this?’
As I fill up one notebook, then another, with his story, I’m convinced that I am going to win more than just a pack of cigarettes as a sign of Kamran’s approval. This could change my life. Just thinking about that is a strange out of body experience. I could win an award. I could make real money. I could never have to make another timeline again for as long as I live. The guy’s story is downright chilling: living in shackles, being force-fed when he went on hunger strike, the detainees whispering in their cells. But it’s his account of how he ended up being mistaken for a ‘terrorist’—the client he never thought could be a front for Al Qaeda—that is fascinating and the names he throws out could potentially embroil scores of Karachi’s top businessmen in embezzlement scandals. After a couple of hours, he sighs and says he can’t talk anymore.
I say my goodbyes and head out the door with Samir, who is thanking me profusely for visiting. ‘This will get published, right?’ he asks, as he opens the gate.
‘Yes,’ I say, and step out to be confronted by the cop, who ignores me and looks at Samir. ‘We need this person’s contact information,’ he says. Samir looks scared. ‘Of course,’ I say confidently and rattle off my sister’s number—one of the few cell phone numbers I know by heart—which has been disconnected for the past two years.
They note it down, and I walk off to find a rickshaw. After about thirty minutes, I finally find one, promise the driver five hundred rupees if he can get me back to civilization, and run into the office.
Kamran is sitting at his desk, and as I walk by he calls out. ‘AYESHA. IN HERE. NOW.’
‘Listen, sit down,’ Kamran says, gesturing to the only other chair in the office, which has a pile of old newspapers on it. I put them on the floor and sit on the edge of the seat. ‘Look, Ayesha, we got a call from intelligence. They seem to know you were interviewing that guy today.’
‘What?’ I stammer. ‘How is that possible? I didn’t have a press badge on; they couldn’t have followed me from work…’
‘We don’t know. Believe me, I didn’t want to ask. They probably have a trace on your phone and your laptop or on the guy you interviewed. It’s possible he’s under surveillance, and not you. But I think it would be best if you take a few days off, keep a low profile and don’t file your story right now. We’re already in a bit of a mess because of a court case and we’ll take a look at the story next week.’
I can feel my award, my promotion, and my new work wardrobe slip away.
Kamran and I end up arguing for the next hour, during which time his secretary pops in with two cups of tea. I eat a pack of chocolate biscuits in my rage. ‘Why is the newspaper so spineless,’ I scream. ‘How can you give up on a story that could—no, fuck it, I know for sure that it will—MAKE HEADLINES WORLDWIDE.’ Kamran shrugs. ‘This is a corporation. I’m running a business here. This is not a place where you live out your fantasy of doing some expose that the world will love. I have to put my interests first. How am I going to pay your salary if the government cracks down on us because of this story!?’
I am desperately trying to hold back tears. I will not be one of those girls who sobs in the office and is then looked upon with pity and derision. ‘Look, the story isn’t going anywhere,’ Kamran eventually says. ‘Tell your source i
t’ll be okay. And also—don’t come in to work for a few days.’
Crap. I had completely forgotten that the spooks could have me under surveillance. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ I ask. ‘I don’t know!’ Kamran exclaims, shoving a bunch of papers off his desk. ‘You told me you’d be safe. Now leave the office before they come back looking for you or some crap.’
What being under surveillance really means doesn’t sink in until I get out of the office. Every stranger seems a potential spy, including the office accountant, the guards, and the rickshaw driver taking me home who can’t make out a word I’m saying since I’ve covered my face, niqab style, with a dupatta to avoid being recognized.
I consider not going directly home in case I’m being followed. Perhaps I can just pace the streets, going from place to place, cut my hair maybe, go by another name for a while. As the rickshaw reaches my flat, it occurs to me that I’m not Jason Bourne and that he too probably wouldn’t get very far on the run in Karachi. I take a long look up and down my street. It looks the same but is it really? My heart stops racing as I lock the apartment door behind me. But am I safe here? I take out my phone but it seems like an object of betrayal right now. I can’t trust the phone, or my e-mail. In a fit of inspiration, I remember that I have an extra SIM card that I bought to use in rural Sindh, which isn’t registered in my name. I plug it into my phone and check my e-mail. Jamie wants to meet up tonight, but I don’t see how I can leave the house. Or should I just act as if everything is normal and run the risk of ending up in a detention centre in some godforsaken military base? I e-mail Jamie back. ‘I’m a bit caught up with something.’ Damn the intelligence for screwing over my love life. Jamie sweetly offers to send a car to fetch me. I’m sorely tempted, there’s nothing quite like the fear of being dragged off by intelligence agencies to make one really, really want a warm hug, but I need to be smart about this.