Conversely, the 2002 election campaign destroyed the Imran-Musharraf relationship, such as it was. The president began proceedings by announcing a long, and legitimate, list of complaints about Pakistan’s ‘scelerotic’ political process. Having lowered the voting age and raised both the overall number of seats in the National Assembly and those reserved for minorities, Musharraf then decreed that all candidates for the legislature should be university graduates, at a stroke disqualifying some 96 per cent of potential office seekers. This was done, he remarks, ‘not only to have better-educated parliamentarians but also to sift out many undesirable politicians’, to him a ‘vastly popular’ initiative that ‘gave our bodies a new, younger, more enlightened outlook’.
Less welcome was the general’s sanguine acceptance of what the official IPO observers called ‘a pervasive atmosphere of bullying, coercion [and] violence directed at opposition candidates and their supporters’ that made the 1997 election seem tame by comparison. Musharraf appears not only to have taken a relaxed view of the intimidation and brutality that characterised the campaign, but, in the IPO’s words, to have then ‘signally failed to protect the integrity of the country’s 65,200 polling places’, a number of which opened to voters for less than the officially mandated nine hours, or ‘allowed the secrecy of the ballot to be compromised’, among other irregularities. Despite Musharraf’s enfranchising of Pakistan’s youth, overall voter turnout was down to 39 per cent as compared to 41.65 per cent in the 1997 contest. A second team of observers sent by the European Union later published its findings about ‘the authorities’ misuse of state resources in favour of approved political parties [and] the president’s imposition of serious restrictions on opposition campaign activities, which clearly ran contrary to the Code of Conduct for Political Parties … The main televised news broadcast consistently promoted the government’s views on election-related activities … Broadcasts containing dissent or criticism of the authorities were the exception rather than the rule.’ The election was followed by six weeks of political paralysis, at the end of which Musharraf appointed 58-year-old Zafarullah Khan Jamali as prime minister. Mr Jamali’s Pakistan Muslim League (Q) party enjoyed a less than overwhelming mandate, having won just 25.2 per cent of the popular vote. Musharraf considered his new prime minister ‘extremely loyal to me … his cooperative role was most praiseworthy.’
Home from England, Imran threw himself into his second national campaign, despite being prey, along with his party, to the various ‘preelection administrative contortions’, of which more in a moment. In so far as there was a hot-button issue that got him going, it was Pakistan’s complicit role in the continuing coalition action in Afghanistan. In so far as there was a reason for his increasing contempt for the state president, it was the ‘inept and confused’ way in which Musharraf had blundered into a ‘ruinous’ alliance with the Americans. Unfortunately, at least some of Imran’s high-minded stand against this ‘senseless slaughter of fellow Muslims’ was negated by Jemima’s casual admission that she had once read Salman Rushdie’s book Shame as part of her university English course. It was not a universally popular association. As a result, ‘more crazed mullahs allied to [Musharraf] immediately insisted that my citizenship be revoked and that I be run out of the country’. The familiar placards accusing the Khans of being part of a Zionist conspiracy reappeared at Tehreek-e-Insaf election rallies, along with the ‘bearded fundos’ who made their presence felt outside the gates of the family home in Islamabad. ‘They targetted Jemima [and] it rattled her,’ Imran noted.
In August, just before announcing the election, the president’s powerful principal secretary Tariq Aziz held a series of meetings with the major parties. Aziz had subsequently helped to reinvent the Pakistan Muslim League as an obediently pro-Musharraf group (although a vociferous rump remained loyal to the exiled Nawaz Sharif), by the expedient of allegedly offering the party leadership a guaranteed minimum 80 seats in parliament. It was an unusual use of presidential patronage, yet that very singularity perhaps played to Musharraf’s favoured theme: namely, that there was an ‘unprecedented national emergency’ in the wake of 9/11. The president had already put his authority on the line by staging a referendum in April 2002 which asked coyly whether, ‘For the survival of the government system, the establishment of democracy [and] to fulfil the vision of Quaid-e-Azam, you would like to elect General Musharraf as head of state of Pakistan for a further five years?’ The result showed a gratifying 98 per cent level of support for the president. Yet when Musharraf’s representatives, accompanied by members of the Pakistan intelligence agency, the ISI, later sought to convince Imran to join a pro-government alliance, the so-called ‘King’s Party’, the meeting ended in acrimony. ‘The essential proposal was that I join the coalition, which would do Musharraf’s bidding once elections were held, and that in return I would be made prime minister.’ Imran at first stalled, and then roundly declined the offer when the delegation pressed him for a reply. Colourful language was used. ‘You’ll never be elected now!’ the head of the ISI (political wing) reportedly shouted at him.
On 25 September, Imran addressed a capacity audience waiting for him inside the earthern cricket ground at Kamar Mushani, a small mining community just north of his ancestral home and would-be constituency of Mianwali. Some 6,000 party faithful, equivalent to half the town’s adult population, applauded wildly as, dressed in all-white shalwar kameez, their leader climbed a flight of steps to sit on a rickety-looking wooden platform erected on the side of the pitch. When the welcome showed no sign of abating, an MC took the microphone to announce that the meeting would not convene unless there was order in the public stands. A moment later Imran himself rose, faced the pavilion and raised his arms in a quieting gesture like that of an umpire remonstrating with an unruly spectator moving in front of the sightscreen. The crowds immediately fell silent. Speaking in his familiar sepulchral tone, Imran then reportedly told them, ‘Musharraf was wrong to give support to US troops for their war in Afghanistan. Our country has become a servant of America … I was made to understand that when the general won the referendum he would begin a clean-up of the system. But it wasn’t the case.’ After another sustained round of applause, Imran went on to announce that, if elected premier, he would bring about ‘police and army reforms’ and make a ‘heavy investment in education’. While hardly radical in itself, this was followed by the promise to ‘weed out the over-staffed government agencies’ which continued to do ‘little or nothing’ on the people’s behalf. Judging from the tumultous response, Imran seemed to hit a deep nerve when he spoke of sending the displaced bureaucrats to join graduate students in performing some form of national service ‘such [as] teaching poor children in the countryside’.
Back in Mianwali itself, the administrative seat, the newly reconstituted Pakistan Muslim League (Q) party was putting up a strong fight. The PML(Q) candidate, Obaldullah Khan, was a local landlord, alleged to be more than passingly familiar with the drug trade, who had just emerged from nine months in gaol for corruption. Mr Khan’s campaign against his near-namesake included a full range of print and broadcast advertisements, among other, less formal outlets, referring to his opponent’s ‘Jewish wife’. Imran admitted that he faced an uphill struggle to be elected, but insisted that he and the party would carry on regardless. ‘I cannot stop now. It’s in my blood,’ he said.
On election day, 10 October, Imran joined his wife, family and senior colleagues to watch the returns. The early reports were discouraging, as between them the PML(Q) and the Pakistan People’s Party Parliamentarians (PPPP) swept first the south and then the remaining cities. At 2 a.m., Imran went to bed, thinking the worst. When he woke the next morning, the Tehreek-e-Insaf were in 18th place out of an officially recognised 73 parties in the popular count. They eventually polled 229,125 votes, or some 0.8 per cent of the 28 million Pakistanis who cast a ballot. Imran himself was the only one of his party’s candidates elected to parliament. Just over a mont
h later he was sworn in to seat NA-71, representing Mianwali, formally agreeing, ‘I am a Muslim and believe in the Unity and Oneness of Almighty Allah and the Books of Allah’, and that he would bear true faith and allegiance to Pakistan, discharging his duties and performing his functions honestly, to the best of his ability, not allowing his personal interest to influence his official conduct or decisions. It was 16 November 2002; Imran had just turned 50.
The president and his political fixer Tariq Aziz, along with representatives of the ISI, had continued actively to solicit Imran’s support up to the moment he took his seat. Once again, the core proposal was that he throw in his lot with the pro-Musharraf PML(Q), in return for which he would be promptly appointed prime minister. An army source close to the president adds that there had been plans ‘to then send Mr Khan on a lengthy goodwill tour of western Europe and the US’, apparently with the idea of his renegotiating Pakistan’s numerous loan agreements — some of whose proceeds went to the treasury, as advertised, and some to an opaque network of powerful ‘foundations’ controlled by the military. At that point, Musharraf evidently still didn’t know what Imran thought of him (‘just a total conman and a coward’, he found out later), but there was to be no such accommodation. Early in November, the Tehreek-e-Insaf confirmed that the party was ‘strictly non-aligned’ and would not enter into any alliances or deals. Two days later, Musharraf reportedly told Tariq Aziz that Imran would ‘surely agree’ to be a roving ambassador if the terms were right for him. It appears to have been another case of wishful thinking on the president’s part. On 5 November, Imran’s party again put out a statement declaring its independence. Speaking for everyone who has attempted to plumb the depths of the Imran-Musharraf relationship, as well as for that larger group that tries to make sense of Pakistani politics, the army source confessed, ‘The General did not understand Khan [or] that he couldn’t be seduced.’
When the time came, Imran used his parliamentary vote in favour of Maulana Fazal-ur-Rehman, the Jamiat Ulema-e-Islam party’s nominee as premier. It was a not uncontroversial choice. Fazal-ur-Rehman, who enjoyed the nickname ‘Mulla Diesel’ following allegations that he had been involved in a fuel sale scandal, was the head of a fundamentalist Muslim coalition broadly united by its opposition to the war in Afghanistan. In his capacity as general secretary of the Muttahidah Majlis-e-Amal (‘Council of United Action’) religious alliance, Fazal-ur-Rehman had previously led a series of anti-Musharraf street demonstrations and threatened the US with a holy war if they continued their ‘slaughter’ of innocent Muslims.* ‘Khan has more than a soft corner for the ousted Taliban,’ a senior member of the Tehreek-e-Insaf anonymously told Pakistan’s Newsline. ‘He thinks that the orthodox religious militia did a great service to Afghanistan and Islam before they became a target of the Americans.’ When I asked him about it, Imran denied having any particular affection for the Taliban, but by endorsing Fazal-ur-Rehman it seemed to Newsline, among others, that he was siding ‘against the liberal, democratic and progressive elements in Pakistan society’ and instead taking a ‘conservative view [on] women, education, fine arts, television and sports’.
While Imran struggled with the intricacies of elective politics, Jemima had busied herself with a number of UNICEF-related activities, including field trips to Kenya, Romania and Bangladesh, and a high-profile role promoting the benefits of the UN’s Breastfeeding Manifesto. She eventually completed her BA in English, suspended some seven years earlier, in May 2002. Later that year, Jemima enrolled in a postgraduate course in Middle Eastern studies, specialising in ‘Modern Trends in Islam’, at the University of London. She had played a full part in her husband’s second, personally successful election campaign. The big rallies in and around Mianwali had been packed with crowds who called her name and waved her photograph. Before Imran spoke, he and his wife would materialise onstage in a handsome and carefully arranged tableau, to a roaring welcome. But the constant attacks from other quarters had taken their toll on Jemima, who left Pakistan in early 2003 with the couple’s two sons, and would visit the country only sparingly from then on.
In June 2002, the Pakistan army had launched Operation Kazha Punga in an attempt to root out a cell of al-Qaeda operatives and their families living in the country’s rugged North-west Frontier Province. From a tactical point of view, the mission went poorly. A force of 500 soldiers, including elements of the Special Services Group and regular infantry, duly surrounded and entered the al-Qaeda compound, but then came under attack from supposedly pregnant women who pulled automatic weapons from under their clothes. In the ensuing melee ten soldiers lost their lives and the majority of the terrorists escaped into the hills. As President Musharraf recalls, ‘The operation was a turning point, because for the first time it highlighted the magnitude and seriousness of the threat against us.’
By January 2003, with the help of American money and hardware, the Pakistan army had formed a helicopter-borne Special Operations Task Force, specifically to ‘provide [a] fast-reacting, hard-hitting unit to effectively police the remote areas’ and ‘impose the will of the elected government’. The Americans then added a fleet of unmanned drones which would fly intelligence-gathering operations 24 hours a day over Pakistan’s tribal regions. Over the next year the US made all sorts of proposals to enhance security arrangements in the general area. They wanted to set up radio relay stations in the mountains of Tora Bora; they wanted to dig a tunnel through Peshawar and another parallel to the Khyber Pass; they wanted to deposit heat in underground caverns by setting off a bomb, then draw on the energy later; they saw splendid opportunities for an electrified fence that would run some 130 kilometres (80 miles) from the westernmost fork of the Indus through to the Afghan border. All these glittering prospects would become reality, however, only if Musharraf and his cabinet could be persuaded that ceding a further chunk of Pakistan’s sovereignty would be repaid by continuing economic largesse from Washington.
As far as can be ascertained, Imran didn’t actively oppose all the American initiatives. In many cases he didn’t even know about them. The Pakistani president ensured that few if any of the more grandiose proposals ever came to a parliamentary vote, preferring, instead, to negotiate on a case-by-case basis direct with his country’s de facto bankers. In time even Musharraf appeared to grow slightly uneasy that ‘I [had] given so much … A number of the demands [on us] were ridiculous and may even have been mischievous.’ The US Army Corps of Engineers were ultimately denied the opportunity to build their tunnels or set off their underground bombs, though Musharraf did unhesitatingly agree both to the requested overflight privileges and to the establishment of ‘purely logistical’ bases in Sindh and Balochistan.
Imran, to the extent that he was aware of them, was unimpressed by these apparent transgressions of Pakistani soil. Even if al-Qaeda was developing an elaborate network of terror cells that, as claimed, stretched from the Horn of Africa to the remote areas of the Hindu Kush, from Kabul to Kansas, what mattered was protecting his nation’s territorial integrity. Speaking in November 2008, he recalled the case of a parliamentary colleague who was travelling with his family in two jeeps close to the Afghan border.
A helicopter gunship comes on top [overhead]. The instructions are that the moment the gunship comes you stop your cars, get out and put your hands up. This is in your homeland, OK? … So they all did that. They all stopped the cars, got out and put their hands up. The [pilot] came back and bombed them. The guy showed me the pictures. His six-year-old son lost both his legs. His brother gets killed. His brother’s son gets killed.
Imran’s preference for self-determination in foreign affairs while, as he vainly hoped, a ‘competent leader’ ushered in much-needed social reforms grew steadily throughout his first five years in the legislature. From the start of his term, it was clear that he saw his duties somewhat differently from the average provincial member of parliament. Like any good MP he worked long hours on behalf of his Mianwali constituents, helping to
bring a degree of economic relief to an area known for its extremes of heat and cold, and largely distinguished in terms of infrastructure by its dilapidated Second World War aerodrome, various hockey fields and tombs, and a notorious pre-Partition gaol. Meanwhile he also continued his travels abroad. It’s said that he came to be widely acknowledged as the assembly’s most expert and experienced spokesman on international affairs, quite apart from his reputation as a globally adept fundraiser. When overseas, Imran consistently sought out heads of state, foreign ministers and party leaders. Some saw him, if only out of curiosity or respect for his former career; but many others had only limited time for a mere member of parliament, a leader of a fringe socio-political group regarded in some quarters as having little if any future. In these years, Imran was often on his own as he travelled the world. Alone, doggedly meeting with anyone who would give him the time, choking back any frustration, always tirelessly hawking the party line, he more than once found himself addressing half-empty press conferences where the questions tended to be concentrated as much on his personal life as on Pakistan’s role in the world. Like a bowler relentlessly pegging away on a flat pitch, said You, he ‘rolled up his sleeves and got on with it’. The analogy wasn’t idly chosen: Imran, an ambitious man who wanted to compete with the best, sometimes saw politics as the ‘great game’ which he, on behalf of his people, still ‘passionately’ wanted to win. In the meantime, life was an occasionally beguiling, occasionally numbing blend of heated debates on Afghanistan and Kashmir, interminable procedural wrangling, and long, hot afternoons spent on the Standing Committee on Public Accounts.
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