Still, Sikander held few illusions about the Iraqi leader and his legendary brutality. He was by all accounts a terrible individual who needed to be brought to justice.
In the first months of 2003, preparations for America to go to war in Iraq were all but complete. General Tommy Franks had put together his plans, and after much debate with Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld about the troop levels necessary to accomplish the mission, Franks had about as lightweight a force as he could safely take into Iraq.
Meanwhile, bolstering the rationale for war, Vice President Cheney, was busy arguing improbable links between al-Qaeda and Saddam’s regime. Sikander was disgusted. An imbecile can understand that the rabidly secularist Saddam could never be an ally of the Salafist, Bin Laden, he reflected.
One evening in early March, Sikander and Jamil were in the lounge discussing the now seemingly inevitable war. Jamil was half inclined to agree with Bush’s policy on the matter of regime change even though he, too, detested the president.
“Saddam is, after all, the cause of the previous Gulf War and in any case a pretty unsavory character. Why do we care about a rationale for the impending invasion if removing him is a good thing?” he argued.
“Because it isn’t as simple as going in and taking out Saddam, is it? WMDs are just today’s rationale. It can be adjusted as the need arises and the mainstream media can be called upon to do its patriotic duty of convincing the American public of whatever message the administration needs to convey,” Sikander noted cynically. “Besides, Bush needs this to get more public support as his re-election campaign is about to get going. The problem in all of this is that the people who will be killed or injured won’t know why the American taxpayer appears to be seeking their deaths. Do you suppose that a family failing to escape a stray bomb would care that the bomb was being dropped in pursuit of their own freedom and democracy? That they weren’t the intended victims?” Sikander emotional momentum was getting the better of him. “And as for terrorism, how many new terrorists do you suppose we’ll see emerge from the unintended death of a mother, or sister?”
Jamil rarely saw this side of Sikander and felt intimidated by his brother’s simmering anger. “Sikander bhai, I agree with your view about a war in Iraq. I was just making the comment about the world being better off without Saddam. Surely you agree?”
“I do, Jamil, but do you have any idea how many regimes have been changed without a war since World War II? Don’t you suppose the Americans could organize covert operations to assassinate Saddam? I understand that they’re probably more concerned with the aftermath of his removal, and maybe just killing him and departing isn’t such a good idea. But do you see any effort going into that even now? Surely the same power vacuum will be there whichever way he’s removed?”
Jamil was weighing other subjects to redirect the conversation, when Kausar stepped into the lounge. “It’s pleasant outside. Rabia and I are going for a stroll. Care to come along?” she asked. Sikander declined. Jamil eagerly arose to join them.
It was early morning in Peshawar on March 18, when President Bush issued his ultimatum to Saddam and his two sons: Leave Iraq within forty-eight hours. As the day drew on, the news spread throughout Pakistan that Bush was actually going to launch an attack.
Sikander got an unexpected call at the office.
“Assalaamu ‘alaykum, Sikander!”
Sikander perked up at the sound of Junaid’s voice. After the day of his return to Pakistan, Junaid had seen him a few times over the month that followed, but since then he had been scarce and his job didn’t permit him to telegraph his whereabouts.
“Wa ‘alaykum assalaam, Junaid! Nice to hear from you again.”
“Looks like war,” said Junaid.
“I’ve heard. The office is buzzing. What do you suppose will happen?”
“Well, it’s a big subject. I just wanted touch base with you about it. I can’t linger on the phone right now, but we haven’t been together in ages, Sikander. Why don’t I come round this evening?”
Sikander gladly accepted the offer and called home to let his mother know. With Rabia three months pregnant and appropriately irritable, asking her to prepare for a surprise guest would be a mistake.
Junaid arrived as expected. After dinner, the TV was switched on to reveal news anchors and retired generals discussing the rich array of weapons technology being readied for the clinically precise delivery of death, interleaved with replays of Bush’s speech. After seeing the speech at least three times, they turned off the TV. Jamil excused himself to pray isha and go to bed, leaving Sikander and Junaid to chat.
“Bush is the most dangerous person on earth right now,” Junaid remarked.
“Do you think Saddam should stay?” Sikander asked.
Junaid shook his head. “No, but I don’t think a U.S. invasion and the death and destruction that will follow is the way to get him to leave. Anyway, the Americans aren’t so naïve as to publicize the real agenda of their foreign policies. We wouldn’t. Why should we expect that they would? And no one in the media seems to be willing to challenge their proclaimed assumptions. Not too hard to understand if you see what’s going on with their media.”
Sikander agreed with Junaid’s assessment on the invasion but even though he had his own opinions about media complicity, he was curious to learn more about Junaid’s comment. “What about the media?”
“The media, especially broadcast, has been buying its way into politics for a long time now. Look at what’s happening to rules governing their local TV and radio markets. Hearings conveniently opened to discuss removing limits on consolidating local media ownership, leaving each community with a narrowing range of packaged opinions.”
“Well, we have pretty narrow diversity here in Pakistan, don’t we, Junaid?”
“Yes, we could do better and, who knows, maybe someday we will. But that’s the country that holds itself up as the beacon of democracy—a model for the world to follow. Yet here we have an administration about to enter a war that it needs to sell to the public. They open these hearings and now media owners will toe the line and maybe get rewarded in a few months with more relaxed rules for local TV station ownership. And it can’t hurt to have Michael Powell, the son, no less, of the Secretary of State, be in charge of the Federal Communications Commission. The media companies have made all the right political contributions to buy those favors. Why would they now be critical of the providers of those same favors?” he asked cynically. “So, they understand what has to be peddled to the American public right now. And when the fighting starts it’ll be amphitheater. You of all people should understand how deceptive they can be.”
“Hmm.” Sikander brooded, studying his friend. Junaid was here in front of him now and it might be a while before the opportunity arose again to confront him about his name and his past. Smiling wryly he began, “Speaking of deception, Junaid, when will you trust your old friend enough to tell me your real name?”
“We weren’t speaking of that, Sikander.” Junaid replied uneasily. But then, pondering the pain and suffering Sikander had been through, much of it because he had helped Junaid and his son make it out of Afghanistan, he couldn’t see much harm now in answering Sikander’s question. He was about to, when Sikander continued.
“Junaid—or should I say… Atif?—The Americans seem to know quite a lot about you. At least they believe they do.”
Junaid wondered what Sikander, and for that matter, American military intelligence, might know about him. His eyes met Sikander’s with a pokerfaced stare.
“Relax, Junaid. Do you think I’d reveal that to anyone?” Sikander asked, almost protesting. “The interrogators. They showed me a picture of you. They said you’re Atif Masood Qureishi.”
It was Junaid’s turn to brood. Finally he sighed, shrugging, “You’re right about the name. And it’s Brigadier Qureishi.”
“I see. Well, um, congratulations on the rank. And is it true that you’re connected with al-Qaeda i
n some way?” Sikander was too far into this to back out now.
“No! At least…not now,” he confided, caught by Sikander’s expectant frown. “We and the CIA, we helped Bin Laden come into Afghanistan while the Russians were there. Osama never did much by way of fighting,” Atif shrugged, “but he did provide a convenient source of untainted non-U.S. money in the wake of the whole Iran-Contra affair and he did train upward of thirty thousand non-Afghans, ostensibly to fight the Russians. After Kuwait, Bin Laden pitched the Saudis to let him lead the effort to protect their oil fields. They refused. They wanted the Americans to do it, as did the Americans. He warned them that America might never leave, but certainly not for several years. Hm!” Atif rolled his eyes and shook his head wistfully. “He was livid when they rebuffed him!
“Look, Sikander, I was a member of Maktab-ul-Khidmat. You could say it was a predecessor of al-Qaeda, but after Azzam was killed, the whole thing went in a completely different direction, and I was no longer on board. Sure, I maintained connections. I had to monitor whatever I could. But no, I’m not a member of al-Qaeda today. Frankly, I’m not surprised that the CIA believes I am. I had this conversation with my chain of command eleven years ago. They understand what the facts are. If your captors put this theory to you, I’d say they were baiting you or their intel is worse than I thought.”
Sikander wondered what else he didn’t know about the enigmatic Atif, and what, if anything would have been different about his experiences in Guantanamo if he had known.
“Well—Atif?—I hope you know that you can trust me to keep this between the two of us?” Sikander looked for acknowledgment. He had wanted answers, but not at the expense of their friendship.
Atif nodded, smiling resignedly. “Sikander, I took on the name when we were fighting the Russians. There’s no real need for it now. I’m practically retired and I’ve only kept using the name for continuity with friends who knew me by it. Tell whoever you want.”
The two of them talked a while longer, sipping tea and discussing the world after Saddam and the world after Bush; especially the world of Pakistan.
Forty-eight hours after Bush’s ultimatum, a cruise missile struck a house where Saddam was reportedly spending the night. What followed was what the Pentagon and the media billed as the campaign of “shock and awe”—a textbook aerial bombardment of command and control positions with a focus on preventing the Iraqis from mounting a coordinated defense against both airborne and ground attacks. Ground forces would soon be advancing on the country and air superiority was necessary to protect those troops. The media mostly played along by limiting itself to being embedded within the U.S. troop units. Its effect was to cause bonding with the troops and to report, for the most part, empathetically. Above all else, the administration was anxious to avoid the televising of body bags and grieving relatives.
With breakneck speed, General Franks’s battle plan resulted in a ground troop advance into Baghdad. Over the ensuing months, the U.S. began its descent into a quagmire with its mix of achievements and calamitous blunders. Among the greatest blunders was the absence of a meaningful plan for handling a large-scale evaporation of the Iraqi military, which morphed, along with a sizeable civilian contingent, into a number of deadly guerilla forces.
Ayesha was born in September. Her arrival made Sikander feel as if his family was complete and it made him find any excuse to come home from work early. Ayub and Qayyum, who were almost eleven and seven, were excited to have a little sister. Noor and Sofie were likewise delighted at this replica of each of their own families.
Whether it was the passage of time or the therapeutic effect of Ayesha’s arrival, Sikander no longer experienced anxiety attacks or nightmares, and although he couldn’t eliminate the physical and mental scars altogether, he regained his strength. Importantly, his short temper on matters of America and Iraq simmered down considerably.
During the Christmas break of 2003, Salman Khan was visiting Pakistan from America. His image stabilization software business was thriving.
Salman’s aunt invited Sofie and her family to a dinner party at her home. Salman was keen to meet Sikander again especially after he’d heard about Guantanamo. He often got into discussions, most of them cordial, with his American friends and colleagues about the nature of the war with Iraq and where America was headed. He looked forward to hearing of Sikander’s experiences.
The guests arrived and over dinner, the conversation didn’t take long to drift into the topic of the war. No meaningful evidence of the development or production of WMDs had been found, much less the weapons themselves. The insurgency against an American presence appeared to be vibrant and fault lines between Shi’a and Sunni had exposed themselves in the social landscape everywhere. On a brighter note, Saddam Hussein had just been captured two weeks earlier, and that seemed to engage everyone’s interest. Speculation passed around the table of how he would be dealt with and how the whole adventure would turn out for Iraq, for America, and for neighboring Iran. In line with after-dinner custom, the men and women split up to pursue their separate conversations. Sikander opened with Salman asking how Muslims in America had fared after 9/11.
“There was a time immediately afterwards when it was pretty grim for Muslims. A few hate killings, bricks tossed through masjid windows,” began Salman. “That stuff quickly died down. But the country’s split about Iraq. A lot of people think it’s heading for a mess. Way more muddled than Afghanistan. Still, now that Saddam’s been caught, I’m sure the matter of WMDs will be quietly swept under the rug, God bless America!” Salman chuckled cynically, shaking his head.
God? America? The comment struck a nerve with Sikander. “Salman, do you think the God that created the cosmos and managed all of existence for billions of years has formed a preference for blessing an America that’s existed for a little more than two hundred years? And what would that mean anyway? If he even cares about nations instead of humans, would he pick America over others? If so, why wouldn’t he want to bless Iraq, Afghanistan, or Pakistan at least as much as America? Maybe more if the need is greater? Are the people of these countries not worth as much to him as Americans are?”
Salman was unprepared for such a barrage. “Sikander, I… last time we met you talked about possibly coming to America. It seemed you might even want to live there. Of course, I know about Guantanamo. I couldn’t even begin to understand that experience, but I suppose I can see how it might have…changed your perspective?”
“Salman bhai,” Sikander replied with a smile, “there’s an America that stands for something, the kind of place I always imagined it to be, and who knows, maybe was or even still is…” He paused, suspending a shrug. “The people there are simply letting themselves be led down the wrong path right now.” A polite nod from Salman prompted Sikander to continue. “But I suppose there is one thing. Even though it seems to be screwing up, I don’t see another country as capable of identifying and correcting its mistakes, as well as America. We certainly don’t have that in Pakistan.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Feeling responsible, Sikander continued. “I suppose my remark about God blessing America was more academic than judgmental,” he clarified unconvincingly.
“Sikander bhai?” asked Salman, “How did it feel? You know, to be—”
“To be in Guantanamo?” Only a matter of time before that came up, thought Sikander.
Salman nodded. Feeling until now like an innocent bystander, Jamil perked up. He had never heard much elaboration of Sikander’s experiences as a detainee.
“I don’t really like discussing it. But it was dreadful and totally unlike your descriptions of your adopted country.” Sikander said.
Salman’s long-standing connection with America seemed to draw out of Sikander a need that he hadn’t felt with others in Pakistan. Uncharacteristically, and despite his earlier reticence, he began describing much of his Guantanamo ordeal as well as the things he was sure were being done to other detainees. Salman
and Jamil listened in amazement. Sikander cast a wary eye in Jamil’s direction, leaving no doubt that none of this was to be repeated to friends and family. He made a mental note to himself to warn Jamil more explicitly later.
But as a naturalized American, his host that evening was perhaps the best person to be telling. Maybe his experience would lead Salman to feel more confidently informed about a detainee’s firsthand perspective, unavailable to his American friends.
After much probing, but sensitive to Sikander’s tolerance, Salman eased the conversation toward Musharraf’s performance, to how Peshawar had changed, and finally, to Sikander’s and Jamil’s ambitions for Javelin. Eventually, the discussion drifted toward Salman and how his business was faring.
“The economy’s in a bit of a soft spot, probably because of the war, but generally we’re okay. Money’s cheap and I personally can’t complain,” replied Salman, modestly. “Sabrina and I are building a new home just outside Durham. If you ever get out our way, spend some time with us.”
The comment triggered a thought Sikander had mulled over for a while. “Thank you, that would be nice, Salman, but tell me, what would you say are the challenges in setting up a business in America?”
Salman cocked a curious eyebrow. “Are you thinking of doing business there?”
“Jamil and I have talked about it.” Sikander shrugged as he glanced at Jamil. “We’re only going to be able to take the company so far in Pakistan, but America is a vast market.”
“It certainly is. Your best bet is probably to buy a troubled, cash-poor player, either a national distributor or regional wholesaler,” replied Salman.
“Buy? How easy do you suppose that would be for a foreign company like ours?”
“Not too hard. There are publications that list such opportunities, and there’s always the Internet. Do a search, find a company matching your requirements, and call them.” Salman replied. “By the way, if you invest a quarter of a million dollars or so, you can even become a resident without a green card. Some kind of investor’s visa program. You might want to call the embassy about that.”
SIkander Page 47