The Age of Kali (46 page)

If clan and tribal allegiances can survive in a modern cosmopolitan city like Lahore, these links are still more potent in rural districts. The difficulties this presents for Imran were graphically brought home the next afternoon when we drove to Wando, a remote constituency famous for its shoot-outs and blood feuds. This
notoriety is partly the result of the penchant of the local heavies for attacking police stations and thus initiating a series of spectacular gun battles, remarkable even by Pakistani standards of carnage. But Wando’s reputation for epic violence has recently been enormously enhanced by a film called
Maula Jat
. The movie tells the true story of its eponymous hero’s blood feud with a local
goonda
who rejoiced in the name of Nouri Nutt; in terms of blood spilt,
Maula Jat
succeeds in making
Rambo
look like
Bambi
. It has now become the most popular Punjabi movie ever made in Pakistan, and takes the form of a kind of long, ritualised slaughter interspersed with occasional dance sequences. It ends with a pile of corpses of which even Genghis Khan might have been proud.

‘We’ve got a bit of a problem in this constituency,’ admitted Imran as we drove in to the badlands of Wando. The nub of the problem, he explained, was that the last time someone had stood against the local
zamindar
that man had been shot dead, then his entire family had been tracked down and wiped out, one by one. This had led to an understandable reluctance among supporters of the Justice Movement to step forward and contest the election. But in due course a candidate had been found. This man, said Imran, feared no
goondas
and bowed his head to no
zamindar
.

‘Why is that?’ I asked.

‘He’s Nouri Nutt’s nephew.’

We picked up Ansar Nutt a few minutes later. He was a huge, burly figure with curling moustaches and the physique of a wrestler. He sat beside me in the back, and as we drove I asked him about his uncle Nouri.

‘He was a good-looking man,’ said Ansar, shrugging his shoulders. ‘He killed a few people and went to lots of jails.’

‘So the film was accurate?’

‘My family objected to him being shown as the villain. We went and saw the director.’ Ansar smiled. ‘When he saw us he soon apologised.’

‘Has anyone threatened you now you’re standing for Imran?’

‘They sent some people. But Nutts are the majority in this area.
The last time we had a blood feud over a hundred died. So they quickly went away again. It was not a big problem. My
baradari
are behind me.’

‘Did you have to kill anyone?’ I asked. Alarmed by my question, Imran looked around anxiously from the front seat to hear the answer.

‘I don’t like violence,’ said Ansar, sidestepping the question. ‘Except when it comes to my self-respect. Only then am I like my uncle.’

‘So you are not worried?’ I asked.

‘I’m not scared of anyone. With my family I need no bodyguards. Also I’ve done a commando course. When the appointed time comes I’ll go to my grave,’ said Ansar Nutt. ‘But not before.’

Political violence may leave Ansar Nutt unruffled, but not all the Tehrik-e-Insaaf workers are equally fearless. After Imran had spoken at a dusty village rally – more ecstatic crowds, more garlands, more promises to hang corrupt politicians – the convoy retired to the house of a local worthy for
chai
. There a succession of anxious villagers pleaded with Imran for protection if they did take their life in to their hands and stand up and support him.

‘Khan sahib,’ said one gnarled old farmer with henna-dyed hair. ‘Promise us that if you lose you will not go off to England with your wife and leave us alone.’

‘We are poor people,’ said another. ‘If you are not there the
goondas
will kill us.’

‘These looters will go to the police. Then the police will arrest us and create many problems for our families.’

Imran raised his hands, calling for silence.

‘If you have trouble,’ he said, ‘my workers and I will come to
this constituency and fight for you. We have many educated people with us, many lawyers. We will provide justice through the courts.’

The farmers looked at each other uncertainly. Lawyers were clearly not the kind of defence they had had in mind.

‘This election is just a battle in a long war,’ continued Imran. ‘If we win, then the real struggle will begin. If we lose, we will become more organised. Either way, do not fear. I will look after you.’

By the time the meeting finished, darkness had fallen. Imran’s convoy passed slowly along the rutted village roads. The driver was clearly a little uneasy, and cast nervous glances in to the shadows around him.

‘These
zamindars
can be very rough,’ said Imran. ‘One area we went to, a landowner’s wife entertained us. She was trying to impress us, and over tea she remarked, “My husband is a very powerful man around here. Do you know he had eight hundred people killed last year?” ’

Suddenly a figure emerged from the gloom at the edge of the road and pulled a gun from under his shawl. It was a Kalashnikov. He began firing in to the air; in the dark you could see the sparks shooting from the end of the barrel. I jumped, but Imran merely smiled. ‘In this part of the world that is the way you welcome your guests.’ He got out, shook the man’s hands, patted him on the shoulder and then got back in the car.

‘What was I saying?’

‘You were talking about a man who had killed eight hundred people in one year.’

‘Wherever we go, my supporters’ main concern is whether I can give them protection.’

‘And can you?’

‘In one sense I can’t, because I haven’t got any gunmen. All I can promise is lawyers. Already we’ve had three or four of my party workers beaten up. In Sindh in particular – the area where Bhutto comes from – the people are terrified. The
zamindars
are always sawing the legs off anyone who stands up to them.’

‘Literally?’

‘Literally. Under Benazir there’s been a total breakdown of law and order. It’s like the last days of the Moghul Empire … Uh oh. Here is a
real
hold-up.’

I looked up from my notebook to see a tractor and trailer totally blocking the road ahead of us. All around were men swathed in shawls, carrying pistols and assault rifles. Only when we drew closer could we see that some of them were wearing police uniforms under their shawls. One portly man with a walrus moustache walked up to us, pistol cocked and levelled. Imran turned on the light inside the car and slowly wound down his window. I locked the rear door. Still pointing his gun at us, the policeman bent down and looked inside the car.

‘Oh. Good evening, Khan sahib,’ he said, recognising Imran. ‘Please go through.’

We swerved around the tractor and quickly headed on.

‘They were certainly up to something,’ said Imran. ‘Did you see how startled he was when he saw me?’

‘What were they doing?’ I asked.

‘In this part of the world the police are part of the organised crime network,’ replied Imran. ‘They are supposed to protect the people from
dacoits
, but they are the real outlaws. They are on less than two thousand rupees [£35] a month, so they’re all forced in to crime to survive. Only when their salaries are raised will anything change. Until then the best police stations go to the highest bidder. Around here they’re involved in smuggling across the [Indian] border – narcotics, mainly. The rest of the time they just stop people and demand money.’

‘What happens if you refuse?’ I asked.

‘If you create trouble they usually plant a gun on you,’ said Imran. ‘Then they shoot you dead.’

The situation at Wando dramatically illustrated Imran’s principal charge: that under Benazir Bhutto corruption and lawlessness has now reached such endemic proportions in Pakistan that only a complete clean-out of the entire political system can solve the problem.

In 1995 Transparency International, a Berlin-based corruption-monitoring organisation, named Pakistan as the most corrupt country in Asia and the second most corrupt in the world, pipped at the post only by Nigeria. Partly as a result of this, the International Monetary Fund suspended a $1.5 billion loan to Pakistan. At the same time Amnesty International accused Benazir’s government of massive human rights abuse. According to their report, Pakistan had one of the worst records of custodial deaths, extra-judicial killings and torture anywhere in the world, despite which not one policeman had ever been charged with or convicted for abusing his authority.

In such a situation, with Pakistan hurtling towards its worst crisis since the crushing military defeat by India in 1971, it was difficult to see how Imran, despite his political inexperience, could act as anything except a positive force. The Tehrik-e-Insaaf had resolutely refused to take on as a candidate any existing Pakistani politician, while a scrutiny committee grilled all potential candidates on their tax returns and sources of income.

Indeed, even if the Justice Movement failed to perform well in the elections, most observers agreed that it had already been an important catalyst in putting corruption at the top of the agenda. It was research by Imran’s workers that had led to the revelation of Benazir Bhutto owning a £2.5 million manor house in Surrey, a £3.5 million Chelsea townhouse, two luxury apartments in Belgravia and a Normandy château. Benazir naturally denied all knowledge of the properties, but the charges, which are well documented, certainly contributed to the President’s decision to dismiss her government. Now the caretaker government had begun taking steps to ban convicted criminals from standing for political office, and to force all candidates to declare their assets. The following
day, Benazir’s famously corrupt husband Asif Ali Zardari – recently upgraded from ‘Mr 10 Per Cent’ to ‘Mr 30 Per Cent’ – announced that he would not contest the forthcoming elections. Many more of the most notorious politicians in Pakistan may follow his lead and think twice about facing the caretaker government’s scrutiny of their accounts.

‘We want to make a completely fresh start,’ said Imran the next day, when I went to his house for lunch. It was a Friday, the Islamic Sabbath, and Imran was taking the day off. He had just returned from visits to the gym and the local mosque, and for once was wearing a tracksuit rather than his trademark
salvar kemeez
. ‘The politicians are now the most hated people in this country. Do you know that 65 per cent of them have jumped parties at one stage or another in their career? They are totally unprincipled.’

While Imran tucked in to his
pullao
, I asked him if he was worried by his lack of experience.

‘On the contrary,’ he replied, scooping up a mouthful of
dal
and rice with his right hand. ‘I think my lack of experience is an asset. It means I know my limitations. And as for the lack of experience among my workers, I regard it as our single biggest achievement that we haven’t let in a single professional politician. We’ve started again completely from scratch.’

‘But do your people have the qualifications to solve Pakistan’s problems?’ I asked.

‘Pakistan’s problems are not complicated,’ replied Imran. ‘They stem from straightforward corruption. At root it’s a very simple problem. The level of corruption is so great it has put off all foreign investors; even overseas Pakistanis don’t send their money here any more. In the 1960s Pakistan’s exports were neck and neck with those of Hong Kong. Now our exports are worth barely a tenth of theirs. The government is now so poor, its resources so badly looted, that it cannot afford to spend anything on health. We have one of the worst infant mortality rates in the world. The education system has almost completely broken down.’

He paused to lever another handful of rice in to his mouth: ‘It
is straightforward embezzlement and corruption that has brought us to this position,’ he said. ‘The nationalised banks are looted. Half the funds apportioned for development simply disappear. I didn’t have to know anything about surgery to run my cancer hospital. It’s no different with politics. As long as you can put the right people in to the right jobs everything else will follow.’