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+ "An American Informer" 3-4 September, Peshawar
On Tuesday I awake depressed and anxious. My stomach is unsettled. I feel a little panicked. Rationally I know that our work is going as well as I can expect, so I assume this feeling has to do with the strain and exhaustion of the last few days of constant travel. I feel like going back to bed and waiting for my nerves to calm. But we have a busy day ahead. I tell myself that I will feel better as the day goes on. I don't. By afternoon we have accomplished a lot. But I am still at loose ends. Somehow, by early evening I sink into an overstuffed couch at "Carpet World" and sip green tea while watching about eight Pesharwis unfurl kilims and pile weaves from Tajikistan, Dagestan, Turkmenistan, Afghanistan. ... I listen as the salesmen tell me all sorts of stories about the carpets, but they are creative storytellers and I enjoy being spun. They keep insisting that they are showing me "special" carpets.
"I don't want your personal inheritance," I protest. "No, you must." He wins. Time passes. And I leave "Carpet World" three hours later feeling much better. I've spent most of that time thinking about my apartment in New York, my wife, and my two sons. And I've refurnished our home for just a few thousand rupees. Shopping is therapeutic. On Wednesday, I am awaiting the return of a Pakistani journalist named Hayat Ullah Khan with whom we've contracted to venture into the forbidden tribal areas. We have crossed into some such tribal zones in the north, but in the tribal areas south of Peshawar outsiders are strictly forbidden. Until recently the area was even off limits for the Pakistani Army. Not until last October, when Al Qaeda fighters began escaping across the Afghanistan-Pakistan frontier into the tribal zone, did the central government of Pakistan forcefully attempt to police the area. Men in the tribal areas all carry Kalashnikovs. They want to be left alone.
Technically, the Pakistani government in Islamabad considers the area autonomous, and has given it the misnomer "FATA," for Federally Administered Tribal Area. The federal government only provides some basic utility services and maintains a few roads and some schools. Law and order has traditionally been entirely a local affair. Now comes the "War on Terrorism." Since the introduction of Pakistani soldiers in the FATA, there have been numerous skirmishes. A few months back, in the town of Azam Warzak, patrolling Pakistani troops came upon a nest of 35 "Uzbek and Arab foreigners." A shootout left 10 Pakistani soldiers dying and all but two of the Al Qaeda fighters escaping. The papers in Pakistan report daily on standoffs between the army and tribal elders over searches, check posts and patrols. In just the last few days tribesmen have marched down the streets of several towns chanting pro-Taliban, anti-American, anti-Pakistan slogans. "We will not give up any guests," they say. Our Pakistani colleague is an extremely brave and determined reporter. He has returned with 14 hours of videotape. I spend a straight nine hours viewing this material, speeding though a few landscapes and sunsets, but mostly it is riveting material. Here is a rotting graveyard of British soldiers. Here, a sprawling Afghan refugee camp. On tape #4 there are gunshots as he drives a road that cleaves two warring tribes. Tape #7, a tribal counsel, or loya jirga, meets to discuss the harboring of Al Qaeda men. There is music, and men dancing with guns raised high, some twirling until they fall, writhing, to the ground. On this tape there is a truck with a six-foot portrait of Osama bin Laden painted beautifully, menacingly, on the tailgate doors. There are clandestine shots of Pakistani troops moving into a village where authorities say "Al Qaeda is hiding." And there is amazing footage of the troops firing rockets into ten homes, demolishing them. There is footage of bloodstained ground. And there is more I will not mention here.
"What did you tell them?" I ask. "I tell them I am an informer." He smiles. "I am a journalist. I inform America with my reporting. But also the whole world. I am an informer. You are right." He was released but only after having his tapes confiscated. We have been more fortunate. He has brought back the first pictures of this area I have ever seen. Miram Shah, Wana, Janikhel. A few print reporters went into the North and South Waziristan tribal agencies in April and May, but since then the federal and tribal police have clamped down. Roadblocks are everywhere, manned by Army, Frontier Corps and tribal soldiers. There have been no datelines from the tribal areas since. We determined that for Scott or me or Marcela to go would be too difficult. We opted to give Hayat Ullah a camera and send him on his own. We drafted a list of locations and questions. We asked him to film road signs, proving where he was. And to interview tribal leaders. I spend the entire day in my hotel room with him. This is a strange way to report a story but it seems to be my only option. We order tea from room service and keep watching.
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home - introduction - mapping the journey photograph ©afp/corbis
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