Diary of a Coup

I'd been having dreams for weeks beforehand of tornados and tidal waves and earthquakes hitting Karachi, my hometown, before the events that have been so well publicized by now took place on October 12, 1999. I knew these nightmares had something to do not with the actual geophysics of Pakistan, the country that the rest of the world can't seem to figure out (and neither can we, to be honest), located in a belt of uncertainty between secular, smug India on one side, and vicious, Taliban Afghanistan on the other. It had more to do with the cosmos, with fate, with the stars.

It was seven thirty p.m, and I was online, chatting to a friend in Brisbane when it happened. "I've just gotten two Dawn Internet News Alerts that the Chief of Army Staff has been retired," she types.

I'm not well versed in the ins and outs of Pakistani politics, but I knew enough to tell that something big was about to happen. I'd felt it in the air for days, now - that sticky-hot, oppressive, invisible aura that seemed to settle down over the city's horizon and wormed its way into the middle of my chest when things were about to toss and turn.

For the past few days, I had felt like I was riding on the back of a dragon that could turn around and breathe fire on me at any moment. The recent sectarian violence, the bomb set off in a bus that blew up on a bridge near my house - I went to work wondering which bus was going to blow up next, and if it was near me, would I be able to survive it?

Even the weather seemed to know. Monday morning, when I woke up to go to work, the sky was cloudy and the air gentle - unusual for October, when Karachi is hotter than a furnace. But soon a malevolent, yellow haze blanketed the sky. My colleague, Nausheen, wondered aloud if it was mist or pollution. I knew better. It was the color of trouble.

"Yeah, it just came through in my e-mail," wrote my friend in Brisbane. She was Australian but she had a huge interest in Pakistan, something I could never quite fathom. Half the nation's population wasn't interested in the country; everyone got education and ran, their degrees batons in some mad relay race to destinations all around the world.

My heart started to pound. It was what we'd been waiting for, all these months, what my fellow journalists had been writing about, what everyone had been talking about in their living rooms after dinner, when people enjoyed political speculation as if it were a tasty cigar or a fine cognac. "What's going to happen next" was the favorite guessing game of the Pakistani elite.

Just as I was trying to download the Dawn Web site, my mother called out, "The army's taking over!"

I was chatting to another friend in Houston at the same time. "I've got to go, there's been a military takeover," I typed.

"Liar!"

"I'm not lying. It's really happened. Bye!"

I raced upstairs. My mother had the television on and hysterical CNN reporters were barking out the latest news. Apparently Nawaz Sharif tried to forcibly retire the Chief of the Army Staff while he was away on an official trip to Colombo. The army revolted, seized control of the airports, the television and radio stations, and cordoned off the government residences. In the meantime, General Musharaf's plane, which the authorities were trying to divert away to Dubai even though it had only sixteen minutes of fuel left, landed in Karachi (we later found out that the swimming team from my brother's school had been on the same flight, which circled perilously around the city for forty minutes while the drama was being played out on the ground). The pendulum finally swung in a single, clean death stroke for Nawaz Sharif and his government.

The next hours passed in a strange kind of hallucination. We were all too excited to sleep. I kept calling my friends on the telephone and phone calls poured in. Everyone cheered, excited, jubilated. After the months of black stagnation, something had given, something had snapped.

I went out onto the balcony. It was the most deadening silence I have ever heard in Karachi. The tension still rose in the air like a hot air balloon, silently drifting over the suddenly quiet streets. Its ghostly shadow brought a strange chill to the heat of sharp electric excitement that had crackled across the nation.

Returning to the television set, to more phone calls, to a strange mixture of hyper-fear-joy-uncertainty-confusion. The horrible specter of Benazir Bhutto on the BBC, giving us her esteemed opinion of the events, and her cheerful analysis that the country had been plunged into a state of civil war with elements of the army fighting each other (which was later found incorrect). The Indian army on high alert. I could just see them all, licking their chops, ready to take advantage of the sudden vortex. I said a silent prayer for Pakistan.


We waited and waited for General Musharaf's statement, but I fell asleep, exhausted, at one-thirty, only to awaken the next morning at seven. Instantly, I was alert, the usual morning bleariness replaced by the churning of my mind's gears. What was going to happen today?


My brother's school had been cancelled, my sister's college was open. My father ironed his suit and headed out for a lecture he was supposed to give to the College of Business Management; they'd called at eight in the morning and informed him that it was "business as usual".


I couldn't believe what I was hearing. A coup d'etat had taken place and everything was going on as if nothing had happened? But my sister out on the road en route to college told me that people were out on the streets, some shops were open, others shut. Although less traffic was on the road than normal, everything seemed to be fine.


General Musharaf had come on the television the night before at three am and stated that he and the army had moved as a last resort. "You are all aware of the kind of turmoil and uncertainty that our country has gone through in recent times. Not only have all the institutions been played around with, and systematically destroyed, the economy too is in a state of collapse. We are also aware of the self-serving policies being followed, which have rocked the very foundation of the Federation of Pakistan." Who could disagree with that? Anyone who'd lived in Pakistan over the last four years had seen virtually everything crumble away before our very eyes.


He continued, "My singular concern has been the well being of our country alone. This has been the sole reason that the army willingly offered its services for nation building tasks, the results of which have already been judged by you.


"Dear brothers and sisters, your armed forces have never and shall never let you down, INSHALLAH. We shall preserve the integrity and sovereignty of our country to the last drop of our blood. I request you all, to remain calm and support your armed forces in the re-establishment of order to pave the way for a prosperous future for Pakistan."


Could we trust him? Did we have a choice? The two institutions that all Pakistanis trust in, God and the army. Which one would let us down first?


I decided at lunchtime to head out to work, as my office, like almost all other private institutions, was open for business.


This was it. I had heard that everything was all right… but now it was time to see for myself. If, by chance, violence broke out, things could get very bad fast. Was I really willing to put my life on the line for the sake of SPIDER? Well, no, but I decided that it wasn't about being dedicated to work. It was about being brave, or at least even trying to be brave in the face of my own fear.


I took a deep breath and set out for the city center, where the Dawn building is located. To my amazement, everything on the road was actually calm and peaceful. Fewer cars and buses traveled the roads, but those that did were driving carefully, almost trying to show how well behaved they were.
Still, my heart was jumping around in my chest. I turned up the volume on my Walkman and took deep breaths. I tried to fancy myself as a guerilla, a warrior, a citizen who believed in her country and still believed that there was reason to be hopeful and a reason to trust. My being out on the street, attempting to live a normal life even in the fact of a military coup (albeit a coup that was both bloodless and faceless) was proof of it.
No troops, no policemen anywhere, no sign or evidence of anything untoward. But everyone's faces, pale, tense, wondering, shouted out the signs far more tellingly than any sand-colored uniforms or roaring trucks with flashing sirens could have done. Everything had changed, irrevocably. No one could be the same again.
At the DAWN building, the halls were strangely empty; half the employees had not made it in to work today. I made my way to the Xibercom office. Several of the staff members had been up all night churning out Dawn updates and Internet alerts; the server had had to be reconfigured to take the load. They were at home, sleeping off the night's work, but the energy still remained, echoing along the walls. I felt it too and was rejuvenated.
No longer afraid, I settled down to work, and the day passed quickly. Everything insulated by the hum of the air conditioners; through my windows the city looked the same. The same crows circled in the sky; the same palm trees waved gently in the sun, the same jhuggees and squatters' settlements with their corrugated tin roofs everywhere.
At five pm the azaan sounded, and it was time to go home. I put my things away and left for my house, to watch the television once more and wait for more news, the General's policy decisions, the world's reaction.
When it comes, when we know which oceans we will attempt to cross, and which course will be charted for us, will we be ready for our fate?
Ready or not, our fate is waiting for us. Pakistan, zindabad.