An incessant battle is being waged for ownership of Karachi. The armies may change but the war rages on uncontrollably, subjecting this beleaguered metropolis of 18 million to the fallout of political gang-wars, a criminal underbelly of drug lords and weapon smugglers and strident shows of strength from an octopoid Islamist insurgency.
The latter may be directly liable for the recent attack on the CID building which left 18 dead and over 100 injured, but the former must share some moral responsibility for creating a sub-culture that invites terror to its bosom.
Steady infighting between an MQM determined to stand its ground and the re-emergence of the ANP as a viable challenger has made Karachi an easy hideaway for strategic pockets of the Tehreek-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), radical anti-Shiite outfits like Lashkar-e-Jhangvi and key al Qaeda operatives. More than 1,000 people have died on Karachi streets this year — a higher total than deaths in suicide bombings across Pakistan. It is relatively unproblematic for terrorists to find cover in the shadow of this violence, to fuse into the layered power struggles that riddle the city. The heart of Pakistani terror may beat loudly in the barren tribal lands up north, but when its fighters retreat from the Pakistan military, they increasingly head southwards to use the country’s business capital as a bolt-hole.
Ironically, despite the millions of US dollars being pumped into the war against Islamist militancy in Pakistan, the anti-terror headquarters in Karachi’s red-zone had no working CCTV cameras because of non-payment of electricity dues. CCTV footage has been crucial in identifying radical networks and enabling intelligence overviews after terror attacks globally. Without such vital checks, terrorists live to fight another day. If this is the level of security in an enclave that houses the chief minister’s house, major government offices, the American consulate and several five-star hotels, what level of protection can ordinary residents hope for in Karachi’s less-fortunate neighbourhoods?
The incident also spotlights the larger problem of law enforcement in a city dirtied by political violence. When guns and politics go hand in hand, it gives birth to a sub-culture that hinges on displays of muscle. As was evident in the storming of the army headquarters in Rawalpindi, terror outfits like to strike at the heart of the establishment, making a mockery of the government’s claims that it is winning the war on terror. This is well-rehearsed psychological warfare and a highly visual press release for the international press.
Whether the Karachi bombing was orchestrated by the Lashkar-e-Jhangvi in retaliation for their activists being arrested or by the TTP, this central principle still holds water. It has left not just average residents but law agencies palpably nervous: public prosecutors in Karachi have refused to prosecute members of banned organisations such as the Lashkar after receiving death threats.
As a Karachiite abroad, I am admittedly sheltered from the immediacy of suicide bombings. But my anguish at being confronted by deathly images of a neighbourhood I once saw through a child’s eyes is real. Today’s kids, playing precariously on the rubble of the CID building, see a very different Karachi. No child should have to accept such dismantled landscapes as normal.
The impact shattered the windows of my Karachi home a second time. In 2002, a suicide bombing occurred down my street near the American consulate. It was early morning; I woke in shock as the windows burst open, shards of glass splattering across my room. Outside, the smell of blood filled the air. Twelve people, all Pakistani, died on the street where I cycled as a young girl, carefree and unaware of what carnage would one day line that same pathway. My Karachi was suddenly, irreparably, on the way to becoming ‘theirs’.
Our cleaner Jamil, who was making his way to the house that fateful morning, was one of the many who were severely injured. He remembers lying on the road amidst pieces of bodies. Eight years later, Jamil continues to take a different route to work every day; until a few days ago, often walking by the CID building. I wonder which way he will take now.
Like Karachi, he is running out of options.
Published in The Express Tribune, November 16th, 2010.
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