The myth of the hidden hand
The violence is not done by hands that are hidden, but hands that are visible, soaked in Pakistani blood.
The writer is an adjunct scholar at the Middle East Institute in Washington, DC and president of Vizier Consulting, LLC. He tweets at @arifcrafiq.
I had my eyes on the paan. The distinct sweetness of that betel leaf wrap, I knew, would take me back to Pakistan, albeit for a few fleeting moments.
Meanwhile, the cashier had his eyes on me. A short conversation ensued. And it, too, took me back to Pakistan. But the flavour was bitter sorrow.
With formal introductions out of the way, the cashier and I began to talk of Pakistan’s present troubles. It was a melancholy conversation I’ve had many times before with others here in the US — a conversation that will be familiar to many expatriate Pakistanis and persons of Pakistani origin.
The sequence begins with expressions of horror at what Pakistan has become. Next come explanations of how it came to be this way, followed by lamenting the loss of what was or what might have been. And finally, there are indelicate attempts to punctuate the conversation with optimism or a supplication. The exchange is a formulaic, rapid fire form of collective therapy, probably common to many diaspora members from conflict-struck countries. It is a way to cope with disaster from a distance.
The cashier — an exceedingly polite, clean-shaven man with salt and pepper hair — said to me: “They cannot be Muslims. The people who are doing all this, they cannot be Muslims. Does anyone in your family do things like this? Blowing up masjids? No. And neither does anyone in mine.”
I stood there — keema in one hand, paan in the other — as he presented to me a narrative that has become an indelible part of the Pakistani intellectual diet. This is the narrative of the hidden hand — the third force that is supposedly pitting Muslim against Muslim in Pakistan.
I spoke with the man, but I do not know him personally. I do not know why he, as an individual, has subscribed to this myth. I will not pretend that I know why. But I did pretend to agree with him. He was both a stranger and an elder. I came into his store. And I came as a customer, not as a professional who analyses militancy in South Asia. It wasn’t my place to rebut him and I couldn’t change his mind in the few minutes I had.
Ultimately, it is only honesty from Pakistan’s leadership that can weaken the hold of this narrative of the hidden hand. Truth-telling must start at the top. It must come from Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif.
On terrorism, Sharif has been an enigma. In the past five years, he has been refreshingly honest about Pakistan-based militants who target Afghanistan and India. Yet, he has avoided direct condemnation of militant groups behind the murder of thousands of Pakistanis.
The establishment, too, has had a binary approach towards militant groups. The army is quite focused on targeting al Qaeda and the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), while it has had a weaker approach toward other groups — for obvious reasons. Still, the establishment rarely mentions al Qaeda and the TTP specifically when speaking to the Pakistani public.
The citizens of Pakistan deserve the honest truth from their leadership. They should be told that most of the violence that takes place in Pakistan is not done by hands that are hidden. The hands are, in fact, visible, soaked in Pakistani blood and waving with pride. The TTP have claimed responsibility for the murder of thousands of Pakistanis. They do so by phone, email and videos published on the internet.
Denial, it could be said, is a river that runs through Pakistan. But it has not yet overflowed. The least Sharif could do is call these killers by their names. When the hidden hand myth meets its death — when more Pakistanis realise that the terrorists are fellow Pakistanis aiming to take over the state and impose their ideology on 180 million people — then we might see sustained public support for a national security policy that results in more Pakistanis living.
Published in The Express Tribune, June 13th, 2013.
Meanwhile, the cashier had his eyes on me. A short conversation ensued. And it, too, took me back to Pakistan. But the flavour was bitter sorrow.
With formal introductions out of the way, the cashier and I began to talk of Pakistan’s present troubles. It was a melancholy conversation I’ve had many times before with others here in the US — a conversation that will be familiar to many expatriate Pakistanis and persons of Pakistani origin.
The sequence begins with expressions of horror at what Pakistan has become. Next come explanations of how it came to be this way, followed by lamenting the loss of what was or what might have been. And finally, there are indelicate attempts to punctuate the conversation with optimism or a supplication. The exchange is a formulaic, rapid fire form of collective therapy, probably common to many diaspora members from conflict-struck countries. It is a way to cope with disaster from a distance.
The cashier — an exceedingly polite, clean-shaven man with salt and pepper hair — said to me: “They cannot be Muslims. The people who are doing all this, they cannot be Muslims. Does anyone in your family do things like this? Blowing up masjids? No. And neither does anyone in mine.”
I stood there — keema in one hand, paan in the other — as he presented to me a narrative that has become an indelible part of the Pakistani intellectual diet. This is the narrative of the hidden hand — the third force that is supposedly pitting Muslim against Muslim in Pakistan.
I spoke with the man, but I do not know him personally. I do not know why he, as an individual, has subscribed to this myth. I will not pretend that I know why. But I did pretend to agree with him. He was both a stranger and an elder. I came into his store. And I came as a customer, not as a professional who analyses militancy in South Asia. It wasn’t my place to rebut him and I couldn’t change his mind in the few minutes I had.
Ultimately, it is only honesty from Pakistan’s leadership that can weaken the hold of this narrative of the hidden hand. Truth-telling must start at the top. It must come from Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif.
On terrorism, Sharif has been an enigma. In the past five years, he has been refreshingly honest about Pakistan-based militants who target Afghanistan and India. Yet, he has avoided direct condemnation of militant groups behind the murder of thousands of Pakistanis.
The establishment, too, has had a binary approach towards militant groups. The army is quite focused on targeting al Qaeda and the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), while it has had a weaker approach toward other groups — for obvious reasons. Still, the establishment rarely mentions al Qaeda and the TTP specifically when speaking to the Pakistani public.
The citizens of Pakistan deserve the honest truth from their leadership. They should be told that most of the violence that takes place in Pakistan is not done by hands that are hidden. The hands are, in fact, visible, soaked in Pakistani blood and waving with pride. The TTP have claimed responsibility for the murder of thousands of Pakistanis. They do so by phone, email and videos published on the internet.
Denial, it could be said, is a river that runs through Pakistan. But it has not yet overflowed. The least Sharif could do is call these killers by their names. When the hidden hand myth meets its death — when more Pakistanis realise that the terrorists are fellow Pakistanis aiming to take over the state and impose their ideology on 180 million people — then we might see sustained public support for a national security policy that results in more Pakistanis living.
Published in The Express Tribune, June 13th, 2013.