Violence
in Gilgit
We avoided the circuitous
"short-cut" through the wilderness and walked down the washed out road.
As broad chunks of the road disappeared over the abyss, I understood why we hadn't driven
the route. We picked up the Jeep from the village and headed back to the Karakoram
Highway. The driver still fiddled with his cigarettes and matches on the impossibly narrow
road over the abyss and yet I felt none of the spine chilling terror that I'd had on the
way up. Odd, isn't it, how quickly we become habituated to risk. Maybe it's like walking
on a mossy log across a stream: the first couple times you wind up on all fours inching
your way along, then one day you find your footing and bing you're across. Abyss? What
abyss? I want to say that the highway and its
baking winds brought us back to reality from the fairy meadows of Nanga Parbat,
but what was reality any more? Our thoughts turned from the awe of the mountain to the
sweet prospect of the VIP suite waiting for us in Gilgit. A hot shower and the standard
restaurant meal of curried whatever sounded like home. But — as usual — it
was not quite so simple. At the outskirts of Gilgit we
were stopped at a military checkpoint. A soldier carrying a rifle gave us a simple
message: "Gilgit is closed. Curfew." Ali threw the Jeep in reverse
and was heading away from the town before the message sunk in. Gilgit is closed?
How do you close a town? Why? Isn't curfew something imposed on unruly teenagers?
We drove to a nearby village, stopping the car whenever we passed a cluster of soldiers
who might know something. (They were now all over the place, we saw.) Some kind of violence had
broken out in Gilgit. People had been killed. The town had been put under martial law, the
government clamping down tight. No one in or out. Ali kept shaking his head and saying,
"One, two, three day…" In a squalid little town, he
stopped at a tiny fleabag of a hotel to see if he could get us a room. I was horrified.
The heat was blistering and I was covered with road dust. I sat in a daze as Ali and J ran
inside the hotel. The muezzin was chanting the midday prayer from a rooftop somewhere and
roosters were crowing in response. The water in my canteen was hot. I wanted my VIP suite. Fortunately, the fleabag had no rooms
and we hit the road again. As Ali implored the soldiers it became clear that, while he
would not abandon us, he was very anxious to get back to his family in Karimabad. How many people find themselves begging
to get into a town under martial law? Ambitious reporters, perhaps. The folks bringing
"humanitarian aid." But there we were, Hope and Crosby, begging to get through
the barricades because we wanted a hot shower. Was it arrogance? Had we endured so much
and been so protected behind our Yankee smiles that we thought ourselves immortal?
Actually I don't remember thinking about much of anything except how miserable hot and
hungry I was and what a damn inconvenience it would be to get separated from our luggage. We drove back to the Gilgit checkpoint.
I stayed in the Jeep while Ali and J went to find someone in authority. That authority
finally strode onto the scene — a tall man in an impeccable uniform, a man with pants
tucked into high spit-polished boots, a man carrying a swagger stick. We'd already
witnessed another foreigner pleading his case. He'd been on a public bus bound for Gilgit
and gotten off to pee. The bus left without him and all his papers were on board. There
was no mercy for him and he'd joined a growing group of detainees. I don't know if J mustered his Yankee
smile or if Ali made a persuasive argument but we were suddenly approved.
But hurry. We had to grab our stuff and jump on a waiting bus now, now.
Ali was so happy to be homeward bound that he nearly left without being paid for his two
days of work. J and I were as giddy as a CNN reporter on his way into Bagdhad. Gilgit was locked down.
Heavily armed army Jeeps patrolled the streets. The "curfew" meant all
businesses closed and everyone behind closed doors. Only a few curious little boys darted
in and out of hiding as they followed the military Jeeps along. The high wrought-iron
gates of the Park Hotel were closed and locked, but when we got off the bus someone ran
out to let us in. Home at last. The lobby was filled with the
16 members of a stranded Spanish tour group glumly staring at a cricket match on a jumpy
TV screen. But the hotel was running normally, the restaurant open. We picked up our key
and headed across the garden courtyard to our VIP suite. We fixed Koolaid cocktails with
leftover Hunza water, J headed for the shower, and I grabbed my journal. I see this note:
It is only 5:15. Just another manic Monday. After dinner we got some details
on the problem from the manager and his friend. The crackdown was due to another episode
in a longstanding feud between local Sunni and Shiite Muslims. The Sunnis started it by
killing a Shiite gangster. "I know him well," the friend said. "We were in
jail together. I was a political prisoner. He started out a pickpocket, then grew to have
many political connections. I'm his friend but I no like him, understand? Very big
man." The Shias ("better
organized") retaliated. The hotel manager said 7 were dead according to official
reports but he suspected there were more. The last time this happened, the town was locked
down for 12 days. The next morning we learned that
the curfew had been extended indefinitely. Indefinite was okay with us for the moment
because our plans were so flexible, but the tour guide for the Spanish group was in a
panic. They needed to get to Rawalpindi to catch a flight. Everyone was milling around
the front gate watching the heavily armed patrols rolling by in their Jeeps and
commandeered Suzuki trucks. The Seņora in charge of the Spanish group tried to make a
deal with a local policeman to go pick up their driver who was stranded 20 km. away but
the army turned him back. She was angry and marched out into the street to talk to someone
in charge. A couple of soldiers took her arms
and quickly escorted her back through the gate. Army trucks screeched to a halt in front
of us. Soldiers jumped out into a line that spanned the width of the hotel property, their
semi-automatic rifles held tensely ready for use. I felt a chill, but was too mesmerized
by the drama to retreat indoors. The ranking officer emerged
from the group and approached the gate. He was carrying a shorter gun that looked like an
Uzi. The Seņora started explaining her plight, but he cut her off. "Relax," he said.
"You are not the only ones. We are more concerned about your safety than our own
people. You will stay here some time. Relax." "How can I relax?"
she said. "We are sixteen people —" "You are looking only through
the prism of your own problem…" She argued, but the officer
was calm and unrelenting. Finally he said everyone had to go indoors. He reinforced the
message with the management: they didn't want to be responsible if we were murdered, this
is the safest place we could be. It was hard to relax. We found
a stairway that led to the roof. The town was quiet except for the sounds of children
playing in the confines of their own protected yards. Two soldiers stood with automatic
weapons on a rooftop across the street. From a Lahore businessman we
learned a little more about the violence. Awhile back an important Shia was assassinated.
Four days ago, in retaliation, a Sunni was stabbed by 4 or 5 men and was still in the
hospital. Yesterday's problems started when the Shiite leader (the gangster) was killed in
the bazaar in broad daylight. Meanwhile, in the hotel lobby,
the Seņora was making shrill phone calls to her embassy demanding assistance in getting
out. "There are Americans here too," she shrieked in Spanish, as if the smiling
Yankees would command more action. Ha! But when we heard a rumor that
the violence was spreading to other towns, we thought, hmmm, maybe we should give our own
embassy a little ring. Even then it seemed melodramatic, a little too much like the
movies. But I keep having to relearn the fact that life is never like the movies. Movies
compress time and exaggerate the action; a musical score heightens the emotion and the
urgency; foreshadowing builds tension you know will be resolved in the climax. In life,
it's just one thing after another. No background music clues you in about what's
significant or not. Foreshadowing exists only in hindsight. The Spanish woman was flipping
out in front of us because her tour group was going to miss their flight. But were we
— Hope & Crosby, Butch & Sundance, Thelma & Louise — were we
really in danger? The real issue, of course, was
that calling the embassy meant using the Pakistani phone system, which we'd avoided to
date. We dug out some numbers from our guidebooks and got the hotel manager to place a
call to the consulate in Islamabad. J had the phone. On the first
couple tries the connection got lost when the main consulate switchboard tried to transfer
the call. The person at the other end was also having a hard time understanding J over the
bad connection, so J handed the phone to me for the next go-round, with the hope that my
voice had a better frequency. We tried another number. The
voice at the other end was too faint to make out much at all. I managed to hear him tell
me to hang up and try again. We'd been so calm, but this realization that we might not be
able get through to our own consulate suddenly sent my anxiety through the roof. I broke
into a sweat. When I finally heard a clear American
voice at the other end of the line, I blurted out our problem in the most
Hollywood of terms: "We're Americans in Gilgit! Gilgit's in a state of martial law!
People have been murdered! The violence is spreading! They won't let us out! What are we
going to do?" "Hang on. I'll transfer
you to a Consul." A woman with a kind voice came
on the line and heard my story. It seemed like news to her. "I have Security on the
other line checking out the situation. Stay on the line and I'll get right back to
you." I waited. When she got back on
the line, she was pleasantly surprised to find me still there and muttered something about
Paki phones. Security (whoever they were) had confirmed our story. "Lay low in the
hotel," she instructed. "It's hard to know how long it will last, but Security
is keeping on top of it. Now, let me get you registered." I gave her our names, dates
of birth, and passport numbers. "And can I have your next of kin…
just in case?" Sweat was dripping down my
back and my heart was pounding as I started reciting my father's name and phone number. J poked me and sputtered,
"What are you doing?!" "Just in case," I
whispered. His jaw dropped. "Don't be too scared," she said, ending our conversation. "Good luck." TO BE CONTINUED |
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There was something about the treacherous ascent on Nanga
Parbat that sent us through the looking glass. On the morning of August 24, we sat outside
our tent, binoculars glued to our eyes, watching slow motion killer avalanches spilling
from the peak. These were the weapons that had wiped out one climbing party after another.
Observing such forces of nature — and being safe from them — put us in a solemn
yet serene mood as we headed down the mountain.