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Thousands of people displaced by anti-terror efforts in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (Fata) are now caught in limbo between their villages in the tribal belt and refugee camps in the Frontier province, between the Taliban and the Pakistani government.
Each person has a story of frantic flight, present suffering, and a life left behind. More importantly, most internally displaced people (IDPs) are increasingly willing to admit that they are wrestling with two emotions: rage against the government for destroying their homes in the course of military operations and frustration with the Taliban for occupying their lands.
Sakina Bibi, a confident woman in her mid-twenties with a fondness for bangles and nose rings, has spent her life in Nawagai, Bajaur Agency. In September, after the Pakistan government had launched a military operation to root out militants, she fled Nawagai with eight children, her sister-in-law, and one elder from her family. For the past four months, she has been living in Katcha Garhi, a camp for IDPs in Peshawar.
Sakina finds it difficult to talk about why she left Nawagai — when asked, she simply says, “bombs fell, rockets came again and again, so we left.” Her reticence may stem from the fact that she has little reason to ever return to Nawagai and is worried about how to settle down in Peshawar.
“My family owns no lands,” she explains. “We used to sell fruit and vegetables on stalls so now we have nothing to return to.” Her family has twice tried to rent a small house in Peshawar, but to no avail. “The city people don’t want us living near them. They think we’re dirty and that we’re thieves. All of us are out of work, too, so I don’t know how we’d pay the rent even if we got a place.”
Like many of the other refugees from Bajaur and Mohmand agencies, Sakina is caught in limbo: between her home village of Nawagai and the city of Peshawar; between the Taliban and government security forces. This sense of being stranded, of being nothing more than collateral damage in an abstract war, permeates the narratives of most IDPs at Katcha Garhi.
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Attired in a velvet shalwar kameez sprinkled with gold sequins across its floral pattern, Ameena looks incongruous amongst the grey light and sullied white tents at Katcha Garhi. She explains that she left her home village of Kausar in Bajaur Agency in a rush during a celebration associated with the holy month of Ramazan. “The bombing started and some nearby houses were demolished,” recalls Ameena. “We didn’t think — we just left.”
Ameena confirms that militants affiliated with the Tehreek-i-Taliban Pakistan had taken up residence in her village before the government launched a military operation in Bajaur. But she also insists that the military operation caused more havoc in her life than the Taliban ever did.
“When the Taliban first came, we shied away from them because they were strangers in our village,” she says. “When they came around to our houses, we would hide our men from them and wouldn’t even give them water. No one was in favour of them and we didn’t want to risk losing our lands to them.”
The sentiment towards the Taliban gradually evolved, however. Ameena explains that people warmed to them over time because they promoted Islam. “They also never did anything against women and children,” she says. “They never forced themselves into our houses.”
Her resigned tone changes when she starts describing the military operation that began in August 2008 in Bajaur Agency. “Our lives were going along as normal, and then suddenly there were aerial raids all the time. We were so scared, we couldn’t eat. We were in constant tension about the army showing up so we didn’t till our lands. After a week or so, we were suffering from hunger and thirst while our elders fell sick. It was when our neighbour’s house was crushed by heavy artillery that we decided to leave for Peshawar. The army caused more trouble for me than the militants ever did.”
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Azka Khanum, from Bhai Cheena in Bajaur, agrees with the sentiment that life was bearable under the Taliban, but destroyed by the Pakistan Army’s military operation.
She insists that there were no Taliban in her village. “There was some talk that the Taliban had come to Bhai Cheena, but we never saw them physically and there was no threat from them,” says Azka. “Once in a while, someone would drop pamphlets in our courtyards that said that women should cover themselves properly. Since, by custom, we already do purdah, we didn’t mind that they were correcting us. Those of us women who used to walk in the fields started to become more careful, but no one was ever scared of the Taliban. They never did anything forceful.
“The government said the Taliban were bad,” adds Azka, “but we didn’t have any issues until the military operations started.” She remembers how bombing began one evening without any prior warning, forcing her family to hire a car at a day’s notice to flee the village.
“The government isn’t targeting the Taliban,” says Azka, her voice raised. “We don’t hear about any Taliban deaths. We’re the only victims.” As she speaks, Azka apologises for her tone and insists that she doesn’t favour the Taliban over the government. “We’re just caught in the middle — we want both the Taliban and the government security forces out of our village.”
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Yahya Abdullah, a public school teacher who also hails from Bhai Cheena, shies away from black and white categorisation emphasising that the situation in the tribal areas is more complicated than it seems. “I’m not sure who’s fighting who,” he says. “All I know is that I’ve been made a refugee in my own country.”
Like others from his village, Yahya is hard-pressed to complain about the Taliban. “They didn’t do anything wrong in our village,” he says. “They’d only take action against criminals. Most importantly, they’d deal with anyone who seized lands — if someone had an ongoing land dispute, the Taliban would intervene and implement the community’s solution.”
The only thing Yahya feels was suspicious about the Taliban was their interest in stocking weapons. “There were always weapons in our village — people keep their own at home — but never so many as there are now. We used to ask each other, ‘Where are all these weapons coming from?’”
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To illustrate how confusing the war between the military and the militants is for residents of the tribal agencies, Yahya’s brother Mohammad recalls the day the Pakistan Army arrived in Bhai Cheena.
“I was walking down the road, and I saw that the army had arrived, being led by a tank. A local Taliban commander approached the army officers and asked them to retreat. When the forces did not withdraw, the Taliban made an announcement on the mosque’s loudspeaker telling the army to withdraw without destroying local homes and shops or offending women and children.
“Within seconds, the army started shooting and helicopters started bombing. The Taliban then began to fight the government forces, and the only thing that stopped this clash was a downpour.
“I’m a simple man, but from what I understand, the Taliban didn’t start the fighting. They were trying to save our village but the army didn’t listen.”
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Hayat Khan, a young man with a henna-red beard from Khar in Bajaur Agency, cares less about who initiated the clash between militants and government forces. “I just want it to stop so that I can go home,” he says.
Like Yahya, though, Hayat stresses that the unfolding in scenario is tricky to resolve. He recalls what happened when his village formed a lashkar to drive out the Taliban in the hope that their absence would keep the Pakistan Army away too. “Our plan didn’t work,” he despondently admits. “The Taliban began attacking the lashkar instead of the government forces and so we ended up with a bigger mess of three-way fighting.”
Despite having experienced the “mess of three-way fighting,” Hayat does not think that Fata residents can be involved in plotting a solution to the tribal predicament. “The Taliban commanders and the army officers should meet and find a solution,” he says. To justify the exclusion of tribal residents, he explains that their maliks (village heads) could not be relied on to act as effective representatives. “Forget about our maliks,” he says. “They’ve either been targeted by the Taliban or they’ve joined the Taliban for money.”
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Ishaq Rahmatullah, an elderly man from Charmang in Bajaur, also expresses little faith in his village head. “Before any of this trouble started, the security situation in our village began to deteriorate. Village elders were being kidnapped, but the maliks didn’t say anything. They were scared that they too would disappear. Our people didn’t join the Taliban, but our malik supported them. The end result is that we’re now caught between the Taliban and a government operation.”
Ishaq explains that elders of the Charmang village were suspicious about how the situation was evolving from the very start. “When the Taliban first started settling down in Pakistan, they were attacking security checkpoints, but the government was absent. They were visible then, and not as organised. Why didn’t the government stop them in the beginning?”
Frustrated by his own narrative, Ishaq insists that he has not seen government forces hurt any Taliban commanders or vice versa. “It’s all a drama — no army officers or Taliban have died, but the ordinary people are losing their lands and missing a harvest.”
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Since repatriation efforts were initiated in 2002, over three million Afghans have returned home from Pakistan. The refugee camps in which they built their lives have been razed, their community has been dispersed. But their cultural imprint has forever changed Peshawar.
Indeed, Afghan culture is ingrained in Peshawar because it is the source of all that is festive and irrepressible — the Afghan imprint remains on music, food, fashion, and beauty. But as militancy and intolerance permeate Peshawar’s urban fabric, these celebratory aspects of the city’s culture are being slowly suffocated.
Across Peshawar, Afghan musicians are locking up their instruments and hairdressers are removing the signs from beauty parlors. As they consider where next to settle, they can’t help but remember a similar persecution they faced at the hands of the Taliban in Kabul over a decade ago. In their stories are warning signs that Peshawar is vulnerable to the extremism that once gripped Afghanistan, and is now sweeping across Pakistan’s tribal belt and northern areas. In their fears is a vision of Peshawar as a city devoid of culture, cosmopolitanism, and celebration.
Javaid Shahidi, a Farsi-speaking Afghan musician, is one of many who now fears his performing days are over. He has been living in Peshawar’s Board area for the past 12 years and has enjoyed a career as a versatile musician, playing tabla, rubab, harmonium, and keyboards at Afghan weddings.
He insists that things are changing in Peshawar, and not for the better. “I used to have a big board on my building advertising the fact that I was available for hire as a wedding performer,” he says. “Recently a man came and told me that if I didn’t remove the boards, he’d demolish the entire plaza with bombs.” Of course, Shahidi chose not to take any chances and removed the boards. But now, he complains, he has no way of drumming up business.
The speed with which the Taliban and other extremist organisations have altered Peshawar’s culture continues to amaze Shahidi. “These days, I feel like I roam the streets as if I were a thief, hiding from the Taliban, or whoever these extremists are,” he says.
Sadly, he is not alone in his predicament. Afghan musicians across Peshawar are complaining that history is on the verge of repeating itself at the expense of the region’s musical culture. They insist that they do not want to leave Peshawar and that their adopted home has served them well.
“We have enjoyed living and working here,” says Imtiaz, another Peshawar-based musician. “Afghan and Pakistani music is very similar so we never had trouble adjusting.” Now, however, Imtiaz admits that he is considering moving to Lahore, where he has been exploring job opportunities for the past few months.
“There’s no reason for a musician to stay where the Taliban are,” Shahidi says. “Their hatred of music and their hatred of freedom made want to escape [from Kabul] and so I was happy to leave my life in Afghanistan and come to Peshawar. I never thought then that one day I might have to leave my life in Peshawar and return to Kabul because of them.”
Of course, Afghan musicians are not the only ones sensing a change in Peshawar’s culture. Taymur Khan, an Afghan dressmaker, spends his days worrying about the future. Eleven years ago, he settled in Peshawar and opened a shop that sells gowns for Afghan brides. Initially, business was good because Afghans wanted to do weddings the way their culture dictated. Since repatriation efforts kicked off, Khan has been struggling. A threat from extremists is the last thing he wants to manage right now.
“We’re staying here for the moment, but who knows for how long,” Khan says. “Every day we’re scared that someone will take offence to our culture, to the way we do things and the way we dress our women, and then we’ll have to leave Peshawar the way we left Kabul.”
Unfortunately, Khan’s fears are not exaggerated. According to a senior police official speaking on the condition of anonymity, Peshawar is overrun by the Taliban and criminals who have forged affiliations with the Taliban and other extremist organisations. The police official claims that in the past month (between mid-December 2008 and mid-January 2009), police crackdowns have led to the arrest of over 80 people involved in criminal and other activities on behalf of the Taliban. “This is just the tip of the iceberg,” he says. “I’m sure there are lots of others that we still need to identify, locate, and target.”
The police official also points to a new trend in Taliban intimidation tactics. He explains that within the span of one week, four cases were unearthed in which monied Peshawarites received letters stating that the jihad requires funding and inviting donations. “The letters also stated that if people didn’t hand over funds, they’d be attacked or blown up,” says the police official.
If Peshawar’s culture is stifled by rampant extremism, young Afghans may bear the brunt of the change. Thirteen-year-old Daulat, who manages a beauty parlor with her mother, is terrified by the thought of returning to Kabul. She was two years old when her family fled the Taliban and arrived in Peshawar.
“If the Taliban come here,” says Daulat, “we’ll go back to Kabul. Once before, the Taliban made us refugees. Against all odds, we settled in Peshawar and built our lives. If they uproot us again, what choice do we have but to go back.” After thinking about the prospect of returning to Afghanistan, Daulat softly says, “If the Taliban come here, it’ll be very difficult for me. I was very young when I came here and I’m used to this open lifestyle. I’ll find it very difficult if I have to go back to Kabul.”
Daulat will not be the only one to struggle. According to UNHCR statistics, the Afghan population in Pakistan is primarily young: 55 per cent are below 18 years of age while 74 per cent are aged below 28. Many Peshawar-based Afghans have been born and raised here, and have never lived in Afghanistan.
No wonder then, Daulat has the confidence to giggle and admit that she loves fashion. “Afghan fashions are very stylish,” she says. “Earlier, our clients were mostly Afghan women, but now more Pakistani women come to us to get their hair done and for bridal makeup because Afghan fashion is more subtle.”
Although Daulat is excited by her growing Pakistani client base, she knows that her mother’s beauty parlor will be one of the first businesses to close its doors in the face of religious extremism. “The Taliban don’t like that we make women pretty,” she says. “My mother used to have a parlor in Kabul and when the Taliban came, they tried to shut it down. That’s when we decided to emigrate.” She says that her mother would flee before she risked being intimidated again. “Our shop was closed, there were no schools, there was no work, but we never asked, ‘Why did you do this? Why is it like this?’ Now, too, we would run rather than suffer.
