Zia Rahman - In the Light of What We Know

Before bringing in the food, an orderly went around the table with a jug of water and a large bowl, and every man washed his hands. The meal was a surprisingly simple affair of two meat curries and dhal with a platter of rotis and a bowl of rice, and the men were oddly restrained in the portions they served themselves, even the general, his girth notwithstanding. I thought of the Bangladeshis and Pakistanis in Britain, among whom it is apparently a matter of statistical record that the incidence of heart disease and diabetes significantly exceeds the British national average. I met a doctor once who worked at the Royal London Hospital in the East End and who explained to me that there was a growing consensus that Bangladeshis and Pakistanis in Britain were eating too much and eating the wrong kinds of food, too many fats and sugars.

As I watched these men eat, while I myself ate, I thought of animals driven by the instinct to survive. You may speculate that this attitude — seeing animals — came from some kind of alienation, a rupture with society. My own understanding was more prosaic. The news wasn’t making sense to me. Which is to say, I had difficulty following the arguments. One argument, underpinning so much then, ran as follows: The Taliban had harbored Bin Laden, Bin Laden headed Al Qaeda, and Al Qaeda had executed the attacks. But there were matters of proof, not necessarily conclusive proof, but a requirement that these steps be borne out in evidence. Bin Laden’s proud owning of responsibility was to come two years later, for instance. And even if the evidence was there, even if such evidence was to be found, there remained the question of whether it all amounted to an ethical justification for the actions now being undertaken. However, if I were to tell you that in the very first month I opposed the war, then I’d be every bit a liar as the liars who take us into wars. My emotions ran high when I recalled the collapse of the towers. America had my heart and she had been wounded. Geologists apparently call our geological era the Anthropocene, the Age of Man. It made more sense to me to think of the private goals of beasts, each alpha male, from the Blairs and Bushes to the Cheneys and Rumsfelds, consolidating his power and securing his personal material future with the unthinking frightened herds following. I had no time for conspiracy theories.

The men ate quickly, as soldiers might, tearing off chunks of bread and mopping up sauces. They didn’t touch the rice, and I speculated that it might have been put out for my benefit; I was Bangladeshi, after all, from a people who ate rice — I’d never seen roti in my village — and whose land was a checkerboard of rice fields. I served myself a scoop.

All the men ate with their hands, save the colonel, who used a spoon. It wobbled a little as he raised it, his fingers no longer obeying him to the letter. Perhaps my eye lingered on this a moment too long, for the general commented: If you play chess with Ricky, he’ll get you to move his pieces.

I smiled embarrassedly and engaged my food. Only much, much later did I perceive the art in the general’s remark.

The conversation moved in desultory fashion through family matters, births, deaths, and marriages, the business ventures of some or other child and the educational achievements of a grandchild. It was all, I later understood, a deferral of the real topic, the U.S.-led intervention in Afghanistan. In those days, that must have been the only talk of the town.

Afterward, we washed our hands and, carrying the idle conversation with us, moved to the lounge, where the colonel had received me earlier. We settled into armchairs and sofas. I noticed that the pieces on the chessboard, on the table in the corner of the room, had moved, a defeated few now standing at the edge of the board. A game had been played, though at my distance it was not possible to tell if it had resulted in a victor.

You’ve been very silent, Reza-bhai, said the general. What is ticktocking in that cranium?

Mehrani looked around the room.

Drones, he said, letting the one word hang melodramatically.

Mohammed Hassan, the ISI official, exhaled a plume of smoke that drifted across Mehrani’s face. I wanted to laugh, and for a few moments my whole being was dedicated to restraining the muscles around my mouth and my eyes.

That’s it? asked the general. You say nothing and then expect one word to suffice?

The Americans cannot stomach casualties, said Reza Mehrani. When the body bags are airlifted by the dozen to their Dover air base, that’s when they pack up and leave their wars. So this time, they will be using drones. The technology is ready for it.

You are a very scary fellow, said the general. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s not what you say but how say it. You could order a chapati and I would be scared.

He’s right, said Hassan, the man from the ISI.

See, said the general. Even the spymaster thinks you’re scary.

They will use drones on a massive scale, added Hassan.

You think science and technology are just instruments of war, said Mehrani, directing his remarks to the general and the colonel, but science and technology actually change the game.

How will it change the game, dear boy? asked the general. The Americans have always fought their wars by proxy. Drone attacks are simply a variant.

If they so much as launch one drone attack in Pakistan, I’ll personally put my boot in the American ambassador’s behind, said Hassan.

What nonsense! You wear soft slippers. You want to tickle the good ambassador? said the general.

They want their wars but they don’t want to shed American blood.

You think Kissinger cared about American blood in Vietnam?

In the American Civil War it was possible to buy your way out of serving in the Union Army for three hundred dollars. A commutation fee, they called it. All legal and aboveboard.

The price of patriotism.

The poor who have nothing else to sell, they are the ones who become soldiers. They are the organ donors.

The military contractors are already coming in.

They were there ahead of everyone.

Bhai, mercenaries have been fighting wars since before the pharaohs.

I don’t see American elites joining the U.S. Army. So tell me, where is the loyalty in the West?

Come now. Since time immemorial, soldiers the world over have never lifted a finger for country. Everyone knows that a soldier fights for his comrades.

You mean to say that our boys will do America’s bidding simply because a soldier will fight for his regiment?

For his platoon. I’m saying that at the sharp point of battle that is why they fight. Whether it comes to the point of battle is another matter.

That is my point.

They’d sooner desert than fight their kin.

Why have you agreed to U.S. bases on Pakistani soil? I asked, speaking for the first time.

I’m sorry, I quickly added. That was meant as a question and not an accusation.

I said the same thing to that American lackey Busharraf , said Dr. Mehrani, and I most certainly meant it as an accusation.

Tell the boy what the man said, said the colonel.

These things are more complex than the Western press would have you think, added Mehrani.

It’s important that the boy should have a complete picture, said the colonel. Tell him what Musharraf said.

He said, Go fuck a dog , interjected the general, and turning to Mehrani added: A direct order from your commander in chief.

We are in a bind, explained Hassan. If we say no to America, they’ll fight their war anyway — they’re straining at the leash — but they’ll fight from bases in India. And that way lies ruination for Pakistan. Not only would we lose the support of America, but we would be entering the nightmare vision of an India allied militarily to America. And later, with Afghanistan conquered, we would have no strategic depth.