In the interest of service, whether or not

Columnist Brig (Retd) Muhammad Mehboob Qadir looks at what is really good for the military in Pakistan.

Our military vocabulary is a rich warehouse of meaningful phrases which are frequently used to convey an idea, make a point or simply cap a brewing dissent in discussion. Some could be of a temporary value but quite a few others have a forbidding finality about them. ‘In the interest of service’ is a phrase which once delivered impacts with full force of authority. Arguments are expected to end and action as ordered must start. Thereafter dissension, protest or hesitation is normally considered to be disloyalty to service at the least and much more serious depending upon the forum, level of discussion and rank of the participants. A poorer sense of occasion, poverty of argument and inappropriate body language along with inadequate tact and depth on both sides have usually resulted in grave consequences. Sweep of this commonly used phrase in the Army is awesome and opaque simultaneously. Opacity of concept and inevitability of its application are two components of induced intellectual squalor that came together in a string of national disasters.
It should, therefore, be in the fitness of things to understand what really goes to make the interest of service in the armed forces? To preserve the institution, its values and interests could be a fairly legitimate general explanation. The problem does not really lie in the definition but in its application. The military lore does not lay down definite parameters leaving it open to often conflicting and manipulative interpretations. As a major derivative of the mother concept, if the interest of service is uppermost what about the interest of the nation, the state, the people and those under one’s command? Are these interests synonymous, if so then why the apparent ongoing conflict? Inevitably undemarcated boundaries raise the question of sovereignty so is in this case. Clearly there is a contradiction in terms. Thus, there is material beneath this statement that needs examination. For that we may have to go back into the country’s political history.
Over a period of time, first through political and state system default and then by considered design our national centre of gravity imperceptibly shifted away from the country’s constitution, people and civil institutions leaving a lunar national landscape behind. It finally came to rest in the Army. Critically, and inevitably the military has become the sole custodian of our nationalism, the judge and the prosecutor of patriotism in Pakistan. This is considered a delicate and potentially dangerous situation from national point of view. In the context of total mass our centre of gravity is literally perched over the tip of a pencil. The upshot is that nearly every time there is a threat to the military as an institution it is interpreted as a threat to nation and vice versa. This illusive perception invariably leads to flawed decisions at national level when Army is in power and friction between civil administration and the Army when not. Looking from that direction the spectrum of our Afghan, India, Kashmir and West-ward policies could be regarded a few major exhibits of this avoidable crisis of precedence and priority. Internally, special status, constitutional exceptions, frequent takeovers and persistent apathy to civil leadership generally flow from the same planted notion of superiority. The dislocation induced into our national life is not hard to imagine. Resultant but ingenious doctrine of necessity has nearly undone our higher judiciary. Repeated MLOs and PCOs have unspun the constitutional, representative and administrative framework to a considerable extent.
On the military plane, our institutional sensitivity or in other words reluctance to undertake a meaningful soul search into our 48 and 65 Wars with India, defeat and dismemberment of Pakistan in 1971 and the unfolding learning curve of Siachen since the Indian occupation in 1983-84 may be indicators of the same restrictive syndrome. We may also agree that Indian leadership’s ill-considered diplomatic aggressiveness propelled Hamood-ur-Rehman Commission Report on 1971 War to be published. Exclusiveness and executive prerogatives apart defeat and tragic loss of half of the country or disaster at Kargil need a prompt and more resolute institutional response. As a nation we have been often treated to massive spectacles of grandeur, invincibility and conquest which may not stand the test of serious inquest. Inquest and introspection, reflection and remedy are indicators of superior intellect and a greater strength of character. Bluster doesn’t normally convince lastingly regardless of how loudly inflicted. The quest for priority over grazing rights between the Armed Forces and the civil has devastated the pasture beyond recognition. This regenerative malaise has become rather seriously tangled. A time has arrived for a total catharsis. For a determined national effort at truth and reconciliation so that we could take a fresh start. Since the phenomenon is cyclic in nature therefore, an attempt at differentiation or delineation of respective intentions and interests in order to pin the blame is unlikely to be of constructive help. Rather than actions we need to address and re-orientate perceptions of the major actors in this theatre of the absurd. There is a need to incorporate and empower voiceless people of Pakistan also in these works for whose intended benefit this opera is being staged as stated.

The Unprivileged
During a tenure of duty from 1993 to 1995 at DI Khan I used to frequently travel by road to Bahawalpur via Muzaffargarh for official business. On one winter day we turned off the main road onto a dirt track leading into a roadside belt of forest and stopped there a little distance away. My driver took out a thermos flask and poured a cup of tea for each. Just as we settled down to sip, I sensed a presence close-by. As I turned around I saw a man and a woman sitting in the dip full of dry twigs, dead leaves and decaying foliage below the main road, where the dirt track had branched off into the neck of woods. They were in filthy, tattered rags with parched lips and blank lifeless eyes. The man unshaven, dark and unkempt. The women emaciated and woefully skinny, her hair dangling in matted strings. They must not have washed since years perhaps. One thought it was a beggar couple; but what were they doing in these woods in the middle of the desert? ‘Can’t be’ I muttered half comprehendingly.
They looked at us but did not register; to them it did not matter who we were. They would look at every passing bus, truck, van or a car and kept looking till it disappeared at the next bend. They appeared to be in absolutely no hurry and had nothing except themselves. Suddenly, I realized who they were. I recollected seeing the likes of them working for brick kilns, dams and link canals. Silent, dim and resolutely toiling men and women in unrelenting common suffering. Like the ones crushing gravel for under construction highways under hot, dusty summer sun with primitive hammers. Left hand wrapped in rags to prevent burns and absorb missed hammer blows.
I knew instantly that this wretched couple had come from a place where they had nothing left to lose and that no one would ever miss them there. And where they wanted to go, if they didn’t reach no one will miss them there too. Time for these lesser people seemed to have no meaning. Salt of the earth, unprivileged people like these are slowly but inevitably gathering around the peripheries of major cities like waiting locust, in search of food, shelter and work. Hum in that dispossessed crowd is ominous and inexorable only we do not hear.
Remember, seeing a typical peasant family in a Super Market in Islamabad? Man, middle aged and haggard, wearing unclean once white clothes and a shabby turban. His wife quietly following with a string of skinny children. They did not even know-how to beg. Awkward, hesitant but definitely needy. They couldn’t even fluently pray for you if you helped. That luckless peasant family is part of the same rootless throng that is slowly forming a ring of poverty around affluent cities, eyeing obscenely lavish dinners with pangs of deep hunger rising from their knotted stomachs. An unlikely catalyst, a small seemingly insignificant incident may give them a sense of worth, unite and bring them swooping down upon those besieged? Our blissful self-indulgence notwithstanding it would be prudent to listen to the rumbling under our feet before it erupts. To pause, reflect and remedy is better than becoming sorry history.
Back on Muzaffargarh Road, there used to be only two police check posts between Bhakkar and Muzaffargarh two years ago. By 1995 the number increased to eight. Local police had improvised portable road barriers with great ingenuity from three trunks and disused tyres to school benches and village cots. Army jeep, the flag and red star plate ensured a speedy passage through these check posts with admirable facility, whistles blowing all over. While a long queue of vans, trucks and buses full of loads and passengers waited clearance on either side of the picket. I could see those beseeching looks in the eyes of frustrated, helpless passengers, and occasionally hear grumbling of long distance truck drivers, waiting their turn for ‘settlement’ with the policemen. Much against my inclination would restrain myself, placing a tighter lid on a surge of valour rising from the pit of my stomach. I consoled, I had no hand in specially arranged postings of those imperious police inspectors, their superiors and the superiors of their superiors. They may have been there under special arrangements with the local influentials. However, politically motivated service favour invariably demands a price from a public servant at the cost of duty and justice otherwise, due to the people.

The Salt of the Earth
DI Khan is a typically rural town located west of River Indus, on the fringes of development. The British built it as a major garrison town for their campaigns into Masud tribal territory and conquest of Balochistan from the direction of Zhob. A part of Punjab under the British Raj inhabited mostly by Saraiki speaking population was placed under Frontier Government administration through a curious arrangement, in which District of Mianwali was given over to Punjab in return. There is a not-so-unspoken an ethnic alienation between DI Khan and the rest of its foster province which manifests itself in a number of ways. In the capacity of senior military officer in command of the garrison I had to some times contend with such faintly palpable frictions particularly during the course of duty in aid of civil authorities.
Muharrum in that city had always been full of mutual tensions and at times casualties. In 1993 local district administration had just been overhauled and were feeling quite apprehensive as Muharrum approached. Troops were expected to be placed on a short notice in anticipation of a possible law and order situation arising beyond the capability of the local police and Frontier Constabulary.
Frontier Constabulary are a fierce, well-trained and very dependable force normally deployed to defend the region between the Tribal Areas and the settled districts of NWFP and Dera Ghazi Khan. More about this commendable force later.
The Deputy Commissioner was a promising civil service officer determined to avert disruption of local peace as much as he could. He arranged administrative removal of most of the likely religious hot-heads, for the remaining fire-brands an ingenious but simple plan was devised. The troops and officers earmarked for the duty were firmly instructed to prevent damage to life and public property regardless of who the offender was. Civil administration quietly spread the word. The plan so conceived was to do a few vehicle mounted flag marches before and during Ashoor with full weaponry on display around the city and the vicinity of Paharpur and Bilot, two other religiously charged towns. Place the troops in pre-selected positions as forces-in-being while police and Constabulary will conduct street patrolling and man check-posts. Then on the morning of the last day, make a high profile flag march over the main route through the city. As the streets were narrow, troops used jeeps mounted with weapons. The Deputy Commissioner hopped along side the force commander in the leading jeep for added emphasis. The plan worked wonderfully, deterrence was the major effect achieved. It was a perfectly peaceful Muharrum and so had been the next few.
One came to like the ways of Frontier Constabulary (FC) through working with them during these Muharrum duties. This force was raised by the British from local tribes, each platoon drawn from one particular family or sub-tribe, therefore, bound by blood kinship in loyalty. Trained, commanded and administered like the Army, officered by Police Service officers, it was kept away from usual policing duties of the urban districts. This insulation from usually corrupting influences and the nature of their Spartan and isolated duties on remote fortress like posts on the fringes of the Tribal Areas helped develop their peculiar culture. A healthy self-reliance, binding comradeship, a very strong sense of responsibility and loyalty along with almost a casual disregard to danger and single-minded obedience to orders are their hallmarks. Due to peculiarly upturned sides of their hats, they are affectionately called ‘Hares’. Local legend advises a respectful distance from these deadly ‘hares’ never to cross their path in anger.
Election 93 was a rather anxious time as the Brigade troops were perforce spread all over, distributed in virtual twos and threes in polling stations, backed up by sizeable mobile reserves suitably located in sub-sectors. Army troops were beefed up by assigning troops from the Constabulary, which turned out to be a particularly fine arrangement as their deterrent reputation and knowledge of the area were very desirable assets. They are commanded in the district by an SP level police officer known as the DOFC or the Commandant. For the Constabulary his orders are final which none except he himself can overturn. I did not tamper with their chain of command, it paid dividends. They performed admirably well and the troops came to like them as much. FC is a thoroughly dependable force but deadly if distracted or employed on ill-conceived duties and poorly led.
During the same elections a provincial assembly candidate lost poise and assumed that some kind of a malpractice had taken place in a women polling station located in a school in the city. He gathered his supporters and wanted to storm the polling station despite warnings from the area military officer. The mob began advancing menacingly towards the gate where the officer and his six soldiers stood, merely 30 yards away. This small body of men stood fast; at 15 yards the officer ordered his men to cock their weapons and take aim. He had the candidate in his weapon’s crosswire. The mob paused, wavered and backed-off, just as a possible ugly situation was averted. The troops were under orders not to compromise security of self and polling material under their charge.
Section 144 had been imposed throughout Dera Ismail Khan Division banning public display of weapons just before Elections. On a routine patrol close to Sherani territory I came across a shepherd carrying a rifle tending his sheep. A close scrutiny revealed that the shepherd’s ammunition belt had almost all the bullets of the wrong calibre. This was an extraordinary omission from one of a warlike people. When pointed out, an impish smile crackled on his rugged face. Actually he had borrowed the rifle and the cartridge belt from friends as a deterrent precaution against aggressive Powinda herdsmen. Bold ruses are needed some time to avoid a direct confrontation. Powinda herdsmen have traditionally clashed with local shepherds over the right to graze in already scarce pastures here but not too seriously.
On the way back next day I passed through one of the more volatile villages of the area called Rori. In the village square I noticed two young men, tanned, dusty and a bit weary carrying rifles slung across their shoulders. When asked to explain the violation it transpired that the young men had just returned from their mountain meadow after grazing their flocks for the last two weeks and were not aware of the imposition of ban in their absence. Their earnest faces were a convincing indication of the plausibility of the excuse. They were allowed to proceed home with a caution. A little sensitivity, an enlightened understanding is more useful than the full weight of law.
In 1994 Monsoons, hill torrents hit DI Khan and its surrounding villages with great ferocity playing havoc with crops, villages, irrigation canals and livestock. Flood warning stations at Gomal exit had long been out of action due to neglect and disuse. Army was called out for flood relief duties. The soldiers carried cooked meals, medicines for flood affectees out of their own stocks initially. Civil administration began dumping food, medicines and tentage at conveniently accessible places where ministers and TV teams could easily reach. The troops travelled by boat in foaming, furious waters, trudged kilometre upon kilometre through knee-deep mud carrying rations and medicines to the needy on their backs and shoulders. In the meanwhile some ministers ran short of aid recipients for their TV shots because the administration could not transport them in time from one spot to the other.
Too many, ministers had descended upon DI Khan that year. On a lonely mound with flood waters raging around for miles, I along with a few of my soldiers shared an afternoon with an old man, his son, a goat and their blackened dented cooking pan. This was all that was left after the flash floods swept over them. A helicopter flew overhead, ‘he is also coming to help us’ the old man exclaimed.
Actually the only MNA of the area was reviewing the flood damages from the air. When the helicopter shrank to a dot in the direction of DI Khan, old man was shaking his head in disgust or despair for a long time. His MPA had not also shown up since last two days. He swore to charge more for his vote next time around which I am sure he must have.
A village was seriously threatened by flood waters whose level was rising. An irrigation bund had to be breached to save the village. The only dozers in the area were in the custody of a famous Gundapur Sardar. District administration could not get the dozers released from the powerful man. He had a point; released water will destroy his crops even if the opponent’s village was saved. A raiding party was organized to capture and commandeer a dozer from the Sardar’s private custody. Needed dozer was brought in under an armed escort by the soldiers, breach affected and the village saved. In this very constituency terror was so pervasive that local administration nearly gave-up just before Election 93 for fear of a large band of notorious proclaimed offenders collected by him. A firm message from the Brigade Commander emphasizing unequal ‘balance of armed terror’ between the two convinced the Sardar of Army’s unbending resolve to hold the elections unhampered. I planted myself in the Sardar’s village on both election days for good measure. It passed-off as one of the most peaceful elections in this constituency in decades. That particular Sardar travels around in armour plated jeep mounted with automatics and light machine guns, reportedly under special permission. The spectacle is quite awesome in-keeping with a score of men he is reported to have mauled down in just one day a decade or so ago. He is considered to be an articulate public representative who has been a great help in forming or deforming provincial governments.
There was this crib of a famous Pir Sahib overheard during a dinner in the neighbourhood. Local Telephones Department had billed him quite excessively according to his estimate. Pir Sahib had to hammer sense into the Department through the GM and obtained a largely reduced bill. He was indignant, flushed with aristocratic sheen on his well-groomed face. How thoughtless of such indolent officials. However, his Chowkidar was struggling since years to regain a few measly kanals of land in the village of which he was unlawfully dispossessed by a Patwari. It was below his master’s dignity to involve himself in such petty matters. Understandably so, when thousands of acres of his own land needed his valuable attention more deservedly.
I was reminded of my gardener in Lahore, who startled me one day by offering to donate six kanals of his prime roadside land near Burki. He requested me to take immediate possession, he had brought the papers with him, tied up with the Revenue staff and concerned Court. This was an astonishing performance. An act of uncommon generosity coming from a poor man. Deeper probe revealed the extent of his dilemma. Goons of the local powerful had put him on a short fuse for a forced sale or else to face dire consequences. He was a poor man had small children and resourceless at that; in danger of losing his meagre property.
I had also to contend with a bitter complaint from an ex-Vice Chancellor in a gathering, who was served a formal notice by the local AC on behest of the garrison commander for removal of illegal occupation of public land by him. Not only the encroachment was in bad taste as he had hundreds of his students around seeing the ugly site, but it also obstructed movement of military vehicles into and out of DI Khan Cantonment. I could not help admire the gentlemen’s peculiar sense of propriety; first on the act of illegality itself and next on his tenacity to insist on the same in public. The encroachment was removed and I lost the privilege of the kind attention of
ex-Vice Chancellor Gomal University in the process.

Chivalry and Banditry
People of the Tribal belt that girdles the Frontier in the west live with inexplicable mix of chivalry, banditry, personal liberty and customs of the clans.
It was 1985, I was commanding a unit in Kohat, we were travelling from Thal to Miranshah. I had ordered the regulation armed escort to stay put in Thal Fort. I knew it was irregular and more than that quite risky also, but I had always regarded that such escorts being cumbersome normally impede speed. We were travelling through wild Waziristan practically bare handed. However, I had quietly slipped a service revolver into the jeep’s dash board just in case.
A few miles out of Thal, there was a man sitting under a distant tree pointing his Kalashnikov at something directly above. As we got closer he fired, and whatever was left of a poor sparrow floated lifelessly to the ground below. Satisfied with his marksmanship he rolled his sheet, placed it under his head and lay down for a leisurely nap.
By noon time we were passing through a large village spread along the road on both sides. As if taken out of a story book or an old British Raj painting of the volatile Frontier, it had all the appearance of a fortified medieval town with thick mud walls, watch towers and heavy wooden gates. Not a soul stirred which was quite extraordinary. An eerie silence enveloped the whole region, it was stunningly quiet. I noticed deep trench like ditches leading from road to each doorstep. Some of them longer than a football field. Later, I learnt that, as the road belonged to Government therefore, it was considered safe under a treaty. Rest of the area was Tribal territory and unsafe due to endless blood feuds, hence the need for protected passage through the ditches to and from the road.
We were negotiating a narrow and hilly tract of road short of Miranshah, when a rifle shot rang out fired from a very close range. Then the second shot and a piece of rock scattered into bits as the bullet hit the rock face inches above the jeep bonet. I told the driver to stop, climbed out of the jeep and was looking straight into the barrel of a rifle pointed at me by a young fellow a few yards up the opposite slope. There was a short verbal exchange in Pushto between the two of us and then we resumed our journey to Miranshah. By firing those ‘near miss’ shots the Wiziri youngster wanted to find out if we would be afraid or not. Admitting, I countered by telling the young man he would also be scared if the same weapon was aimed at him without a fair chance. The boy understood and gave up further confirmation of my valour or fear.
En route we had stopped for a cup of tea in a sprawling fort manned by Scouts. It was a treat in old style hospitality altogether overwhelming. Scouts in that fort observe a strange water collection ritual everyday at a given time. They share the only water spring some distance outside the fort with the neighbouring Waziri village ever since the fort was built in British times. The water fills up in a large but open ground level pucca water tank. Under a treaty concluded between the Waziri villagers and the British, Waziris were conceded the right to collect water in the early part of the day. The Scouts would do so in the afternoon. Fearing treachery, the British thought of a brilliantly inexpensive and simple test. A pair of white Swans is officially kept and trained by the fort Scouts. As the fort door opens for the water collection party this pair of Swans marches out toward the water tank, leading. Dipping their beaks in the water tank they drink to their pouches fill. Scouts party commander observes them keenly for a few minutes for any signs of poisoning. If found in good health, the party collects water in their containers and marches back into the fort, Swans leading. Proper funds are allocated for the maintenance of this pair of Swans, we were told.

The Savage and The Noble
Afghan freedom war was raging furiously in those days. Pakistani posts along the Durand Line would occasionally come under Soviet artillery fire and air raids. Those ones were punished more wherefrom the Soviets suspected Mujahideen and their supplies passed through. Paiwar Kotal Post on Parachinar border in Kurram Agency was one such post. Forward slopes of the Paiwar Pass and Jaji Maidan the Afghan plains below, were dominated by Mujahideen led by Maulvi Rasul Syaff. They had dug tunnels and chambers in the mountain side to escape relentless Soviet bombing. Teri Mengal Fort was located on the homeside where Mujahideen kept their weapons, ammunition, food and medical supplies in bulk. This unfortunate dwelling was blown up at least twice by Soviet saboteurs. Paiwar Kotal dominates the shortest route to Kabul and the site of a brilliant battle won by General Roberts in 1878 at the start of Second Afghan War. He mounted his classic strategic manoeuvre through Parachinar-Kabul approach outflanking main Afghan defences astride Peshawar-Kabul axis. His campaign was a resounding success. This lesson was not lost on the Soviets; they were very sensitive to Mujahideen control of this militarily important area.
One of my Subedars was deployed at Paiwar Kotal in his turn as forward artillery observer. Their post was partly dug into the rock and protected by a few concrete slabs overhead. It was about noontime, while in the office at Kohat I was informed by the Battalion Commander at Parachinar that Pakistani defences at Paiwar Kotal had suffered heavy damage due to intense Soviet shelling and aerial bombing. Soviets had used incendiary bombs and the Pine forest was on fire. That remaining troops had taken up fresh positions but the Subedar who was also wounded had refused to leave without specific orders from his Commanding Officer. This was like old times sterling. I hopped into the jeep took a replacement officer and drove straight for Parachinar, reaching there an hour after the sunset. Orders had been to remain confined to quarters in Parachinar after the nightfall as the whole area between Parachinar and Piwarkotal would be infested at night with Mujahideen sensitive to an unfamiliar presence. Regardless I pushed on, was intercepted here and there by Mujahideen pickets but courteously facilitated once recognized in Army uniform. From the foot of the mountain to the Subedar’s post it was a three hours climb. The brave wounded Subedar was duly relieved and brought along.
What I saw during that fateful night was more revealing. There were long silent lines of Afghan women, children and a few men returning after recovering from battle wounds carrying heavy loads of ammunition, rockets, food and fuel to Mujahideen positions across the mountain over tortuously winding trails. They were creeping up the mountain determined and resolute. What was more impressive was the way Mujahideen wounded burnt by incendiary bombs, blown by mines and sheered by tank and rocket shells behaved. They were noble in adversity, steadfast and magnificently self-controlled despite horrendous wounds and amazingly uncomplaining about the hardship. Their aloofness from the host surroundings and purposefulness were quite compelling.
There was that legendary Mujahideen Mortar gunner who had dug burrows like a rabbit in the mountain side. He would appear from one of the firing holes with his Mortar gun, fire few quick bombs and disappear before Soviet air or artillery could take him on. He would keep the Soviet helicopter gunships, air force and artillery busy virtually chasing their tails in that sector trying to pin him down the whole day. A dauntless spirit indeed. Another landmark of that unforgiving war was the charred caracas of a Soviet BMP destroyed only a few yards short of the last Mujahideen bunker ahead of Paiwar-Kotal.