Today we awoke to news that there had been a terrorist attack less than 3 kilometers from our hotel. We were already going to switch hotels, so as not to be in the same place for too long, but now it was very clear that we needed to change locations. The Sri Lankan cricket team, against all advice, came to Pakistan to play a few test matches that no one else in the world would. On the way to the stadium, 12 gunmen opened fire on the police escorted caravan with rocket propelled grenades, AK-47’s, pistols, and hand grenades. Five police officers and one driver were killed, and a handful of the Sri Lankans were injured. Poor guys, their country never hurt anyone. This may be old news by now, but it was first hand experience for me this morning.
It was a very surreal experience, and the air of the city was very electric. What I had normally heard about on the news from another, safer country, I was now very much a part of. I must say though, that watching the news does seem to instill a certain amount of fear, and that settled into the pit of my stomach. Our guide Ansari insisted that it was even more safe to go out now because of the increased police presence, and he was certainly right. There were police everywhere, armed with big guns, body armor, dogs, and massive barbed wire road blocks. A full on man hunt had begun, and we were witnessing it.
Police Barricade
Just to be a little extra precautious, Brady and I went to a local shop and bought Shalwar Kameez (which is the traditional dress here) just so we didn’t stick out as much. Coupled with our beards grown especially for this purpose, the local garb gave us the confidence to hit the streets once more. Not 10 minutes after we set out, we were pulled over by police (more like ran off the road). They were shouting in Urdu, and pointing to us. We initially thought that it was because we were filming out of the car window for our new piece called Traffikstan, but it turns out that they thought I was one of the terrorists from the days earlier attack. Apparently, one of the shooters was a Patan, with lighter skin and green eyes, and I fit the bill perfectly. After assuring the police officers that we were in fact not terrorists, but tourists “from Tanzania”, they pledged their loyalty to our safety, and said that they were there to help. After many handshakes and smiles, they let us go on about our way. My disguise had worked too well. Ansari told me that he would rather me change back into my normal clothes, but I assured him that I would much rather be pulled over and questioned by police for looking like a terrorist, than to be targeted by a terrorist for looking like a westerner. So my dress remains local…
Local Disguise: Shalwar Kameez
We then went to the Badshehi Mosque, which is the oldest and grandest mosque in all of Lahore, dating back to the 17th century. Around our time of arrival was the afternoon call to prayer, called Azan, and is the most mystifying and captivating sound I have ever heard. I don’t speak Arabic, so I don’t understand what the Azan is saying, but I know that it is a very spiritual sound, and it puts me into a trance almost every time. I spent an hour or so photographing the mosque and some of its’ characters, and was approached by numerous people, all speaking to me in Urdu, and asking if I was a journalist, and who I was taking pictures for. Which poses the question, am I a journalist? and who am I talking pictures for? The term journalist is a very loaded word, and am not sure if I consider myself one or not. Sometimes I feel like “journalists” take themselves too seriously. And I guess the photos are for you, reading this, and anyone else who cares to look at them. Some of the people didn’t believe that I didn’t speak Urdu, and kept talking to me in their language anyway. One man even motioned for me to sit down next to him as he began to elaborate on the history of the Mosque of Kings (which is the translation of Badshehi). I guess it is another testament to how convincing of a Pakistani that I look to be.
Badshehi Mosque
Brady in Shalwar Kameez
After the mosque, we drove around the city center, and then to the Grand Trunk Road again, to film some more material for Traffikstan. The Grand Trunk Road is the oldest highway in the world, and was originally used to connect Delhi to Lahore. Due to border conflicts and safety issues, one can no longer easily make the journey. But what a sight the road is, going from 2 lane sometimes to 10 in others, and the flow and direction of the traffic depending on a delicate majority rule of motorists. Whichever way people are going, you go that way, or find your own way, which many do anyways. There are no lights, no lanes, and most certainly no laws. But this makes for excellent footage, and lots of laughs, as donkeys, horses, chickens and cats fight for their right of way amongst daring and seemingly rushed Pakistani motorists.
Disco Marble Truck Driver on Grand Trunk Road
Disco Lorry
After more Traffikstan, we had dinner at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the Badshehi Mosque. It is by far the most interesting and beautiful restaurant that I have ever seen, full of carved doors and ceilings, intricate marble floors, bronze statues, and local charm. It is hard to describe the experience, and so far it is falling very short, so this photograph will have to do for now.
Leaving the restaurant, we could see a group of traditional Pakistani dancing girls rehearsing for a performance. I managed to get a few shots them through an open set of balcony doors on the 3rd floor, but was moved nonetheless. The tabla drums and their movements were exotic and enchanting, and I was under their spell, even from two floors above, and a block away.
Pakistani Dancing Girls
Our last stop of the evening was the Badshehi Mosque once again, so that I could get a few more shots while it was lit up at night. After convincing a few more dis-believing Pakistanis that I did not in fact speak Urdu, I composed my photographs, and headed to the front gates. Awaiting us on the front steps was a local street masseuse who had already gone to work on Brady. Massaging your calves, thighs, feet, arms, back, shoulders and neck, he successfully worked away any tension that being in a city of a recent terrorist attack had brought. He finished with a head massage using coriander oil, which was quite possibly the most amazing thing I have ever felt. I kept smiling and laughing at the fact that my first full body massage was coming from a Pakistani street masseuse on the red sandstone steps of a 17th century mosque. Strange, I know, but true.
Badshehi Mosque Moonlit
Pakistani Street Masseuse
But it is experiences like this that have made me feel sympathetic to the Pakistani people, and their vulnerability to terrorism. There is a small minority of radical fundamentalists who are ruining things for the much larger and educated population of Pakistan, who want peace, opportunity, and the ability to safely share the beauty of their country with others. I have met and spent time with so many Pakistanis who were warm and kind, and bursting with joy and hospitality, and it is for that that my heart weeps. And their nation’s pride in the cricket team is suffering greatly, and is rumored to be nearing bankruptcy, because no one will tour Pakistan to play them, especially now. And so my opinion of terrorist has changed, whereas before it was a removed dislike and slight anger towards murder of innocents, it has now become a very real hatred, and a complete and total disapproval of their murderous, evil, and unholy ways. They are ruining the culture, country and reputation of a people that I now am fond of, and that does not sit idly with me.
