Street performers first appeared along Islamabad’s busy intersections a few years ago. Covered from head to toe in eye-catching gold paint, they stood perfectly still, leaning on shimmering canes and topped with top hats. Some smiled or nodded slowly when they received tips from passersby.
Perhaps somewhere else, a mime trying to make a few bucks could appear on the street and go unnoticed. But this is Pakistan, and under the security state things are often not as simple as they seem. As the number of golden performers increased, so did the intrigue around them. Are they informants for this country’s intelligence services? Are they monitoring powerful politicians? Maybe he’s a CIA spy?
“If you see a beggar in other countries, it’s obvious that he is a beggar,” said Habib Kareem, 26, a lawyer in the capital Islamabad. “But when you see a beggar here, you think, ‘He’s working for them,'” he added, referring to Pakistan’s powerful intelligence agency.
Today, Islamabad’s “golden man” has joined the ranks of conspiracy theories that sprout, are shot down, and revived every day across the city. In Pakistan, where security agencies are ubiquitous, conspiracy theories have been mainstreamed for decades, fostering conversations among everyone from street vendors to politicians.
Suspicion has become so pervasive that wild stories take root after nearly every news event. When devastating floods occurred in 2010, people claimed they were caused by CIA weather control technology. Media commentators claimed that an American “think tank” was behind the failed car bombing by a Pakistani-American in Times Square that year, and that Osama bin Laden was actually Jewish.
Some were convinced that the CIA had orchestrated the 2012 assassination attempt on girls’ education activist Malala Yousafzai after a local newspaper published a satirical “investigation” describing the plot in outlandish detail. (The article was later added with a disclaimer aimed at poking fun at the country’s conspiracy theory buffs, making it clear that it was fiction.)
Some believe that Pakistan’s embrace of conspiracy theories dates back to the Mughal emperors of the 16th and 17th centuries. Their rule encouraged the establishment of Islam in South Asia and was full of court intrigue. In recent decades, myths built around Pakistan’s military and key intelligence agencies have given rise to fanciful concepts. These two forces are seemingly all-seeing forces that guide the nation’s politics from behind the scenes.
In such a situation, anyone, even a street performer, could be seen as a potential tool of the state.
“Some of those people are definitely agency people,” said Aqsa Batur, 24, sitting in an outdoor cafe with her friend Shiza Kajol, 23, on a chilly spring evening in Islamabad. Told. They leaned against a red plastic table, cradling cups of sweet milk tea.
They explain that by spending enough time in the city, you can develop a trained eye for identifying informants working for the main spy agency, Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), and other intelligence agencies. did.
They have a certain teaching. They are all wearing casual shirts and pants, but dress shoes. Their shirt cuffs are always buttoned. Their clothes are stiff, as if properly compressed. They often hold their phones to their ears but don’t actually talk to you.
“Did you see the man who was here earlier?” Mr. Batur said by way of explanation. She was referring to the man who had approached the table where I was sitting with her friends a few minutes earlier. The man pulled his coat over his head, mumbled something about change, and sat down on a nearby curb.
“Oh yeah, that guy! He had a completely different attitude,” Kajol said.
“And since you are a foreigner, he went right to your table,” Ms Batool added. Both agreed: “He is definitely an ISI.”
As for the golden man, the two young women were wary, but not sure. On the other hand, they mused, buskers cannot actually eavesdrop while standing at a busy intersection. On the other hand, it was also possible to monitor passing cars.
“We need to make sure they’re doing obvious things like taking pictures of cars with their cell phones,” Batool said.
Like many conspiracy theories, the suspicion stems from a kernel of truth.
Pakistan’s security authorities are not so subtly hinting at their vast powers to keep politicians and others in check.
Political scandals erupt from mysterious leaked audio recordings and videos, supposedly filmed from bugs inside people’s homes. Agents may tail a person of interest, or they may tail them outright (sometimes offering a friendly hello from their car). Rideshare drivers sometimes admit to receiving compensation from intelligence agencies.
People widely believe they are being watched, so much so that they speak in code, referring to the military as “sacred cows” and the ISI as “our friends” in case intelligence agencies are eavesdropping.
“There’s a meta-narrative that our intelligence agencies are the best in the world, that they’re everywhere, that they’re always watching you, whether you’re inside or outside your home, and that they have eyes watching you,” Lawyer says. Kareem explained. “It was purposefully constructed by the state itself.”
For most of Pakistan’s 76-year history, surveillance has been a part of everyday life, even if it’s been met with some resentment. But in recent years, dissatisfaction with the military’s role in politics has exploded, making the military’s ever-present eyes and ears unbearable for many people.
“The political atmosphere is so polarized that we don’t know who is being watched,” said Ali Abbas, 25, as he sat outside a tea stall with his friend Amal, 26, late one afternoon. “I’m starting to doubt more and more whether they’re listening.”
“Recently it’s gotten worse,” Amal said of the surveillance. Amal, who preferred to be identified by her first name for fear of retaliation, fidgeted with the pack in her other hand as she slowly took a drag.
“People are getting frustrated about all this,” Abbas agreed. Is anyone watching us now? Are there people roaming our streets to keep an eye on us? It’s too much. ”
On the other side of Islamabad, Mustaq Ahmed, 53, stood in the grassy median of a busy intersection. His jeans, his jacket, canvas pants, cane, and top hat were all spray painted gold. Golden makeup caked on his face and hands and smeared through his bright green, blue, and purple sunglasses.
Mr. Ahmed calls himself “Islamabad’s Golden Thakur,” after the famous Pakistani actor and comedian known as Iftikhar Thakur, with whom he bears a slight resemblance. He explained that each Golden Man has a different repertoire of poses, each with its own name. His favorite was to extend his left heel and his cane in a precarious tilt. He called this the “London style.”
Ahmed used to sell umbrellas on the roadside, but three years ago he became a Golden Thakur after pushing another golden man over his head, saying he was earning up to 8,000 Pakistani rupees a day, or about $30. Became. That was more than five times the amount that Ahmed took home.
That cash has dwindled recently as Golden Man’s novelty has worn off, he said. When asked if he ever supplemented his income with a small side job in the intelligence community, he quickly replied, “No, no, no.”
Was it possible that other golden men in the city were making a few extra bucks that way? He paused and shifted his cane between his hands.
“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “It’s Pakistan.”
Zia Ur Rehman Contributed to the report.
