My last appointment of the week yesterday was Ghaddahchot Gandu, Special Attaché for International Relations at the Embassy of Pakistan. Guess who he was upset about?
“This woman, Hillary Clinton,” he complained, “how in the world, I ask you, did someone with a personality like hers become your Secretary of State?”
“Well,” I explained, frankly somewhat embarrassed for America, “back during our political campaigns last year, Barack Obama had a choice – either accept her as the Democratic running mate in the vice-presidential slot, or offer her something important to do.”
“So,” Gandu surmise, “being Vice-President of the United States is not important?”
“No,” I explained, “as a matter of fact, it isn’t. Not at all.”
“But,” he pointed out curiously, “if that is true, it certainly doesn’t seem to bother your Joe Biden very much.”
“Joe Biden,” I informed him, “is happy with any job where he can listen to himself talk all day.”
“Oh, I see,” Gandu nodded, “and that is why he was a United States senator for so long.”
“Exactly,” I confirmed. “Not that Obama and his advisors didn’t debate running Hillary for the vice-presidency. They did, heatedly and at great length. Then somebody mentioned Vince Foster.”
“Who is he?” Gandu appeared quite puzzled. “I don’t think I have ever heard of the man.”
“You should Google him,” I advised. “His unfortunate demise is a bit off the subject, I’m sure. And speaking of that, what might that subject be? After all, I’m equally as sure you didn’t come here to gripe about Secretary Clinton. Or did you?”
“Well,” he sighed, “yes and no. Wailing to everyone in the marketplace that a camel has defecated in your bed does nothing to remove the dung, as an old Pakistani saying goes. But still, here is this woman, who is America’s chief diplomat, is she not?”
“That’s the definition of the Secretary of State’s job,” I affirmed.
“Okay, then,” he fumed, “in that case, shouldn’t the person who has such a job be at least somewhat… diplomatic about it? I mean really, Mr. Collins, consider how she behaved when she visited Pakistan! And on what was supposed to be a good-will mission to patch up the deteriorating relations between our two great nations! Every time she talks to the press, the Government has political brushfires to put out all over the country! She goes on television there and tries to explain away all those conditions, in this Kerry-Lugar bill of yours, which impinge on Pakistani sovereignty in totally unacceptable ways, and instead, she inflames the populace! And when a member of our news media brought this issue up, what did Secretary Clinton say? She said, ‘Well, you don’t have to take the money, you know,’ that’s what! How can you Americans call that kind of swaggering, high-handed, supercilious…”
“I’m no fan of Hillary Clinton,” I assured him, cutting him off as politely as possible, “but, to be fair, she doesn’t determine our foreign policy; the President, with the advice and consent of Congress, make US foreign policy. All the Secretary of State can do is execute it. And if it’s her style to be blunt and combative…”
“’Blunt and combative?’” Gandu interrupted with an indignant tone. “How about ‘rude?’”
“Not terribly rude,” I responded quickly, though lacking, I must admit, in a great deal of conviction. “Just sort of rude – you know, rude like a bull dyke sandhog with a couple of boilermakers in her, not rude like a Puerto Rican New York taxi driver or anything.”
“I think it was exceedingly rude,” Gandu objected, “when she flatly refused to consider three-party talks to normalize relations between Pakistan and India.”
“You have to understand,” I pleaded, “that here in America, we’ve got Desis and Pakis all over the place, everywhere we turn. There are Pakistanis working at the deli, Indians running the corner Seven-Eleven, Pakis delivering shawarma take-out, Indians picking up our dry cleaning, you name it; and unless it’s Diwali or Ramadan, we can’t even tell you folks apart. You have to realize that if America gets mixed up being the peace broker between you guys, at some point, the Obama Administration is going to have to tell the American public what the hell going on between you two, and frankly, they’re not going to be able to understand one single bit of the explanation. I mean, sure, I know Hillary Clinton is an obnoxious, ham-handed, superficial mental midget, but even I’m not going to fault her for following the Administration’s policies and keeping the United States from opening a can of worms like that.”
“But terrorism flourishes in South Asia,” my guest argued, “because of unresolved issues between India and Pakistan, particularly the question of Kashmir…”
“Precisely my point,” I cut in. “You say ‘Kashmir’ to the average American, and they think you’re talking about an expensive ladies’ sweater.”
“But the Indians are supporting Maoist insurgents in Balochistan,” he shot back, “and the CIA knows all about it, too! New Delhi has a subversive strategy of encirclement, and the Balochistan Liberation Army, the Balochistan People’s Front, the People’s Front of Balochistan, the People’s Army of Balochistan… India’s behind all of them! And there’s the question of the illegal Punjabi settlements…”
“Better save it for your speech to the UN General Assembly,” I chided. “You say ‘Nawab Akbar Khan Bugti’ to somebody in Peoria, and, if they do anything besides give you blank stare, they’re going to presume you’re talking about somebody in Iraq, okay? Face it, my friend, you, yourself have just told me, in gory detail, why no US Secretary of State, not even a competent one, is going to agree to mediate an intractable, ancient blood feud like you Pakistanis have with India.”
“But you did it for the Israelis,” he whined.
“Yes, we did – all the more reason not to do it for anybody else,” I dryly replied. “Even Americans are capable of learning from their mistakes.”
“They are?” Gandu sputtered with obvious surprise.
“Well,” I averred, “sometimes, anyway.”
“With respect to Pakistan,” Gandu warned, “Americans should remember that just because we’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean nobody is out to get us!”
“Truer words were never spoken,” I conceded. “But we shouldn’t be overly surprised when the truth falls on deaf ears.”
“Deaf? How about blind, too?” Gandu exclaimed. “This Clinton woman, when your drones came in from the sky and bombed Pakistani women and children, what does she say? She says ‘These attacks may be happening on your territory, but this is not your fight alone.’ What kind of bloody nonsense is that? Are the Afghan Taliban, or Al Qaeda, killing women and children in that Peoria you were talking about just now? Do you know what Pakistan’s most prominent English-language newspaper, The Nation, printed this morning? That Ms. Clinton’s visit amounts to ‘and abortive exercise,’ and that she is, for that matter, fully aware of the fact, also!”
“As I said,” I reiterated, “I’m no big fan of Hillary Clinton, but, on the other hand…”
“On the other hand you have this,” Gandu insisted. “On the question of Osama bin Laden, his whereabouts, his apprehension, and Pakistan’s role in that question, what did Secretary of State Clinton do? She came within a cat’s whisker of accusing Pakistan of intentionally harboring him!”
“Oh, yeah,” I acknowledged, “I know what you’re referring to – that quote’s been all around the world – ‘I find it hard to believe that nobody in your government knows where they are and couldn’t get to them if they really wanted to. Maybe that’s the case; maybe they’re not gettable. I don’t know.’ What can I say? I apologise on behalf of every American with the sense God gave a picnic ant.”
“Thank you,” Gandu sniffed haughtily. “Also, ‘gettable’ is horrible English. Even I, who do not have English as a first language, know that.”
“Ah, yeah,” I granted, “the word ‘gettable’ is, in fact, an atrocious, grating and absurd mangling of the English language, right up there with ‘re-look.’ But you must realize, sir, that Hillary Clinton is from Arkansas, where the local dialect of American English is derived from a long line of barefoot, Bible-thumping ignoramuses who exemplify what happens when backwoods bumpkins persist, for many generations, in marrying their cousins.”
“Not unlike Balochistan,” Gandu observed. “Except, of course, that they thump on their Korans instead of Bibles.”
“So,” I continued, “we must concede certain cultural analogies.”
“But,” Gandu countered with an air of triumph, “we Pakistanis do not appoint inbred country hayseed fools who can’t speak proper Urdu as Foreign Minister, and then send them to the United States to insult you!”
“No,” I admitted, “you haven’t.” Then suddenly, as I pondered our conversation, something occured to me. “Yet, despite the fact that Hillary Clinton is a blundering, inept bozo with no particular redeeming qualities, I can’t help wondering about that Osama bin Laden thing. Hillary aside, why haven’t you guys been able to catch him?”
“What,” he slyly smiled, “makes you think Osama bin Laden is even in Pakistan?”
“Of course he is,” I realized, “and what’s more, I bet you know where, too.”
Gandu shook his head from side to side, very slowly. “No, Mr. Collins, I am afraid you misapprehend. I most certainly cannot tell you where Osama bin Laden is.”
“But,” I posited, “I bet you’ve had dinner with somebody in the last thirty days who can.”
“If so,” he replied with a cagey tone, “they didn’t tell me.”
“Let’s consider,” I suggested, “two situations. Situation One – you Pakistanis find Osama bin Laden. What happens? You turn him over to the United States, where there’s a big international commotion, lots of world press coverage and a huge show trial, of course. At last, America’s happy, but what about Pakistan? Overnight, every Moslem country on the globe is either publicly or secretly denouncing the Pakistanis as traitors, and, on top of that, now that the Americans have what they want, they either pile more conditions on their foreign aid to Pakistan, or, what’s worse, cut it down to practically nothing. Now, let’s think about Situation Two – what’s happening at the moment, and has been happening for years. Osama bin Laden is somewhere in Pakistan, and you know where he is, too, you always have. But, by continuing to pretend you don’t, you get America to continue sending you foreign aid, and you have very significant leverage to keep the US from attaching any strings to the money. Plus, you don’t have to deal with the rest of the Moslem world hating you for betraying their hero to the evil Americans.” I paused to peer at him intently. “Am I getting somewhere on this, perhaps?”
“All the way,” he grinned, “down to the end of the primrose path upon which I have been leading you.”
“Ah-ha!” I exclaimed. “And that’s what you’re here to talk to me about!”
“Correct,” Gandu confirmed. “You see, the George W. Bush Administration, they realized the issues and concepts which you have so adroitly elucidated just now. Osama bin Laden on the loose was a very convenient, ah, Bogeyman, one that could make very significant contributions to their… shall we say, hidden agendas…”
“Such as extending police powers over the domestic populace, and using them, in turn, to support their perverted economic and social goals…” I offered.
“Among other things,” he concurred. “Such brilliant cynicism is, I think, inspiring in a certain aspect, is it not?”
“Depending on your prespective,” I said, suppressing a gulp, “it very well could be.”
“But the Obama Administration,” he pressed on, punctuating his utterance with a worldly shrug, “they actually want to catch Osama bin Laden. So, you can see what sort of position that puts poor Pakistan in – you just told me about it yourself.”
“And you want me,” I responded, nearly in shock, “to help you brainstorm some ways to prevent that?”
Gandu flashed me a another broad grin – now, I could see him thinking, we were finally doing some business – Pakistani style. “Precisely.”
“Sir,” I admonished, “there is absolutely no way I could possibly do that.”
Gandu did his best imitation of a disappointed, well-intentioned civil servant. “For heaven’s sake, why on earth not?”
“First, because it would be a violation of federal law for me to advise a foreign diplomat on ways to influence United States foreign policy. And second, because I, like every other red-blooded, patriotic American, want to see Osama bin Laden strapped down on the Timothy McVeigh Memorial Lethal Injection Gurney, preferably on live television and with full Web-cam coverage!”
“Understandable,” Gandu allowed. “Tell you what – you don’t have to talk, okay? I’ll just run some ideas by you and watch your reactions. Say, for starters, we let the Americans know – in a very tactful way, of course – that if they don’t keep paying us unconditional foreign aid and let us keep pretending we can’t find Osama bin Laden, then our ability to control fundamentalist Islamic terrorism in the Northwest Frontier Province will become so compromised, we will no longer be able to guarantee control of opium production there, thus resulting in crippling competition to your CIA’s current heroin operations in Afghanistan.”
I was Mount Rushmore. I didn’t move a millimeter.
“Okay,” he mused, “how about this – if the US doesn’t continue to play ‘Where’s Osama?’ with us, then we start a war with India over Kashmir!”
The Sphinx had nothing on me – I stared right back a him, immobile as stone.
“All right,” he muttered, clearly a bit frustrated by my stalwart refusal to cooperate, “then we could always let it be known that if we are forced to capture Osama bin Laden and turn him over to the United States, the public reaction in Pakistan would be overwhelming; to such an extent, in fact, that the Government could not necessarily maintain the security of Pakistani nuclear weapons. Who knows,” he asked rhetorically with another worldly shrug, “one of those warheads might find its way into an American city. Not Washington, I don’t think… no, there’s way too much security, not to mention the extensive diplomatic community; too many possible repercussions here. There’s always another go at New York, of course, but why not, oh, I don’t know, Chicago or Los Angeles?”
“Leave, please,” I slowly intoned. “Now!”
“Sure,” he acquiesced as he rose and made for the door. “But you know,” he remarked as he grasped the knob, turning back to smile at me slyly, “on that last one, I saw you blink.”
Yeah, I did. But only because my eyes were getting really, really dry.