Author: Ghulam Hasnain, Islamabad
and Muzaffarabad
Publication: Time Magazine
Date: February 5, 2001
The militants fighting Pakistan's
covert war with India train in spartan camps where they are schooled for
battle and prepared for martyrdom
Four bearded militants warm themselves
at a gas heater in an Islamabad safe house. A wireless set suddenly crackles.
"Our boys have entered Srinagar Airport," a grave, distant-sounding voice
announces. "Pray for them. It has now been 15 minutes." The voice, speaking
in Urdu and broadcasting from deep within India's part of Kashmir, is detailing
the progress of a suicide mission by Lashkar-i-Taiba, a ruthless, Pakistan-based
militant group waging war to wrest Kashmir from India. The four men in
the safe house, also members of Lashkar-i-Taiba, immediately go into fervent
prayer. They are not the only ones to receive the radio transmission. Other
militant groups in Pakistan can tune into the same frequency. So can the
Pakistani military. A phone in the house rings, and one of the militants
answers. He is asked what's happening. His reply: "Why don't you find out
from your side?" After hanging up, he explains the caller was a Pakistani
army colonel. That scene occurred in early January. Five Lashkar operatives
disguised as police officers attempted to attack the Srinagar airport that
day. But Indian army guards turned them away, and the operation was aborted.
Two weeks ago, however, a second attempt succeeded. Six would-be martyrs,
dressed in police uniforms and driving a stolen government jeep, reached
the outer defense gate of the airport and indiscriminately tossed grenades
and opened fire with rifles. Back in the Islamabad safe house, a coded
message came through at 2:15 p.m. saying the men had reached their target.
Abu Ammar, a 30-year-old Pakistani veteran of the Afghan war his face is
scarred from shrapnel and his right hand is mangled knelt and touched his
forehead to the floor in prayer. "I have learned that whenever you succeed
in your mission, just bow down, thank God and hail his greatness," he said.
After a three-hour gun battle at the airport's perimeter, all six of Abu
Ammar's men were dead, along with four policemen. (Two civilians were killed
and 12 injured.)
Since Kashmir erupted in 1989, India
has pointed a blunt and unwavering finger at Pakistan, accusing its neighbor
of fomenting the entire problem. It's a large and cynical exaggeration:
anti-Indian sentiment runs high within Kashmir, and in the first half of
the 1990s, Kashmiris themselves provided the steam in the anti-Indian militant
movement. They were disorganized and willing to murder, but passionate
and anxious to plead their nationalist cause with the outside world.
Today, however, India's charge rings
a lot truer. Despite a decade of denials Islamabad insists it provides
only moral and political support, not training or tangible aid Pakistan
is fueling militant activity in Kashmir. Of the five main militant groups
operating in Kashmir, four are based in Pakistan, where open recruiting
and fundraising are commonplace. Training of militants is also done on
Pakistani soil. The Pakistani military is deeply involved, especially in
the smuggling of anti-Indian militants across the Line of Control.
Militant groups have roots all over
Pakistan, from their well-equipped training centres in Muzaffarabad the
capital of Pakistan's slice of Kashmir and the country's North-West Frontier
province to the nice, middle-class houses in Lahore and Islamabad. Those
houses may look no different from their neighbors at first glance, but
what about the strange antennas on the roofs, the international phone lines
and the transient occupants with unkempt hair, camouflage jackets and hiking
boots? And what of those unmarked four-wheel-drive vehicles pulling up
at dawn with clockwork precision? Here is an inside look at how Pakistan
runs its covert war in Kashmir:
Recruiting and Training
There are thousands of young, motivated
Pakistani men anxious to join the militancy in Kashmir, which they consider
a holy war. They come from all walks of life: not merely from the religious
schools known as madrassahs, or the far-flung, poverty-mired towns and
villages, but also from Pakistan's educated and Westernized middle and
upper classes. In the jihad they find brotherhood, a sense of mission and
purpose. And for these highly religious volunteers, many of whom are still
in their teens, there is nothing more sacred in life than achieving the
status of a martyr. These are the grunts in the war. The leaders are Pakistani
veterans of the Afghan war.
The largest training camp in Pakistan
is run by Lashkar-i-Taiba, a wing of an Afghan mujahedin group known as
Markaz Al Dawa Wal Irshad. It is set on a vast mountain clearing overlooking
Muzaffarabad. (Training grounds for the other three militant groups are
located in the North-West Frontier province.) Armed men guard the facility
round-the-clock. There are only two structures, one an armory, the other
a kitchen. Trainees live and sleep in the open, whether in the sweltering
summer or the depth of winter. The field is dotted with installations used
to teach the fervent young some no older than 14 how to cross a river,
climb a mountain or ambush a military convoy.
The day of a trainee begins at four
in the morning. After offering prayers, the militants go for exercises.
A breakfast of tea and bread is at eight, followed by a full day of rigorous
drills, which are interrupted only for prayers and a simple lunch, usually
rice and lentils. Coursework covers how to use sidearms, sniper rifles,
grenades, rocket launchers and wireless radio sets, as well as the art
of constructing bombs. The teachers are Lashkar veterans of action in Kashmir
and Afghanistan. Sports, music and television are forbidden. Trainees are
only allowed to read pre-screened newspaper articles.
Training is divided into two stages.
The first three-week session gives religious education and basic knowledge
of how to handle firearms. Once a volunteer has passed that course, which
costs the organization about $330 per trainee, he is sent to a designated
city or town, often near his birthplace, to work at the group's offices
and become more involved with the organization.
When a volunteer proves himself
capable, motivated and loyal, he is enrolled in a special three-month commando
boot camp, which costs the group $1,700 per student. (The money is raised
from overseas groups and the Pakistani public, often via open demonstrations
in Pakistani cities of militants working out, scaling walls and showing
other martial tricks. Generous donors are invited to visit the not-so-secret
camps to see how their money is spent.) Phase two is designed to push each
volunteer to his physical limit and cull the weak from the strong. In the
final weeks, recruits use live ammunition, construct actual explosives
and perfect ambush techniques. The final exam lasts three days. A group
of trainees, sometimes as large as 100 individuals, hikes and climbs through
high-altitude, wooded terrain for three days without food or sleep. They
are not allowed to slow their pace except for a few naps. At the end the
hungry and thirsty survivors are given a goat, a knife and a matchbox.
That's their reward, and they have to cook and eat it in warlike conditions.
Going In
Only the fittest from each graduating
group are given a chance at martyrdom across the border in Kashmir. The
local commander makes his choice, and the fortunate few are dispatched
to safe houses along the Line of Control known as "launching pads." (Parents'
permission is technically required for anyone who opts for jihad. Many
boys get it easily, but some who don't, fully submerged in the dream of
martyrdom, pressure their parents into complying.) At the launching pad,
while waiting for their marching orders, the boys write wills and what
might be their last words to their families.
At this point, the Pakistani army
plays a crucial role helping to arrange the infiltration of the militants
across the Line of Control. Militants officially deny Pakistani army involvement,
but those who fought in Kashmir tell Time that the wait at the launching
pad is dictated by their leaders, who are in touch with the army. "Until
an unmarked vehicle turns up at your safe house," says a veteran of Al-Badr,
the first Pakistan-based militant organization to get members across the
line, "you don't know when your number will come."
When it does, this is what happens:
"The vehicle, covered from all sides, will pick up two, three or four militants
according to the plan and dump them at one of the forward posts of the
Pakistani army," the Al-Badr veteran says. "People in civvies give us arms,
ammunition, food and money [Indian currency]. We are asked to check our
weapons. After a day or two they give us the signal to go ahead." None
of the boys is allowed to carry his own arms to the Line of Control, although
sometimes an individual can choose a favorite AK-47 and find it waiting
for him at the army camp along the line.
The next step is the most hazardous:
from the Pakistani army post, the group embarks on a three-to-seven night
journey into Indian-controlled Kashmir, traveling by night, hiding during
the day. The group leader wears night-vision goggles. The rest follow blindly
across the mountains. There are numerous obstacles: Indian mines, tracer
flares, Indian border patrols anxious to shoot at them. "But whenever such
a situation arises," says a Lashkar militant, "the Pakistani guns come
to our rescue to provide cover."
Militants making the return trip
go through a reverse route, ending up at a Pakistani army base sometimes
with souvenirs. Abu Haibatullah, 32, was sent across the Line of Control
in the mid '90s with a particular mission: to bring back an Indian soldier
for interrogation. He managed to ambush and disarm a soldier, but when
the Indian tried to snatch Haibatullah's gun, he killed him. He then decided
to return home with the soldier's head. "Lots of people came to see the
head," he recalls proudly. "Some were from the Pakistani army and they
praised me for my gallantry."
In the 1990s, the Pakistani militants
hired local guides ethnic Kashmiris to help them get across the mountains
and into India. "On a number of occasions," says Zakiur Rehman Lakhvi,
42, the supreme commander of the Lashkar-i-Taiba militants, "they took
the money and tipped off the Indians. So we trained our own manpower."
In other words, the Pakistani militants don't always trust the Kashmiris
on whose behalf they are waging this war. The Pakistani militancy, which
had its roots in the Afghan war, is now an institution unto itself.
