The Nine Lives of Pakistan: Dispatches from a Precarious State

by Declan Walsh

in police pick-ups that trailed the luxury vehicles of political or business bigwigs. Every rich person had a police ‘uncle’ to turn to in a moment of need – a son arrested with a bottle of liquor in his car, a business dispute that required resolution, or even a family member facing manslaughter for knocking over and killing a poor man with their Porsche. Then, the rich were all polite smiles and unctuous solicitation. ‘Please, uncle, we’re counting on you.’ But once the problem had been solved, the police were quietly escorted out, via the back door, like tradesmen who had served their purpose. Aslam flicked his cigarette, his tired eyes following the glowing stub as it tumbled into the blackness. It wasn’t just the super-rich. Muscle was a prerequisite to survival in Karachi, and everyone used the police to their own ends: the politicians, the army generals, even the criminals. A good cop knew how to play the system – when to swim with the tide of fortune and when to change course; when to take money and when to give it; when to break the law and when to enforce it. The cops were the grease of the city, the element that lubricated its cogs and kept the whole messy, corrupt, infernal machine turning.