Who rules Pakistan?

The country's democracy is a veneer for the shady controlling forces that sit behind it.

Who rules Pakistan? Leaving aside a degree of fast-footing by the civil servants, it is the intelligence services, linked to the army. In the last 20 years, civilian governments have had no muscle to pass legislation. The present Zardari administration, as all civilian administrations have been, is cowed. Democracy has never stood a chance because ministers are constantly under threat from the army's and Inter-Services Intelligence's (ISI) dictates. Salman Taseer and Shahbaz Bhatti steadfastly refused to toe their line and do their bidding and that is why they received constant death threats, from the time they came into office.

The latest announcement from the administration is not who will replace Shahbaz Bhatti as Minister for Minorities. Rather, Rehman Malik, the interior minister, announced that henceforth, artists, students and journalists travelling abroad will need a No-Objection Certificate (NOC) from the government. There is something hauntingly Soviet about this, and no surprise that Russian-style activity and their textbook approach to state control -- disinformation through the press, propaganda, bare-faced lying, the spreading of fear - has ratcheted up. Unbelievably the story that the ISI appear to have put out through the clerics -- in a tit for tat for the Davis affair -- is that a 'US-led conspiracy' was behind Bhatti's assassination.

Pakistan's weapon of state control has long been disinformation but now it is fear and it is getting worse, not better.

It is also a question of spreading the blame. Spitting out its own pips, the ISI doesn't want Musharaff back in Pakistan to contest elections. A third anti-terror warrant, news of which has now been pulled from Pakistan news sites, has been issued against him for association with the murder of Benazir Bhutto. Here is the second.

Many in Pakistan believe that the extremist goons who killed Shahbaz Bhatti, minister for minorities, on 2 March, leaving leaflets at the site, and Salmaan Taseer, governor of Punjab, on 4 January, were little more than execution squads for the ISI.

Across the Arab world, the protests have been against the control of secret police and the secret state, although there have so far been no murmurings from Syria, which has the tightest and deepest of all. Pakistan, on the surface so different with its subcontinental character and gentle people, has in the last months been shown up as a state as deep as any on the old Ottoman model. It's increasingly difficult to tell the difference between the ulemas, secret police, crack-corps janissaries and ghazis (the blood-crazed dedicated to fighting infidels or non believers) of the sunni Ottoman empire and Pakistan 's modern state.

Extremism takes few victims in Pakistan -- outside of the frontline border provinces of FATA mortalities were estimated by AP to be about 1200 a year, in a population of 170 million -- but it has the desired effect of terrorising and silencing the population. Those mad mullahs, those thuggish execution squads high on drugs (the word 'assassin' curiously comes from the Arabic 'hashshashin', literally 'hasheaters'), the official state propaganda - thousands of lawyers prepared to stand up for Taseer's killer Mumtaz Qadri, the army protecting the nation against extremists, Punjab Taliban out of control. If it isn't paid rent-a-crowds with television cameras in sight, it is as wretched as the telephone call reportedly made to Shahbaz Bhatti by the security services hours before, to tell him that they knew there was a plot to kill him. After this was done -- if the rumours are to be believed -- they went ahead.

Catriona Luke is a freelance writer and editor.

Getty
Show Hide image

In praise of the late developer

The success of late developers proves that our obsession with early achievement is wrong.

A fortnight ago, I fell into conversation with the head teacher of a local school. “You’ve got to create room for late developers,” he said. “The obsession with early attainment doesn’t suit most children.”

We were soon finishing each other’s sentences – talking about long-term confidence rather than short-term hothousing, how children don’t develop in a linear way, and the value of having transferable skills rather than a single focus from a young age.

What a shame, I reflected, that his message doesn’t reach a wider audience. We hear so much about prodigies and precociousness – Serena Williams and her pushy father, Tiger Woods and “tiger mothers” – and so little of the counter-argument: the high achievers who emerge at a slower pace in more balanced circumstances.

Our conversation ended when we both departed to watch England play Scotland in the Six Nations tournament. Only then did I learn that the head teacher’s son Huw Jones was playing in the centre for Scotland. He scored two tries, just as he did last autumn in his home debut against Australia.

Jones’s career is a tacit endorsement of his father’s philosophy. In his penultimate year at school, Huw was still playing mostly in the second XV. Five years on, he is a burgeoning talent on the world stage. The two facts are connected. Jones didn’t just overtake others; he also retained the naturalness that is often lost “in the system”.

As boys, he and his brother made up their own version of rugby practice: could the ­attacker sidestep and run past the defender without setting foot outside the five-metre line? They were just having fun, uncoached and unsupervised. But their one-on-one game was teaching the most valuable skill in rugby: the ability to beat defenders in confined spaces.

Jones had access to superb opportunities throughout – at home, at Canterbury rugby club and then at Millfield, the independent school in Somerset well known for producing sportsmen. But at Millfield, he was far from being a superstar. He seldom played “A-team” rugby. The message from home: just keep enjoying it and getting better and eventually your time will come.

There was a useful precedent. Matt Perry, who won 36 caps for England between 1997 and 2001, had been a “B-team” player at school. What matters is where you end up, not who leads the race at the age of 16. Jones also developed transferable skills by continuing to play other sports. “Don’t specialise too early,” was the mantra of Richard Ellison, the former England cricketer who taught at Millfield for many years.

When Jones was 18 and finally blossoming in the school’s first XV, rugby agents started to take an interest, promising to place him in the “academy” of a professional team. “But I’d seen so many kids take that route and seen how bored they got,” his father, Bill, reflects. So Bill advised his son to go abroad, to gain experience of new cultures and to keep playing rugby for fun instead of getting on the tracksuited professional treadmill.

So Jones took a teaching job in Cape Town, where he played men’s club rugby. Instead of entering the professional system, as one of a bland cohort of similar-aged “prospects”, he served his apprenticeship among players drawn from different backgrounds and ages. Sport was shown to be a matter of friendship and community, not just a career path.

The University of Cape Town spotted and recruited Jones, who helped it win the South African university competition. Only then, in 2014, did British professional rugby teams start to take a serious interest. Jones, however, was enjoying South Africa and stayed put, signing a contract with the Stormers in the Super Rugby tournament – the world’s leading club competition.

So, in the space of 18 months, Jones had gone from being a gap-year Brit with no formal ties to professional rugby to playing against the world’s best players each week. He had arrived on the big stage, following a trajectory that suited him.

The level of competition had escalated rapidly but the tries kept coming. Scotland, by now closely monitoring a player qualified by birth, gave him his spectacular home debut against Australia last autumn – remarkable but not surprising. Finding his feet ­instantly on each new stage is the pattern of his career.

Those two qualities – first, instinctive ­try-scoring; second, a lack of vertigo – are connected. Amid all the jargon of professional sport, perhaps the most important qualities – freshness, ingenuity and the gift of surprise – are undervalued. Yet all of these rely on skills honed over many years – honed, but not dulled.

Shoehorning all young players into rigid, quasi-professional systems long before they are ready comes with risks. First, we seldom hear from the child prodigies who faded away (often damaged psychologically). Many players who are pushed too hard miss their natural learning arc; the narrative of their ambition, or the ambition imposed on them by parents, is often out of step with their physical and psychological growth. Second, systems have a habit of overestimating their contribution: they become blind to outsiders.

In a quiet way, Jones is a case study in evolved education and not just sport: a talented performer who was given time and space to find his voice. The more we learn about talent, as David Epstein demonstrated in The Sports Gene, the clearer it becomes that focusing on champion 11-year-olds decreases the odds of producing champion adults. Modern science has reinforced less frantic and neurotic educational values; variety and fun have their virtues.

Over the long term, put your faith not in battery farming but instead, in Bill Jones’s phrase, in “free-range children”.

Ed Smith is a journalist and author, most recently of Luck. He is a former professional cricketer and played for both Middlesex and England.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution