The Kas Man: My Bodyguard, My Friend
I can still see him now, riding his motorcycle in all kinds of weather — when the boulevards and backstreets of Islamabad become icy and slick, with winter descending upon northern Pakistan.
Hunched there behind him, arms clutched around his waist like a teenaged girlfriend, I held on for dear life, my helmet too small for my bucket-sized head.
The equipment helped ensure my safety, but not in the way you’d think.
That cheap plastic crash protector didn't protect me from falls; it gave me cover. Nobody could tell I was an American, let alone a journalist, behind enemy lines, reporting from a world that could easily kill me.
And it well might have, if not for Kaswar Klasra.
I called him the Kas Man. He was both my driver and fixer. He got me where I needed to be, many times on that old hulk of a motorcycle. He’d translate my interviews with mullahs, shopkeepers and politicians, and then make sure I made it safely back to my nondescript guest house I’d chosen for its anonymity.
The hotel where I’d stayed the year before, popular among foreign reporters, had since been blown to smithereens.
It was early in 2008 — dangerous times in South Asia, especially in Pakistan.
That autumn, the Economist magazine had featured the country’s war-torn strife with a cover story that showed a huge grenade with a human finger on the pin, with the headline: Pakistan: The World’s Most Dangerous Place.
So I did the best I could to stay safe; I grew a wiry iron-red beard to blend in.
I quickly developed some defenses.
That year, George W. Bush was hated by most Pakistanis. I'd hop into a cab and feel the driver’s eye size me up through the rear-view mirror.
I said I was Canadian. But on rare occasions I let my freak flag fly and admit I was an American.
I did not speak Urdu, but I knew the English version of a Pakistani insult.
“George Bush,” I would say. “Son of donkey.”
With that, I could feel their defenses ease, like air escaping a punctured tire.
"Yes," they'd laugh. "Son of donkey!"
Pakistan remains a land of bitter contradictions. Tribal and religious taboos subject women to the cruelest repression worldwide. But the country also elected Bhutto, the first female prime minister of a Muslim nation.
Then Bhutto was assassinated.
Kas and I headed out on his motorcycle to interview everyday Pakistanis, especially women, on the lesson learned from the death.
Our bond grew with every passing moment. Eating lunch at a roadside stand, we suddenly heard the Muslim call to prayer coming from tinny-sounding nearby speakers.
Kas produced a small rolled-up carpet and joined the other men at a corner of the lot, facing Mecca, bowing to the prophet Mohammad.
I didn’t judge. In fact, the practice took on a beauty of its own. As a Roman Catholic, the only place we kneeled to our God was in church once a week.
But deadlines loomed.
Back inside my guesthouse, typing on the computer in the failing afternoon light, I heard the call to prayer. Kas rolled out his carpet on the floor, reciting mantras in the near darkness.
I pecked away, the laptop screen illuminated by a cheap table lamp. To double-check facts, I called out to Kas, who would offer the answer in mid-prayer.
I felt bad, but Tas understood. He was a Muslim and a journalist.
One day, we arranged to spend a day with the opposition candidate who had taken the place of the fallen Bhutto. Riding in his chauffeured Land Cruiser, Babar Awan was on a mission many considered suicidal:
He was a politician stumping on the world’s deadliest campaign trail.
On our motorcycle, Tas and I followed the veteran lawmaker as he canvassed a tiny northern Pakistani town, a place where goats wandered the streets and residents remained fiercely loyal to President Pervez Musharraf.
It was enemy territory and Awan was nervous, even with his phalanx of armed guards.
Musharraf had refused to provide Awan with protection, forcing him to rely on private security and hope for the best.
At one rally site, Tas and I had taken our places near the podium as Awan, a dark-eyed lawyer with a pencil mustache, entered the walled park flanked by his dozen security guards.
At the gate, he brushed past a few government-assigned soldiers armed with Kalashnikov assault rifles.
The tension was palpable.
Men with woolen scarves around their shoulders flinched at the blast of a car horn. But Awan was unruffled.
“I know I could be killed,” he said. “Being a politician in Pakistan today is like sitting on top of a powder keg.”
Journalists didn't have it any easier. I, too, was an open target.
Before Awan’s arrival, a lineup of various Mullahs had addressed the crowd, each angrier then the one who came before him.
They would pound the podium for emphasis, speaking in Urdu. But every 10th word I understood.
“George Boooosh!”
Then Kas crept up and whispered into my ear.
What he said sent a shiver of fear through my body.
“I don’t feel comfortable here.”
WTF?
“You don’t feel comfortable here!” I hissed. “Let’s get out of here. Now!”
We stepped outside and Kas lit a cigarette, apologizing. He main job was to protect me at all times. He should not have allowed me to go in there.
It was far too dangerous.
We talked out the situation, assessing how to get our story without getting killed.
Awan himself had offered us guidance.
He had told us that he didn’t blame Bhutto for standing through her vehicle’s sunroof on the day she was killed. “You can’t sit inside and wave — people won’t allow it,” he said. “You have to open the door and open the window. Whatever happens, will happen.”
True enough.
Kas and I would eventually go our separate ways.
I have watched with pride as he continued his career as a Pakistani journalist, reporting for Dawn, The Nation, South China Morning Post, China Daily and my alma mater, the Los Angeles Times.
Recently, he became a founding editor of the Islamabad Telegraph. He married and had a daughter.
Back on that dangerous day, we decided to creep back inside the compound, hopefully unnoticed.
Together, we watched Awan work the crowd.
“Pakistan has no future except for democracy. Do you reject Musharraf and his dark forces of dictatorship?”
“Yes,” the men roared, thrusting fists into the air.
“Will you fight for democracy?”
“Yes!”
The crowd broke into a chant.
“Bhutto is alive!” the men shouted, rising to their feet. “Bhutto is alive!”
After his speech, Awan made his way toward the waiting black Land Cruiser.
He climbed inside, people reaching for him through the open window.
And then he was gone.
Kas kick-started his motorcycle and we hurried back to Islamabad to file our story.
This time, together in that cramped guest room, when Kas knelt on his carpet, I stayed silent.
My questions would wait until my fixer-turned-friend had finished his prayers.