ON any given morning the roads of Karachi are teeming with intense traffic. Pavements are thronged with people. Vans rush frantically to drop children to their schools.

On Thursday, though, it is 10am and the streets are deserted. Most shops have their shutters down. Schools are closed. We come on to the thoroughfares and see only a moderate number of vehicles. We are on our way to the Muttahida Qaumi Movement (MQM) headquarters in Azizabad which Rangers’ personnel raided just a day earlier, detaining several people and seizing arms and ammunition.

The famous “Mukka Chowk” — decorated with the coal-black sculpture of a clenched fist that rests atop an inverted funnel in the roundabout, which is plastered with posters of Altaf Hussain — comes into sight. We are in the bastion of the MQM, Nine Zero. The red, green and white colours of the MQM flag are fluttering in the dusty breeze.

Know more: Rangers raid MQM HQ in Karachi, detain member of Rabita Committee

On the right side of the roundabout a police van and a city warden vehicle are parked. A warden stands apathetically. On the left a private TV channel’s satellite van is parked with three young men wearing bored-to-death expressions.

We pull up outside a barrier manned by party workers, where we’re asked to identify ourselves. Our car is checked. The worker calls someone, confirms we have a scheduled appointment and allows entry. Here, the streets are quiet and devoid of activity.

We halt at a second barricade manned by a young worker who again asks us to identify ourselves. He, too, calls someone and after getting a confirmation of our appointment allows us admission.

We then come to stop at a third barrier and after going through the whole process yet again, we are asked to park our vehicle and walk towards the Khursheed Memorial Hall, the MQM’s secretariat. We cross a street and after walking a bit, we come upon a fourth barricade and are questioned by a couple of workers.

Finally, we reach the secretariat. We cross the pathway lined with potted plants and walk some further distance to enter the pale pink building. On the right side are several benches where one can see a few men either talking on their mobile phones or just sitting around.

At the stairs a breathless Saman Jafri, a Muttahida MNA, meets us. She takes us to the International Press Conference room, which is large and impressive. One wall bears the world map. On another are six LCD TV screens. Just above are six clocks showing the time in as many cities. In a corner is a glass-topped table with eight chairs.

“I saw the body of Waqas falling in front of me … The Rangers say they have picked up 24 of our people when they have picked up 106 ... the backs of our boys were red. In 2013 Altaf Bhai had called for a military operation. We are a bulwark against the Taliban. Nobody can go to Orangi,” says Ms Jafri with a fervent intensity.

We are taken to the CCTV room where dishevelled workers show us the gaping holes that used to hold their recording equipment. The room was in shambles yesterday, they say, but has now been tidied up.

Upon my request we are taken to meet the people who were present when Nine Zero was raided by the army in 1992. It is noon by the time we reach Hussain’s house. A couple of children play badminton in a narrow lane.

We are outside the house of Hussain where we meet Gohar and Meraj who recount for us the 1992 raid. “There used to be gates which the army wrenched out with bulldozers. They came in with Haqiqi people along with people from the agencies, with the intention of taking over,” says Gohar.

“The army people would bring in people from the tanga party of Zafar Jhundair and the agencies to intimidate us,” says Meraj, who was 15 years old at the time.

We are then taken to meet an aunt of Gohar who was also a witness to the 1992 raid. “The army came without weapons,” says Zahida Mushtaq. “They would come every Friday and surround the area and not let anybody in. All our men had gone underground subsequently, so our little boys would man the barriers and women took care of the party’s affairs,” she adds. “The army people were never rude to us, unlike the Rangers who behaved terribly with the women. They did not make the men crouch down.”

As we take our leave, we see a black tent being hammered into the road. A young man weeps copiously in the arms of an older man. “We both came together yesterday,” he keeps saying over and over again. I am told that this is Ahsan Ghauri, best friend of Waqas, who was killed on Wednesday.

We leave Mukka Chowk and see several men on their way to attend Waqas’ funeral. It is 1pm by the time we exit Azizabad. By now, several shops are open, fruit and vegetable vendors have come out on the streets and there is substantial traffic on the roads.

Published in Dawn, March 13th, 2015

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