Letter from Islamabad

Musharraf's MonsterIn Pakistan, independent TV is young,

powerful, and biting the hand that fed it

BY SHAHAN MUFTI

One evening last June, during an oppressively hot summer in that have emerged in the last seven yearsIslamabad, I attended a protest organized by Pakistani television as a popular but controversial alternative

to state-run TV. The new laws restrictedjournalists. A fiery stream lit Constitution Avenue-the broad thor- live coverage and gave unprecedentedoughfare is lined with the state's most powerful political institu- power to government regulators to seizetions-as a torch-carrying procession marched past the Supreme private property and interruptbroadcastsdeemed unacceptable.Court. The marchers chanted slogans against the military regime The crackdown had been long com-of Pervez Musharraf, vowing "endless war, till the media are freed." ing. Three months earlier, in March, GEO-

TV'S offices were the scene of a definingSome of the biggest names in Pakistani television were moment for the journalists in Pakistan's independent televi-

among the protestors, names known to nearly a third of the sion news business-when their struggle against governmenturban population in this country of 150 million. "Imagine restrictions itself became news, and helped them glimpseif one of us showed up on air with a bruise tomorrow:" an their untapped potential as a force for political change.anchor I recognized from a popular political talk show said, On March 16, government security forces raided GEO'Sstopping next to me. He smiled smugly, and stepped over a offices after the network crossed an unspecified "red line" bylistless tangle of barbed wire that had been flattened by the broadcastinglive coverage of a rally for the chiefjustice of thecrowd. Islamabad police in full riot gear lined both sides of Supreme Court, Iftikhar Muhammad Chaudhry, who had beenthe road, watching silently. dismissed by Musharraf the previous week. In recent years,

The protest that evening-there were several byjournalists Chaudhry had repeatedly embarrassed Musharraf by aggres-last summer-began with rousing speeches outside the offices sively prosecuting government corruption, and the presidentof Pakistan's most popular private television network, GEO-TV. wanted him out of the way. After his dismissal, ChaudhryJournalists, mainly from broadcast media, and hundreds of emerged as a hero for those seeking an end to military rule.their supporters were demonstrating against the sweeping The security forces broke into the GEO building, shatteredrestrictions introduced by Musharraf's government a few days windows with batons, fired tear gas, and roughed up the menearlier on all electronic media-basically FM radio and, particu- and women inside, demanding that the coverage stop.larly, the more than sixty private satellite television operations That day, Pakistanis were riveted to their television sets

46 NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2007

I

Tough Talk Hamid Mir, who isamong the veteran Pakistanijournalists attempting to forgethe identity of independent TVnews, prepares for his prime-time public affairs show.

as Hamid Mir, GEO'S Islamabad bureau chief and the mostwidely recognized journalist on Pakistani television, wagedhis own live, on-air struggle against the police. Defying ordersto stop transmission, Mir locked himself in the newsroom inthe basement From there, he broadcast a minute-by-minutenarration of what was happening. "They're attacking us withtear gas now," he yelled at one point, as the network beamedshaky, raw footage of the clash over its satellite feed.

Hours later, the raid now over and the security troops gone(GEo never stopped its coverage), Mir, wearing a sober bluesuit, was leaning into the camera for his live prime-time show.Pakistan's parliament, a creamy white colossus with the firstarticle of Islam inscribed across the front, provided the back-drop. Mir announced a special guest for that evening's show,and a phone line crackled through to President Musharraf.

"I would like to apologize," the pugnacious general said a fewminutes into the interview, referring to the raid. "Freedom ofspeech, freedom of expression, and the freedom of media, thisis my mandate. I strongly condemn any violation of this!'

It wasn't typical Musharraf, to say the least. The generalhas earned a reputation for never apologizing. But then, itis said that television is making the impossible happen inPakistan every day.

LAST SUMMER, as Pakistan turned sixty, the country appearedto be fracturing along multiple fault lines, even as the promise

of democracy hovered in the near distance. After eight yearsof cagey military rule, Musharraf found himself on unstableground. The judiciary was in revolt; the various oppositionmovements had united against him; floods along the southerncoast had displaced over 200,000 people; and the U.S.-led

"war on terror" was knocking loudly along Pakistan's porous1,600-mile border with Afghanistan. Sensing change in theharsh summer winds, or loo as they are called, everyone, itseemed, spilled onto the streets to stake their claim.

The elections scheduled for the fall were commonlyreferred to as the most important in the country's history. Notonly would they pit pro-American forces against nationalistsand Islamists at a time when the country was being watchedclosely by anxious Western capitals, but it was also seen asa chance to alter the civil-military balance of power, underwhich civil politics have always been run-directly or indi-rectly-by the army. Musharraf defied a growing chorus ofcritics who argued that it was unconstitutional for a generalto be president, and insisted on standing for reelection whileretaining his position as the Army's chief of staff.

The nascent independent television press found itself atthe epicenter of this political upheaval. While it fought towin and retain its own freedoms, the scale of the events thatit grappled with in its coverage of the run-up to the electionschallenged the very nature of its journalistic mission, raisingquestions about what role this powerful new medium canand should play in Pakistan.

COLUMBIA JOURNALISM REVIEW 47

In July, a few months after the raid on GEO, I met HamidMir at his top-floor office in the network's Islamabad offices,which occupy a piece of prime real estate in the capital'sbusy commercial district. Before becoming a television star,Mir was one of Pakistan's most aggressive print journal-ists. As an editor at the country's largest Urdu-languagedaily, Jang (which translates literally as "War"), Mir wasknown for his tough expos6s on government corruption.As the first (and to this day, the only) journalist to inter-view Osama bin Laden in person after September 11, 2001,he had also begun enjoying international recognition. Butdays after the ransacking of GEO, Mir was "promoted" bythe channel's management, from bureau chief to executiveeditor. It was a position created to insulate Mir, maybefor his own good, as the government suddenly showed itswillingness to hit back.

The political storm that had blown up with the dismissalof the chief justice was still buffeting the country. Chaudhryhad been reinstated only days before to a shower of rosepetals and street celebrations across the country, and hehad specifically and publicly thanked the "media fraternity,"without whom, he said, the rebirth of the judiciary, signaledby its unprecedented stand against Musharraf, would havebeen impossible. But Mir wasn't in the mood to celebrate.He found that his promotion had effectively removed himfrom editorial decisions at GEO, and he was frustrated. "Whatdid we gain that day? What did I gain?" he said. "I've onlylost more freedoms every day since. I can't even go live onair anymore!"

Mir's understanding of journalism's role in society comesfrom Pakistan's rich tradition of an independent print press,which has jousted with four different military regimes sincethe country's birth in 1947. Old print hands, like Mir, recallwith pride when papers like Jang would publish blank col-umns (and once an entire blank front page) to protest gov-ernment censorship.

But in a largely rural country with one of the lowest lit-eracy rates in the world, print media has never been massmedia. Newspapers sell mostly in urban centers, while inrural areas radio, and to a lesser extent state-run television(broadcast over a terrestrial network), are the main sources ofnews and information. With the Internet still available onlyto 3 percent of Pakistanis, the influence of online journalismis negligible. Until Musharraf came to power, there was noprivate satellite television in Pakistan. But now cable lines,carrying satellite television signals, are slowly creeping intoeven the most remote villages. A young documentary pro-ducer at Dawn News, the country's first twenty-four-hour,English-language news channel, explained the significanceof this: "They don't really have schools in interior Sindh" hesaid, referring to the most impoverished state in the country.

"But now they have cable lines. So guess what? Now we'rethe ones educating all of them."

Pakistan remains one of the most dangerous places in theworld for a journalist to work, yet in the eight years sinceMusharraf overthrew the democratically elected govern-ment of Nawaz Sharif in 1999, not only have newspapersmaintained their independence, but Musharraf is credited,

by critics and supporters alike, with fostering the growth ofprivate broadcast media in the country.

Now, five years after the first private news channel wenton air, the broadcast media are nipping at the regime thatnurtured them, threatening to tear it down. Their coverageof the Chaudhry affair, as well as of Musharraf's increasinglyvocal political opponents, set the broadcasters on a colli-sion course with the president. Anti-Musharraf sentimentis boiling over in newsrooms at a time when his rule hasnever seemed shakier. "A few years ago you could have said,

Musharraf promised atechnologically advancedsociety with an openeconomy and a free press.

'If it weren't for Musharraf, private television wouldn't bewhere it is;" Mir says. "Today there is no doubt-if it weren'tfor private television, General Musharraf wouldn't be in themess that he is inf

The story of the general and the private broadcastersmust read a bit like Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, at leastto Musharraf. The general came to power on the heels ofPakistan's war with India in Kargil, Kashmir, in the sum-mer of 1999. In that highly secretive war, Indian journalistsreported from the icy Himalayan front lines on private newschannels watched all over the world, while Pakistan's state-run media refused even to acknowledge the war's existence,and its independent newspapers were largely kept out ofthe war zone and fed misinformation. As a result, Pakistanlost the battle for public opinion, and international pressurefinally forced the Pakistan Army, led by Musharraf, to pullback. "The whole experience was defining for him," saysAdnan Rehmat, who is the Pakistan country director forInternews, a media advocacy and watchdog group basedin Washington, D.C. "He felt Pakistan was losing the infor-mation and cultural war to India." Like any good general,Musharraf decided his country would find a way to com-pete-and win.

GEO-TV, owned by the Jang Group of Newspapers, wenton air in 2002 as the first private news channel in Pakistan.Today, whether originating in Pakistan or beaming in fromnearby Dubai, Pakistanis have a relative smorgasbord of TVviewing options-from Quran TV, which has built a thrivingbusiness on religious programming, to Fashion TV Paki-stan, which gets away with partial nudity in the middle ofthe day, to Muzik, which showcases Pakistani pop acts, toDawn News, there is little this burgeoning new industry isnot auditioning.

From the start, Musharraf promised a technologicallyadvanced society with an open economy and media sector,

48 NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2007

including a free press. But this also meant that didactic,state-censored news would lose viewers to, among otherthings, a primetime interview show hosted by a charmingand funny transvestite, or a satire depicting a schizophrenicpresident. "Infotainment" became a winning formula, andGEO and a few other news outlets, like ARY-TV and AAJ-TV,emerged as serious competitors for state-run Pakistan Tele-vision, particularly in urban centers. Today GEO has fourtwenty-four-hour channels for entertainment, sports, news,and youth, and plans to launch an English-language newschannel soon.

Musharraf, supremely confident and largely popular inhis first few years in power, wanted to transform Pakistaninto an "enlightened moderate" nation, and welcomed thephenomenon. The result was revolutionary. Whether it washumor, live news, or soap operas, the satellite channels werecharting new social boundaries every day. As one journalistput it: "Private television single-handedly turned us froma society that was scared to speak out, into a confessionalsociety that couldn't stop talking about itself."

But when you're at the center of such profound socialchange, you're bound to get scuffed up. Longbefore the statesought to tone down the broadcasters, satellite TV operationswere being ransacked by sectarian mobs for attempting tocover religious conflict, by criminal networks for exposingthem, by the powerful intelligence agencies for overstepping"national security" boundaries, and by religious militants forpurveyingvice. When Musharraf felt his pedestal wobble, thestate became only the latest-albeit the most powerful-insti-tution to lock horns with the broadcasters.

Now, the boundaries within which this hungry newmedium must operate are being negotiated in the streets, thenewsrooms, the courtrooms, and the corridors of power.

ISLAMABAD, THE CAPITAL, has the unflattering reputationof being"the city that mostly sleeps' A serene town of fewerthan a million people, it is surrounded by rugged green hillsand wrapped snugly in red tape. Most television news opera-tions are based in Karachi, the bustling financial capital, butmaintain a major office in Islamabad to cater to an audiencewho breathes and eats politics.

The rather dry shows produced in Islamabad are typi-cally talking heads, debates between politicians, and theodd breakfast show. But this year, those static forums hada healthy serving of drama to chew over. If the strugglebetween the judiciary and the executive branches that spilledinto the streets of the capital weren't enough, a confrontationwas also brewing in the heart of Islamabad at a well-knownplace of worship, the Red Mosque.

The mosque had become abase for thousands of religiousstudents working under the leadership of two cleric brotherswho aimed to "Islamicize" the Pakistani capital with theirinterpretation of sh'aria, or Islamic law. The government ini-tially ignored them, but soon found it could not. When theRed Mosque Brigade began vigilante, moral-policing opera-tions-busting prostitution rings, raiding video stores, burn-ing mounds of CDs, and even kidnapping police officials and

foreign nationals-public pressure forced the state's hand. AsMusharraf confronted one of the biggest challenges to stateauthority ever in the capital, international media attentionbecame transfixed on Pakistan, with some in the Westernpress hinting at the beginnings of an Iranian-style Islamicrevolution.

The Red Mosque became the flashpoint for a confron-tation that many Pakistanis considered inevitable in theirincreasingly polarized society. While an affluent and largelysecular elite was reaping the benefits of Musharraf's openeconomy, a vast underclass had grown disgruntled, and somefound a convenient scapegoat for their frustration in the "laxmoral standards" in evidence daily on the city's streets andalso on satellite TV.

The showdown came in early July, in a weeklong battlebetween the military and the clerics' armed followers in themosque. Hundreds, including children and hostages, werekilled in the military's final assault on the mosque, whichlasted an entire day. At the time, the broadcast media wereconfronting the government's new censorship laws, passed amonth earlier, and the Red Mosque incident became a test forhow they would respond. The government was so concernedabout the likely impact of television coverage that Musharrafpublicly announced, a few days before the offensive, that thegovernment would take action against the clerics only if themedia agreed not to show any dead bodies.

But when fighting erupted, the TV cameras were there.On the first day, a photographer was killed in the crossfire;another young TV cameraman was shot in the spine andparalyzed. The new Islamabad bureau chief for GEO wasshown live on air, bleeding profusely from a head wound.Seeing this, the government quickly restricted coverage.

Imran Aslam, the cEo and one of the founders of GEO-Tv,

is blunt about his network's performance during the crisis:"It was a miserable failure." I met Aslam, another transplantfrom Pakistan's newspaper business, in the studios beingbuiltfor GE•o English, in Karachi. Covering the battle of the RedMosque became "real American-style embedded journalism;'he said, referring to the restrictions implemented by thegovernment. The entire assault was viewed from behind theArmy's collective shoulder, so to speak, and journalists wereeven barred from entering hospitals. "To this day, we stilldon't know how many people were in the mosque. How manywere children, how many hostages? How many died andwhere were they buried?" Government claims that foreign alQaeda fighters had made their way into the compound couldnever be verified, and many questioned the authenticity ofthe grand display of weaponry, supposedly recovered fromthe mosque, shown to journalists when they were finallyallowed in after several days.

"People were offering us their rooftops" said Hamid Mir,recalling the missed opportunity with regret. "We could getviews right into the mosque compound. But we were just tooscared' The top management, he said, was under too much

"pressure from above."The limitations on coverage imposed by the government

did more than just frustrate the young broadcast operations.With obvious avenues for covering the confrontation closed

COLUMBIA JOURNALISM REVIEW 49

off and an admitted reluctance to use "side doors" broad-casters were lured into a position that many now say was aperversion of their journalistic mission. "We ended up play-ing negotiator," Aslam explained. Both government officialsand the leader of the Red Mosque, Ghazi Abdul-Rashid, usedthe media as a soapbox. As the standoff intensified, hardly anhour would go by without an on-air statement by one side orthe other, in an effort to win the battle for public opinion.

On the night before the military offensive, a GEo anchorbrought on the leader of the mosque and a state minister inan attempt to negotiate a settlement. The live, on-air talksbrokered by the journalists failed. '"We got reeled in by themoment," Aslam said, "and now I think about how dangerousthat was. We're media, not mediators!"

GEO wasn't alone in betraying its commitment to impartialjournalism as it attempted to cover this explosive story. Newschannels across the board found themselves in activist roles,crossing established boundaries of professional journalism.It was common during the crisis, for example, for journal-ists at the scene to interview each other about events, givingtheir opinions as well as the facts. In a variety of ways, thebroadcasters became part of the Red Mosque story.

A few days after the Red Mosque standoff ended, I metTalat Hussain, the bureau chief in Islamabad for AAJ-TV. Thenetwork has a reputation for being one of the feistiest anti-government news outlets around. Hussain pulled a documentfrom his cluttered desk and handed it to me. It was a noticefrom the Pakistan Electronic Media Regulatory Authority(PEMRA), established by the government just before theemergence of private broadcasters to issue licenses and setthe standards for content. In the weeks after the Red Mosqueraid, a series of suicide attacks shook the capital, and AAi hadshown dead bodies and bloodied body parts, as had manyother news channels. The document was a warning fromthe regulatory authority that AAj risked losing its license ifit continued televising the carnage.

Hussain has devoted hours of his prime-time talk showto discussing the nature and limits of press freedom, butthe suicide-bombing footage, he told me, might have been astrategic mistake. "We're just opening up ourselves to criti-cism," he said. "It just lets the state crack down and lookjustified doing it."

Even more troubling for Hussain is the false choice he saysbroadcasters face between what the viewers want and whatthe government wants. The viewers "look up to us as theholders of truth," he said, "yet they want to hear what theyalready believe. Neutrality is a sin, and the remote control isgod" No sooner will a network try to soften its editorial lineor include the government's point of view than e-mails andcalls pour in accusing them of selling out. The government,he said, "wants a calm, rosy picture." Neither seems to wantgood journalism.

The indirect pressure implicit in this "choice" is one thing,but the "PEMRA Ordinance 2007," as the oppressive new lawsthat sparked the summer's protests are officially known, wasa more brazen crackdown by the government. Following theuproar by journalists over the new restrictions (media ownerswere largely silent), the government offered to unilaterally

Viewers 'want to hearwhat they already believe.Neutrality is a sin and theremote control is god:

-Talat Hussain

suspend the ordinance if the Pakistan Broadcasters Associa-tion, a group of media owners (no working journalists aremembers) agreed to create a voluntary code of conduct. Thechairman of PEMRA, a former chief of the capital police force,put it to me quite simply: "If the media polices itself, therewill be no more policing left to do."

Some broadcasters, like Shakeel Masood, the CEO of DawnNews, saw this as an opportunity. "Of course the governmentwould like to dictate: 'You can talk about this; you can't talkabout that," he said. "But having this code is part of becominga mature media." Many journalists, though, believe that thechances of getting a code that protect independent journal-ism were slim. Unless the broadcasters produce a code thatsatisfies government concerns, they argue, the onerous newlaws will remain in effect and the government will withholdsome $20 million-worth of campaign advertising. Neverthe-less, the code is in its final stages and will be done this year,although the substance of it has not yet been made public.

"It'll be something permanent but we need to get it donebefore these elections," said Masood. "The media can't affordto have this unsettled when covering what might be the mostimportant election in the country's history."

But the question is more fundamental than that. Thejournalists want clearly defined rights, not just a short-termfix that allows them to cover the elections. Many journal-ists fear that if the private broadcast media don't establish aclear, independent role in this critical period of transition todemocracy, they risk getting overrun by the many politicalforces that are attempting to use them.

LAST JUNE, MALEEHA LODHI, one of the country's mostcelebrated female journalists who now serves as Pakistan'sambassador to the U.K., spoke to a gathering of universitystudents in London about the upcoming Pakistani elections.

"Unlike in the past, this time there will be dozens of privateTV networks to cover the entire electoral process from startto finish," she said. They would be Pakistan's first televisedelections, and the private media would play a role in shapingpolitical behavior like never before.

Lodhi's predictions on television's role in the elections areproving to be reasonably accurate. But while many expectedprivate television to be an important forum for debate duringthe elections, few anticipated that the broadcasters would getsucked so deeply into the power politics, or that the electionswould become a trial by fire for television news.

50 NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2007

The election season began with a bang at the end of Sep-tember. Opposition groups, including a vibrant civil-soci-ety movement led by the country's lawyers, filed suit in theSupreme Court challenging Musharraf's eligibility to seekreelection while still serving in the Army. The decision hadthe potential to redefine the civil-military power equationin the country, which has worked against the sustenanceof democracy for decades. Once again, as they had earlierin the summer, the media's (and by extension, much of thecountry's) complete attention fell on the Supreme Court,where Musharraf's-and some said the country's-fate hungin the balance.

As television became saturated with discussion of thepossible fallout of the court's decision, PEMRA sprang intoaction on behalf of an agitated government. It issued a warn-ing to all private TV networks that any sub judice mattersrelated to the election were off-limits, to avoid what it termed

"media trials!'A few days after the warning from the regulators, activist

lawyers and opposition party workers led a rally outside theSupreme Court. Under a hail of stones, Musharraf's oppo-nents demonstrated and scuffled with security forces on Con-stitution Avenue, obscured in a haze of tear gas. Dozens of TVreporters covered the rally, and when police began cuttingcamera wires, the journalists got swept up in the protest.

"Imagine if one of us shows up on air with a bruise tomor-row," a TV anchor had asked me during that march in June.This time, the images left little to the imagination: policebeating journalists with batons, well-known journalistswith bleeding heads and broken bones being rushed off inambulances. The provocation by police notwithstanding,the media had once again become part of a story they setout to cover.

It was another failure, but the story does not end there.Musharraf was reelected president in a controversial andlargely boycotted legislative vote on October 6, after promis-ing to relinquish his military position if he won. The moreimportant general elections are in December and January,and will determine the makeup of parliament and the nextprime minister. For the private broadcasters, it is a chanceto shake off two distinct breakdowns in their mission-onein which they let the state bully them and another in whichtheir hostility toward Musharraf got the better of them-andfind that crucial balance between detached observer andforce for social change.

"The Great Debate," broadcast on GEO a few days beforeMusharraf was reelected, appeared to be a step in this direc-tion. Because of the opposition boycott, there was only onecandidate with a chance of winning, and it was essentially adebate between Musharraf's supporters and his opponents.Tensions were running high in the studio. Hamid Mir co-hosted the first debate of its kind in Pakistan's history, andmillions watched as the panelists argued over issues rang-ing from the president's personal character to the nature ofeconomic growth in the country.

At one point, a government defense lawyer unleasheda rant against an opposition leader. A string of obscenitiespoured forth as the hosts lost control of the belligerent guests.

The debate ended prematurely, before the audience got toask questions.

GEO decided to air the show in its entirety, and IftikharAhmad, Mir's co-host, delivered an on-air commentary afterthe broadcast:

Ladies and gentlemen, I didn't expect the debate to end likethis. I thought the lessons of tolerance we give to others, wecould practice ourselves. We had hoped that the Pakistanipublic could have learned that we all have the patience tolearn each others' points of view. Only then can we moveforward as a nation .... We hope that the role GEO is playingto move the country forward, to reform society, to createa tolerant, patient, and balanced society, a society that canunderstand each other and work together to solve their prob-lems-I hope this role will continue.

Just like that, in the debate between Pervez Musharraf'ssupporters and opponents, it was the broadcasters whoscored an important victory. The politicians had embarrassedthemselves, and the journalists managed to rise above it, toestablish themselves as a fair voice of reason.

LOOKING OUT HIS office window onto Constitution Avenuein the middle of the turbulent summer, Hamid Mir is pensive.The prospect of a return of democracy brings back memoriesfor him, not all of them good. He lost his job at Jang in themid-1990s, thanks to then Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto,the day after he broke the news of a submarine-purchasescandal that had allegedly made Bhutto's family $120 mil-lion richer overnight. A few years later, he lost his job again,under the democratic rule of Nawaz Sharif, for exposingmore government corruption. "But we have to, for our ownsake, strengthen democracy:" he tells me. 'We can't survivewithout a strong parliament and without a strong judiciary.We can't be at the mercy of one man. It's our prime respon-sibility-we do have a watchdog role."

Regardless of what happens in the general elections, thepreceding months have been a crucible for Pakistan. Thestakes were raised again in October, when Benazir Bhut-to's triumphant return from exile was marred by bombingsthat nearly killed her, and did kill 140 others-a scene thatunfolded on television. These months have been a cruci-ble for the country's private broadcasters, too. They haveemerged as a deeply flawed but essential pillar of whateverkind of democracy Pakistan ultimately embraces. It is dif-ficult to say precisely where this pillar will stand in relationto the others, or at whose expense its power will grow. Thejournalists at these news operations continue to struggle withpressures-both internal and external-to use their power insupport of someone else's agenda, whether the judiciary's,the opposition's, or the state's. But thus far, those journalistsare working hard to stay true to their own agenda, to keepthe mission of an impartial and credible television mediaalive. Without this balance, they seem to understand, theyare bound to lose. CJR

SHAHAN MUFTI is a freelance writer based in Islamabad, and acorrespondent for The Christian Science Monitor.

COLUMBIA JOURNALISM REVIEW 51

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