Just one of the many shady and inhuman deals our 10% President has been involved in.
Lawyer says 11 French killed in Pakistan over submarine money
CHERBOURG, France, June 18, 2009 (AFP) - A probe into the 2002 killing of 11 French engineers in Pakistan is focusing on France's failure to pay a commission for the sale of submarines to Pakistan, a lawyer for the victims' families said Thursday.
The lawyer, Olivier Morice, said former president Jacques Chirac and former prime minister Edouard Balladur had been mentioned in the decision to halt the payments.
Morice spoke after two French anti-terrorist investigating magistrates had met with families of the engineers killed in the attack on May 8, 2002 in the Pakistani city of Karachi. A car packed with explosives was driven into a minibus carrying the Frenchmen, all engineers working for a French state firm, DCN, that was building submarines for Pakistan. The 11 engineers and three Pakistanis were killed.
Investigators had been looking into an Al-Qaeda link to the attack.
But Morice told AFP: "The Al-Qaeda track has been totally abandoned. The motive for the attack appears linked to the non-payment of commissions."
Morice said the payments were stopped when Chirac became president in 1995 because he wanted to stop part of the money financing the campaign of Balladur, who was his political rival on the French right at the time.
Magali Drouet, a daughter of one of the men killed, quoted one of the anti-terrorist judges, Marc Trevidic, as telling the families that this theory was "cruelly logical".
She added that according to this scenario, the attack was carried out because the special payments were not made by France to Asif Ali Zardari, who is now Pakistan's president but was a minister at the time.
High-ranking politicians would likely be called in to testify, said Morice.
Details of the payments emerged in 2008 as part of an investigation into French arms sales.
Police seized documents from the French firm, now known as DCNS, which discussed the companies used to pay fees in connection with arms sales.
One unsigned document spoke of Pakistan intelligence services using Islamist militants.
It claimed that "the Karachi attack was carried out with complicity within the (Pakistani) army and the office supporting Islamist guerrillas" within Pakistani intelligence.
The document, which has been added to the case file, said those who employed the Islamist group had financial aims.
"It involved obtaining the payment of unpaid commissions" linked to the sale of French submarines to Pakistan in 1994, it said.
A French investigator, speaking on condition of anonymity, said that "new elements" had been found in the inquiry, but declined to give details.
Balladur, head of the French government before Chirac became president, said Thursday that he knew of nothing improper in the submarine deals.
"There were indeed agreements made with the Pakistani government," he told French television. "To my knowledge, all of it was perfectly regular. I have nothing else to add."
Two alleged members of Al-Qaeda-linked group Harkatul Mujahideen al-Aalmi were found guilty by an anti-terrorism court in Pakistan in 2003 over the Karachi attack.
But the high court in the southern province of Sindh last month acquitted the pair, saying in an order that "the prosecution has failed to prove the case against the appellants beyond any reasonable doubt."
UPDATE 1-French probe alleged Pakistani role in bombing PARIS, June 19 (Reuters) - French magistrates investigating an attack in Pakistan blamed on Islamist militants that killed 11 French nationals in 2002 are looking into allegations it was linked to corrupt deals, lawyers for the victims' families said. A coach carrying French naval engineers and technicians was bombed as it left a hotel in Karachi in May 2002. The attack killed 14 people in total. Pakistani authorities at first blamed Islamist militants and two men were sentenced to death for taking part in the attacks, but their convictions were overturned on appeal in 2003. French magistrates Marc Trevidic and Yves Jannier told the victims' families they were now investigating allegations the attack was orchestrated by unnamed Pakistani officials angry with France over the non-payment of bribes tied to a defence deal. "The investigating magistrates told us that they believed this scenario was extremely credible," one of the relatives' lawyers, Olivier Morice, told reporters. According to these allegations, some kickbacks ended up in the campaign funds of then Prime Minister Edouard Balladur, a rival of Jacques Chirac in the 1995 presidential election, a judicial source familiar with the matter told Reuters. President Nicolas Sarkozy was Balladur's campaign manager in the ballot and was also budget minister when the lucrative sales contract for the French Agosta submarines was signed. He rejected on Friday the magistrates' suspicions. "Listen, this is ridiculous," Sarkozy told reporters at a news conference after an EU summit in Brussels. "This is grotesque ... We have to respect the grief of the families. Who would ever believe such a tale?" he added. Balladur also denied any knowledge of wrongdoing. Asked about the allegation by French state television, Balladur said: "As far as I am aware, everything was completely above board. I have nothing more to say. If anyone has any proof, let them speak up." Lawyer Morice said the investigating magistrates had obtained a top secret internal memo in October 2008 from the state-owned shipbuilder which contained the allegations. The memo, copies of which were shown on French media on Friday, says French and Pakistani officials connived to take bribes as part of the sale of the submarines to Pakistan. It says France stopped paying the bribes after the 1995 election, won by Chirac, and that Pakistani officials kept asking for them for several years.
The allegation is that they eventually lost patience and organised in retaliation the attack on the bus full of French engineers, who were working on the Agosta submarine project. Trevidic and Jannier cannot speak publicly about their investigation because the rules of their position forbid it.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
"Hello darkness my old friend, I've come to talk with you again..."
CRACK! A sharp, loud sound reverberates through my whole body. I turn to look at those around me, but none of them seems to have heard anything. Somewhat relieved, I turn and sink back into the state of uneasy acceptance that has become almost second nature. It’s been a sensation that’s stayed with me from childhood, kinda like the hiccups you get after crying for too long. And like a stubborn child, bawling on the inside, I lean back on the head-rest of this ancient bed to write yet another chapter in the tragedy of my life.
Recently, I posted a quote by Ingmar Bergman onto my Facebook page that read, “My basic view of things is — not to have any basic view of things. From having been exceedingly dogmatic, my views on life have gradually dissolved. They don't exist any longer...” I realise now that Bergman quantified this feeling long before I’d even felt it. Now what does that tell you about the human brain? If two musicians sitting in different continents, in different time zones, interacting with different peoples, living in different cultures playing on different scales altogether can come up with the same progression of notes on two separate occasions, how can you deny the presence of a Borg-like collective human thought-bank, secretly planting ideas into the heads of those it wants to empower or destroy.
In this dichotomy, I think I would have to be on the collective’s shit-list. I used to go around telling people to learn from their mistakes. I figured anyone dumb enough to make the same mistake twice, thrice or even four times over was unworthy of respect. And although that belief stays as it is, I have come to value my intellectual prowess (or the lack thereof) much less than I used to.
The greatest trick the devil ever pulled, according to CS Lewis in ‘The Screwtape Letters’, was convincing men that one is equal to the other, i.e. the belief that ‘I’ am no less than ‘you’, and in some cases, ‘I’ am more than ‘you’. ‘Animal Farm’ talked about how all animals were equal but some more so than others. And, of course, Bertrand Russell told us all about self-centricity, calling it ‘persecution-mania’. By this he meant people who thought all bad things happened to them and that the world essentially revolves around them. Catch 22: only insane men flew combat missions over German cities in WW2, and clinically insane men were not allowed to fly. But if you came and asked to be grounded, you were conscious of your insanity, and hence, not insane. So get back in the cock-pit, flyboy.
Inescapable.
I’ve been unfaithful to this blog for too long now.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Survival: From the eyes of the un-sung
The 18th of October, 2007. The newsroom is a great place to work. Information in itself is a huge rush, and once you’re addicted, you can never go back. Not without considerable withdrawal that is.
But it’s true, there can be too much of a good thing.
It was an unusually crowded Thursday night at the newsroom. Our boss had already told us to prepare for a marathon shift. We’d come to the office that morning, just as she was about to board her plane to Karachi. And we would be staying till she got to Jinnah’s mausoleum, and then some.
After a grueling 12 hours on my desk, I got up for a cup of tea shortly after 11. Looking relieved that nothing had happened so far, my boss (another hardcore, albeit closet PPP loyalist) joined me. We sat and joked about the sea of humanity that lined Karachi’s longest thoroughfare and how long the journey might take still. I dreaded the prospect of spending another night on the sixth floor, but since he’s the boss, we all play along.
It couldn’t have been midnight yet when our senior producer burst through the coffee room door. “Two explosions in Benazir’s caravan,” said Farhan. Always the consummate journalist, the reporter in Farhan shone through. He didn’t say ‘bomb’, ‘suicide bombing’ or ‘blast’ – words any layman would’ve used in his first telling of the story.
The colour drained from my boss’ face. We all ran for the door, and leapt into the newsroom seconds later. After that, the night was a blur.
Taha, the business correspondent, was dispatched to the hospital where corpses were pouring in by the car load. Mobin, the stock market boy, was flicking through news channels, writing down any piece of new information he could lay his hands on. Zarrar and Razeshteh, the anchors, stayed live for hours after that. Sohail, one of our cameraman, had been right there when the bomb went off. He’d just lost a good friend in the blast, a photojournalist for the ARY network. But in he rushed, panting, heaving and screaming for any word of Sabin, the reporter he had been assigned to – and only relinquished his tapes after he was told that she was fine and out of harm’s way.
It’s amazing how the human mind works. When it has no visual aid, it spirals out of control. If the news is horrific, the most terrible and macabre scenes will play themselves out in your head. But when you can put a face to a scream and see the blood on asphalt, it’s a whole new ballgame altogether.
Sohail’s tapes were amazing. Horrifying, but amazing. His footage of the blast site, the blackened truck that Benazir was on, and the pictures of party leaders, and even BB herself, being taken off the truck and whisked away were the best that anyone had. In a matter of minutes, the footage was cut and delivered to Geo News. And there, for the first time in eight months, the words ‘Geo English Exclusive’ found their way onto television screens worldwide. Later that night, we watched as CNN ran the footage, with the text very visible, again and again and again.
But back to the newsroom. I think the Americans have a word for times like these. They call them ‘moments of truth’. But in Pakistan, we call them ‘weekdays’. Insensitive you say? Try sitting through an editorial meeting, where you’re told that a story on election symbols should be given precedence over the deaths of hundreds in Iraq or Waziristan or Swat. It’s a cruel business. Actually, it’s a cruel world.
So there we were. Naveed, imported specially from Islamabad for Benazir’s return, had been right next to the caravan when the bombs went off. We’d had him on the phone for nearly three hours by now. But when he walked into the newsroom at around 4 in the morning, bloodstained clothes and all, the picture changed completely. Anchors who’d been moaning about going live now returned with renewed vigour, willing to man that desk for another 12 hours. And as Naveed walked to the news desk for the first studio discussion of the night, none of us blinked.
Not a lot of good came of what happened that night. Taha still has nightmare visions of what he saw at the hospital that night. And most others are no better either. It had been the single bloodiest night in Karachi’s history.
But at least she was safe.
But it’s true, there can be too much of a good thing.
It was an unusually crowded Thursday night at the newsroom. Our boss had already told us to prepare for a marathon shift. We’d come to the office that morning, just as she was about to board her plane to Karachi. And we would be staying till she got to Jinnah’s mausoleum, and then some.
After a grueling 12 hours on my desk, I got up for a cup of tea shortly after 11. Looking relieved that nothing had happened so far, my boss (another hardcore, albeit closet PPP loyalist) joined me. We sat and joked about the sea of humanity that lined Karachi’s longest thoroughfare and how long the journey might take still. I dreaded the prospect of spending another night on the sixth floor, but since he’s the boss, we all play along.
It couldn’t have been midnight yet when our senior producer burst through the coffee room door. “Two explosions in Benazir’s caravan,” said Farhan. Always the consummate journalist, the reporter in Farhan shone through. He didn’t say ‘bomb’, ‘suicide bombing’ or ‘blast’ – words any layman would’ve used in his first telling of the story.
The colour drained from my boss’ face. We all ran for the door, and leapt into the newsroom seconds later. After that, the night was a blur.
Taha, the business correspondent, was dispatched to the hospital where corpses were pouring in by the car load. Mobin, the stock market boy, was flicking through news channels, writing down any piece of new information he could lay his hands on. Zarrar and Razeshteh, the anchors, stayed live for hours after that. Sohail, one of our cameraman, had been right there when the bomb went off. He’d just lost a good friend in the blast, a photojournalist for the ARY network. But in he rushed, panting, heaving and screaming for any word of Sabin, the reporter he had been assigned to – and only relinquished his tapes after he was told that she was fine and out of harm’s way.
It’s amazing how the human mind works. When it has no visual aid, it spirals out of control. If the news is horrific, the most terrible and macabre scenes will play themselves out in your head. But when you can put a face to a scream and see the blood on asphalt, it’s a whole new ballgame altogether.
Sohail’s tapes were amazing. Horrifying, but amazing. His footage of the blast site, the blackened truck that Benazir was on, and the pictures of party leaders, and even BB herself, being taken off the truck and whisked away were the best that anyone had. In a matter of minutes, the footage was cut and delivered to Geo News. And there, for the first time in eight months, the words ‘Geo English Exclusive’ found their way onto television screens worldwide. Later that night, we watched as CNN ran the footage, with the text very visible, again and again and again.
But back to the newsroom. I think the Americans have a word for times like these. They call them ‘moments of truth’. But in Pakistan, we call them ‘weekdays’. Insensitive you say? Try sitting through an editorial meeting, where you’re told that a story on election symbols should be given precedence over the deaths of hundreds in Iraq or Waziristan or Swat. It’s a cruel business. Actually, it’s a cruel world.
So there we were. Naveed, imported specially from Islamabad for Benazir’s return, had been right next to the caravan when the bombs went off. We’d had him on the phone for nearly three hours by now. But when he walked into the newsroom at around 4 in the morning, bloodstained clothes and all, the picture changed completely. Anchors who’d been moaning about going live now returned with renewed vigour, willing to man that desk for another 12 hours. And as Naveed walked to the news desk for the first studio discussion of the night, none of us blinked.
Not a lot of good came of what happened that night. Taha still has nightmare visions of what he saw at the hospital that night. And most others are no better either. It had been the single bloodiest night in Karachi’s history.
But at least she was safe.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Calling Elvis
Stagnation's a bitch. Especially when taken together with uncertainty and lack of fulfilment. It's the sureshot prescription to send you over the edge. So why am I, I wonder, still kicking?
I hate my job. There, I said it. And it's not because I don't like doing what I do, because I love it. It's just...
The new city is also starting to get on my nerves. It would've tolerable if I had something to look forward to. Don't even have that.
What can I say?
Life's a bitch... and then you die. (Thanks Bajwa, but I prefer this version over "... fuck hard")
"Did he leave the building, can he come to the phone? Calling Elvis..."
Mark Knopfler is a very very talented musician. In case you don'k know, Mark is the voice and the wailing guitar that is Dire Straits. And he tells you "...that ain't working, thats the way you do it, you play the guitar on the Em Tee Vee... Money for nothing, and chicks for free!"
Free indeed.
So it's five months to magic number 24, and I'm still no closer to finding a girl. Seriously considering surgery now. Cosmetic, stomach stapling... who cares, as long as all this excess flab gets the fuck out. And the worst part is, my lazy fucking self won't lift its ass out of the bed all day now.
Yipee!
Discovered recently that I can't tell a joke to save my life. I think it's genetic. That would be convenient... blame it on Daddy. How Oedipal of you, someone would say.
Oh who am I kiding, who even talks like that anymore?
P.S. If you're reading this and you know who you are, clap your hands and repeat to yourself, "My new year's resolution will be to stop hiding in the closet and get a life." Christ! Closet crushes are so 1960s.
Maria would have my head for saying that!
I hate my job. There, I said it. And it's not because I don't like doing what I do, because I love it. It's just...
The new city is also starting to get on my nerves. It would've tolerable if I had something to look forward to. Don't even have that.
What can I say?
Life's a bitch... and then you die. (Thanks Bajwa, but I prefer this version over "... fuck hard")
"Did he leave the building, can he come to the phone? Calling Elvis..."
Mark Knopfler is a very very talented musician. In case you don'k know, Mark is the voice and the wailing guitar that is Dire Straits. And he tells you "...that ain't working, thats the way you do it, you play the guitar on the Em Tee Vee... Money for nothing, and chicks for free!"
Free indeed.
So it's five months to magic number 24, and I'm still no closer to finding a girl. Seriously considering surgery now. Cosmetic, stomach stapling... who cares, as long as all this excess flab gets the fuck out. And the worst part is, my lazy fucking self won't lift its ass out of the bed all day now.
Yipee!
Discovered recently that I can't tell a joke to save my life. I think it's genetic. That would be convenient... blame it on Daddy. How Oedipal of you, someone would say.
Oh who am I kiding, who even talks like that anymore?
P.S. If you're reading this and you know who you are, clap your hands and repeat to yourself, "My new year's resolution will be to stop hiding in the closet and get a life." Christ! Closet crushes are so 1960s.
Maria would have my head for saying that!
Monday, July 23, 2007
The drugs don't work
I felt for sure last night
That once we said goodbye
No one else will know these lonely dreams
No one else will know that part of me
I'm still driving away
And I'm sorry every day
I won't always love these selfish things
I won't always live...
Not stopping...
It was my turn to decide
I knew this was our time
No one else will have me like you do
No one else will have me, only you
You'll sit alone forever
If you wait for the right time
What are you hoping for?
I'm here I'm now I'm ready
Holding on tight
Don't give away the end
The one thing that stays mine
Amazing still it seems
I'll be 23
I won't always love what I'll never have
I won't always live in my regrets…
[Jimmy Eat World: ‘23’]
How far would you go to forget someone? You could stop seeing them. You could stop talking about them. You could stop hanging out at places that remind you of that person. You might even think about seeing other people. And by this time, you’re probably over that person.
Not me though.
I stopped seeing her last year, it didn’t help. I stopped talking about her, it didn’t help. I stopped going to the places we used to go to, it didn’t help. I started thinking about other people, there was no one else I could bring myself to like.
But there’s more…
I moved to a new city, thousands of miles away, it still didn’t help. I began doing drugs, that didn’t help either. I began taking crazy risks, hoping I’d kill myself somewhere down the line… but it didn’t work. I tried to convince myself that I liked someone else, but that wasn’t true.
Waleed died and Sidra cried. She will never get over it, because this is not the way it was supposed to end. She can’t ever see him again because he’s dead. She can’t have him because he’s dead. It’s physically, chemically and elementally impossible.
You’re still alive. You’re still here. I still can’t have you… ever. That cloudy day, when I was driving on the Mall and you were sitting in your office, and we were both looking at the clouds, you wanted me to tell you who I want to marry and I told you it’s someone you can never get me. That’s because it’s you. You’re the only one I ever loved, will ever love and will always love. Love isn’t a powerful enough word for what I feel. You can never understand what I feel, and that will kill me.
You want to know why I always fought with you? It was because I cared. I fought because it was the only way my emotions could get out. Love and hate are so alike its never clear when one stops and the other begins. But I know now which it is.
From the looks of it, things aren’t going to change. You’re going to keep drifting from one schmuck to another, and I’m going to be condemned to just standing there, watching you throw your life away.
Forever is a long time. Try being in my shoes. I double dare you.
That once we said goodbye
No one else will know these lonely dreams
No one else will know that part of me
I'm still driving away
And I'm sorry every day
I won't always love these selfish things
I won't always live...
Not stopping...
It was my turn to decide
I knew this was our time
No one else will have me like you do
No one else will have me, only you
You'll sit alone forever
If you wait for the right time
What are you hoping for?
I'm here I'm now I'm ready
Holding on tight
Don't give away the end
The one thing that stays mine
Amazing still it seems
I'll be 23
I won't always love what I'll never have
I won't always live in my regrets…
[Jimmy Eat World: ‘23’]
How far would you go to forget someone? You could stop seeing them. You could stop talking about them. You could stop hanging out at places that remind you of that person. You might even think about seeing other people. And by this time, you’re probably over that person.
Not me though.
I stopped seeing her last year, it didn’t help. I stopped talking about her, it didn’t help. I stopped going to the places we used to go to, it didn’t help. I started thinking about other people, there was no one else I could bring myself to like.
But there’s more…
I moved to a new city, thousands of miles away, it still didn’t help. I began doing drugs, that didn’t help either. I began taking crazy risks, hoping I’d kill myself somewhere down the line… but it didn’t work. I tried to convince myself that I liked someone else, but that wasn’t true.
Waleed died and Sidra cried. She will never get over it, because this is not the way it was supposed to end. She can’t ever see him again because he’s dead. She can’t have him because he’s dead. It’s physically, chemically and elementally impossible.
You’re still alive. You’re still here. I still can’t have you… ever. That cloudy day, when I was driving on the Mall and you were sitting in your office, and we were both looking at the clouds, you wanted me to tell you who I want to marry and I told you it’s someone you can never get me. That’s because it’s you. You’re the only one I ever loved, will ever love and will always love. Love isn’t a powerful enough word for what I feel. You can never understand what I feel, and that will kill me.
You want to know why I always fought with you? It was because I cared. I fought because it was the only way my emotions could get out. Love and hate are so alike its never clear when one stops and the other begins. But I know now which it is.
From the looks of it, things aren’t going to change. You’re going to keep drifting from one schmuck to another, and I’m going to be condemned to just standing there, watching you throw your life away.
Forever is a long time. Try being in my shoes. I double dare you.
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