Asra Q. Nomani

My dadi (grandmother) comes into the room and sits in front of the Philips desktop computer, now encased in clear plastic slipcovers. She is my father’s mother, 88, born into the rural town of Hinganghat in India when the British were still colonialists. She was married at 14 to my grandfather, Mumtaz Ahmad Nomani, who became a successful defense attorney in the old city of Hyderabad. She traveled alone in 1942 from Wardha to Benares with her children at a time when few women dreamt of doing such a daring thing as traveling unaccompanied by a man. She even drove a car, learning on a racecourse, until she hit a rickshaw. There were no power brakes back then. They paid off the rickshaw driver for maybe 15 rupees, 20 rupees tops (between $3 and $5 then).

“He was happy,” she insists.

Three sons and five daughters settled in Pakistan, uprooting themselves from their lives in India in the years after India won independence from the British in 1947, dividing itself into a mostly Hindu India and a predominately Muslim nation of Pakistan. Dadi wept about leaving her homeland, but as she grew older, her sons called her to Pakistan in the 1980s. My father was her one child to settle in America in the 1960s, after earning his Ph.D. from Rutgers University, bringing my mother, brother and me over to a life where we couldn’t have imagined the Barbies, slumber parties and Disney World vacation in our future. Another daughter recently moved from Pakistan to Fremont, Calif., with her husband and family. Now, Dadi counts 12 grandchildren settled in America, including my brother and me, and dozens of other relations in an extended family that makes everybody her “bhai” (brother), “apa” (sister), “beyta” (son), or “beyti” (daughter).

I took her hand, softened with age, and told her yesterday, after my 39-hour journey beginning from West Virginia, that she looked strong.

She corrected me. She has dropped from 50 to 42 kilograms [110 to 92 pounds] in recent months. The back of her hair has the orange-red of the henna with which she dyed it. The hair around her face frames her in silver. Her face is creased with a lifetime that has seen imperialism, revolution, war, famine and the extension of her family to the far corners of the world. She is part of the older immigrants from India who still wraps yards of sari around her waist, throwing the “pallu” over her shoulder, rather than switching to the salwar kameezes; the tunic kurtas, harem pants and dupattas that make the more modest style of Pakistan. She is certainly daring compared to the chadors that shroud the women of Afghanistan in a sea of cloth, with only netting before their eyes. But she is an elderly lady and is allowed her fashion statement. I try to probe her for her thoughts about the World Trade Center bombings, the mujahedin, Osama bin Laden.

She pauses. “How old is Khalida’s son?” she asks about a cousin of mine, still single and available.

War? The war can wait. Dadi still has a granddaughter to see married. And she’s puzzled that this granddaughter has crossed the ocean with only Lonely Planet’s “Pakistan: A Travel Survival Kit,” a new padded laptop backpack from Office Depot and a JFK Airport shopping bag filled with World Trade Center key chains, New York Police Department pencils and two New York Fire Department stuffed bears (one red, one blue) to give away as gifts. War looms as a reality in this home in Lahore, where CNN’s “Larry King Live” is replaced with Pakistan Television, PTV, and its roundtable discussion between a man who looks like a skinny Santa Claus with a “topi” cap, a fiery woman commentator without a dupatta covering her head and Pakistan’s foreign minister explaining his government’s friendship with America. “Jung” is what war is called here.

Dadi doesn’t pretend to know who did what. But she knows about war.

“Jung nahee kuroh,” she says. Don’t do war.

“Nuhksahn hay subkoh,” she says. It will be ruinous for everyone.

Dadi has only a clue of what it took me to get here, to find out, among other things, what she thinks about the perilous position in which her adopted country now finds itself.

In America, we think that folks from this part of the world are all basically the same. But that’s not what I learned as I stood outside the Pakistani Consulate in New York, the rain pouring upon me as I tried to convince the press attachi I wasn’t a threat just because I was born in India. I already had a Pakistani visa stamped into my passport from my travels last year. My name comes from the 17th surah of the Quran, which tells the tale of a mystical journey the Prophet Mohammad made from Mecca to the seven heavens, his bed still warm and the door knob still shaking when he returned. How much more Muslim could you get than that?

I went to the Pakistani consulate in my friend Sumita’s kameez flowing over my black pants, with a black sweater on top so I wouldn’t offend any Muslims who consider it immodest for a woman to bare her arms. I wore my dadi’s dupatta, hand delivered to me by my father after his recent trip to Pakistan. What a goof. The press attachi’s assistant is a Filipino veteran of the Consulate since the 1960s by the name “Connie.” I should have just gone in the Abercrombie & Fitch cargo pants that I usually wear.

I find out later from other officials that the Pakistani government has a red flag up for Indian-born visa applicants, even if they have foreign passports, like my U.S. passport. I end up having to travel to another embassy, in another city, to get my visa.

I talk to my mother amidst the delays. She tells me what we are taught as Muslims from our earliest days: “Everything happens for a reason.”

My reason, I think, is pause. With an obstacle that doesn’t allow adrenaline to make the decision, I must ponder whether I really want to go to Pakistan. It will be a psychic journey as much as physical one. I am a bit afraid. My brother tries to relax me: “Oh! Go have a vacation!” But my previous trips to Pakistan had certainly never qualified as vacations.

I first went to Pakistan for just that in 1983 as a rising WVU sophomore. My cousins thought my parents either wanted to find me a husband or get me out of the influence of Western culture. It was neither. I was curious about my culture, my religion. On that trip, I carried Smurf key chains. My notebooks from those days are jammed with the wonder of an 18-year-old’s first impressions, like the Afghan refugees flooding into Pakistan at the time from the war against the Soviets. Another uncle, a doctor who worked with the United Nations High Commission for Refugees, took me to the bedside with refugees so I could hear their arduous escapes from the war in their country. We went through the beautiful Khyber Pass, so rugged and magnificent a place it remained with me as one of the most serene of places I had seen on this earth. Now, this place is at the border of what could be the worst trouble in the history of the world.

At that time, Pakistan was boastful of the F-16 fighter jets America was selling it. I bought an F-16 sticker for three rupees, small change in America. What would I see now? When I returned to West Virginia at the end of the summer, I wrote, “Back to blue jeans and polo shirts, coke machines and granola bars, knapsacks and vibrant hellos.” In Pakistan, girls didn’t greet boys with any sort of animation on the street.

I went again to Pakistan with tears in my eyes before Christmas 1992. I thought I was doing the right thing, choosing to marry a Muslim man because it would fulfill my responsibilities to my culture and religion, even if it meant leaving a Lutheran man from Iowa who was as noble and gentle a soul as any that could exist in human form. I went ahead with this wedding, draped in a glittering golden brocade dupatta, having my makeup session at the Mee Lee Beauty Parlour, wed at the Margala Motel in Islamabad. Yes, a motel.

The father of the man that I married sat me down during my honeymoon in his house and quickly outlined my new identity. “First,” he said, “you are Muslim. Secondly, you are Pakistani. Thirdly, you are Urdu speaking.” It stung me like a cat being tied to a leash. And then I made the rounds like a good new bride, saying little and trying to look pretty in golden Stuart Weitzman pumps.

The marriage lasted barely three months.

To go back now, and report on a country — a faith, really — under extreme scrutiny from the entire world, I would have to journey again to Islamabad, this time without the silence I accepted as a new bride. This time, with a voice. I will eventually go again to where I spent my wedding night, the Islamabad Marriott, now the hub for foreign journalists covering the war. And in the process, I’ll hopefully not just report what is happening on the ground in a country that warily, but dutifully, is supporting its ally, the United States, but also try and figure out this emerging conflict between cultures, East vs. West, Muslim vs. the world, it seems, that has become a subtext of this entire battle.

My dadi pauses. What about prospects in Aligarh, India, she wonders, where intellectual Muslims stream across the well-paved roads of Aligarh Muslim University? She’s back to the question of my marital future.

I write all this feeling quite removed from the moment, seeing my grandmother again, back in Lahore for the first time since riding the Peace Bus here from Delhi last year, but only my fourth visit to Pakistan in my life. Yet knowing of U.S. military movements, the collective baited breath of the world, I am sitting with dadi in the living room near a picture of my two cousins embracing a life-size cutup of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

My mother called me with the news on Sept. 11. I was across town from her in my childhood home, beginning another day penning the book that caused me to take a leave from my job as a reporter in New York for the Wall Street Journal. I didn’t believe her. Yahoo told me the truth. I folded the news article and set off for my volunteer duty as Lunch Lady (without a hairnet) at my niece and nephew’s North Elementary School, where the children buzzed amongst themselves. “The kids know something is up,” one of the teachers said. I wanted to tell my nephew, 8-year-old Samir, myself. I whispered to him, as he sat next to a good friend, Youseph, whose parents are from Syria. I whispered the news to 10-year-old Safiyyah, my niece as mothers and fathers swept into the office to take their children home early.

I volunteered to help in the office, dividing the forms for school pictures into homerooms. My count for Mrs. DeVincent’s second grade class got interrupted when I heard the principal shout: “What are those men doing here?!”

I looked up. Two Arab men. I didn’t blame the principal. I don’t blame the principal. I, too, was suspicious. They were my Muslim brothers, but what were they doing here?

To notify the office that their child would be getting off at a different bus stop from now on. Oh. The principal politely recovered much faster than I would have. A little nappy hair. An accent. It was enough to raise my suspicions.

Then the reports started coming in from my mother, my personal High Street correspondent from her boutique in downtown Morgantown. Ali Baba, the restaurant with mosquito netting over a booth and hummus on the menu, shut down because of a bomb threat. It turned out to be a vulgar phone call. Two Muslim women wearing hijabs, the head scarves tightly wrapped around the hair, had them ripped off their heads at the West Virginia University student union, with the shouts, “We’re going to get you!”

I have never been motivated to cover my head in public in America. To me, it was an unnecessary symbol of modesty in a place where not wearing a halter top in the summertime seemed like an act of conservatism. The weekend before, as I stood near the Dorito chips at Wal-Mart, an Arab woman walked by me with a full covering that cloaked her body and face. All that was visible were eyes that could study price tags. Suddenly, I wanted to cover myself. Proclaim to the world that Muslims weren’t all terrorists. We were also good, balanced humanitarians, as my mother and father had taught me to be.

My mystical sister-cousins, first cousins to most of the world, Lucy and Esther, taught me the year before how to wrap my scarf so that only my eyes would be visible. It came in handy in the dust storms of the Himalayan mountains as we climbed on razor’s edge through the rocky mountain passes in a Tata Sumo just last year for a pilgrimage with the Dalai Lama. On the long white cotton dupatta my dadi had sent with my father, she wrote a message in the corner in Urdu, urging me to use it to do the namaz, prayer, that is required of Muslims five times a day.

Back in Morgantown, I folded the dupatta in half. I wrapped it around my head over the bridge of my nose and knotted it behind me so that an opening remained in the bottom. The fold was on the side. I pulled the top layer to my forehead so my eyes could peek out and draped the edges over my shoulder. The bottom layer I allowed to remain over my nose, so only my eyes were visible, the rest of my head, shoulders and chest shrouded in white. Did I look menacing? Frightening?

I checked in with the only ones around. I nudged awake my cat, Billlie. He opened his eyes to a slit. I shouted, “Billlie! Billlie!” He saw the truth of the one who fed him Cat Chow behind the veil.

My inquiry into identity wasn’t complete. I plucked the American flag Samir had gotten from his Cub Scout troop, ventured outside with the scarf pulled down from over my nose so the mailman could see my face, lest he drive by, and planted the American flag in a pot of geraniums on our front porch.

That night, a Muslim brother calls my father. “It’s urgent,” he warned.

When my father called back, he told him that the board of the Muslim Students Association should cancel the Friday jummah, the afternoon prayer that starts at 1:30 p.m. For Muslims, Friday is what Sunday is to Christians and Saturday to Jews. The mosque in Morgantown began in a room by the Monongalia County Jail in 1981. My dad has been the faculty student advisor for years, watching recently as the mosque has grown to two houses on the WVU Evansdale campus, one house with a sand volleyball court on which I hadn’t yet dared to pass the ball.

“There are bombings of mosques in Texas,” the brother says, ominously, though there hadn’t been any actual bombings, only threats.

I stand in the background, bobbing between my father’s phone call and Samir’s reading of Mulan, the Chinese girl warrior. “Don’t cancel!” I urge him.

“No, we will not cancel,” my father insists. “Why should we be afraid?”

Soon, I am going off to New York to keep my friend Dan, a Wall Street Journal colleague, company. A universe that I had known intimately had been destroyed. It was in the basement of the World Trade Center where I would disembark for work every morning. It was to the J. Crew store on the concourse level where Dan rushed over with me to settle on a petite cashmere camisole sweater for my appearance on the Brian Williams’ show on MSNBC. And it was at Windows on the World where one Valentine’s Day I allowed my romantic fantasies to unfold, cheesy as they were, watching the assembly line of brides and grooms that had won free wedding ceremonies atop the World Trade Center. Now, an image of a couple jumping from one of the WTC towers during the morning of Sept. 11 replays in my friend Dan’s mind, like a broken movie reel. And now mine.

With airports shut down, the best way to get to New York is the Greyhound. I plan to go with my head covered. My sister-in-law’s eyes widen when she sees the dupatta wrapped over me. This was the past from which she came, clad in a black burkah in Hyderabad since she was 11, the sweat pouring down her face, the dizziness of faint engulfing her as she rushed to catch buses in the heat of India’s summer. Now, married to my brother, she is liberated from this religious expectation, living in Morgantown, wearing a new wardrobe of cotton shirts and stretch pants from the Limited.

She is worried. She, too, has heard the reports of Muslim women under attack. In Urdu, the language of Muslims in India and Pakistan, she tells my mother, “Write ‘al-Hafiz’ in the air on her forehead,” so that I will have the protection of God.

My mother takes her finger to the air, staring over my left temple and crosses my forehead with Arabic script. She blows a breath toward me. We call it a pook. It is like a blessing.

We go to the Greyhound station. I soon slip into a seat beside a woman. “Phoopu has already found a friend,” Safiyyah tells her dadi, mother and brother, as she waves to me from below. Phuppi means brother’s sister in Urdu. Phoopu becomes our nickname. Sometimes, even Phoopu Head. At our lowest, Phoopu Butt. I’m off to New York, still not sure my journey will eventually lead me back to Pakistan.

My journey on the Greyhound brought me many surprises, like the middle-aged African-American woman from Charleston who jabbered with me about the great buys she finds at the Dollar Store and Gabriel’s, a Morgantown-based discount store that keeps small towns in high fashion.

“Got 20 sports bras for my goddaughter at the Dollar Store last year,” she says, as we roll through rural Pennsylvania. “She said, ‘What am I going to do with all these? I said, ‘Give ‘em to your girlfriends.”

Not a word about my dupatta.

She gets off in Baltimore. I stand at the station. I notice a few stares, but nothing hostile. Then two of the cutest guys walk up to me and start talking. They’re fresh-faced freshmen at WVU, Jay and Dan, on their way home to New Jersey to see their high school senior girlfriends.

Don’t they see me in this bizarre dupatta? Why would they want to talk to me? We talk food in Morgantown. They’re tired of Sbarro pizza. I rave about the steak and cheese sandwiches at Spruce Street Sub Shop. I promise to invite them over to our house for Indian food. I can’t resist.

But that will not happen for a while, now, for I am with my Dadi in Lahore, eating Japanese apples that aren’t really Japanese. My travels will weave me through this region for some time to come. She slips into the room as I write, the ceiling fan a blur of whirring blades overhead. She sits upon her haunches on the bed beside me. She has something that she forgot to tell me. It’s about zakat, one of the five pillars of Islam where we have to give money the poor if we can afford it. She tells me to send 1,500 rupees (about $33) to Bombay for qurbani, the sacrifice of goats for distribution to the poor after Eid, the equivalent of Christmas for Muslims that follows the month of fasting, Ramadan. It is said in the Quran, she says, tapping the side of my leg to punctuate her point, that we will get in heaven that which we give on earth. Her five silver glass bracelets jingle as she waves her hands. We will not get in heaven any of that which we left on this earth.

She shows off her English, reciting the multiplication tables she learned from tutors who came to her house before she married.

“Say this. You will have a good marriage.”

Oh. We’re back to that again. I change the subject back to her.

“How are you?” I ask, intrigued to hear her English.

“I am,” she says, pausing, thinking, and then recites her name, “Zubaida Nomani.”

Close enough. How many people can say that much in a second language? But it’s her thoughts on war to which we return.

She spots the flyer that I have brought from New York City. “Miss-ing,” she reads, amazing me more with the English I didn’t know that she could read. “One World.” She stumbles over “Trade.” She continues: “Center.”

It’s a name foreign to her: Roger Mark Rasweiler. I explain that I met the man’s son-in-law as he was posting flyers like this one on the New Jersey PATH train from Newark, N.J. His father-in-law had gone to work that morning and was missing along with thousands of others.

“Allah!” she say. “Bapray!” Oh my goodness.

It was National Solidarity Day today, but for all the Girl Guides of Pakistan who joined the marches, I couldn’t find a soul to go to the rallies with me. Put up a flag? “Chor dho,” was the answer I got. The Urdu version of fawgetaboutit.

It was green and white on PTV, where the news starts with “Bismillah ir rahman ir raheem” — “In the name of Allah, most gracious, most merciful.” PTV aired broadcasts of a music video with members from the Pakistani rock band Junoon, (yes, you read that right: Pakistani rock band) jamming to a ditty about the struggles of partition with patriotic flashes of Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan.

What I do get from PTV and others I speak with is a level doubt. It’s not that Pakistanis aren’t loyal. It’s just that they aren’t convinced. Here, the U.S. has become “a dada” — literally a grandfather, specifically on the paternal side. But, in this reference, it’s not a term of respect. It means a “gonda,” a bully. Never before, people will say openly, have they missed so much the balance of power the Soviet Union represented. They want more proof about this Osama bin Laden — a nobody, they say, until he became the target of the United States — and his involvement with the bombings. They want the proof that Secretary of State Colin Powell promised to deliver … before backing away from the promise a few days later.

They’re skeptical, and they want proof, and without it, they’re left to generate alternative explanations. From the minute I step off the airplane, I hear references to a “Yahudi” conspiracy, suggesting that somehow Israel is behind the WTC catastrophe. And they are dimly amused at President Bush’s grandstanding, equating him more to a cowboy than the U.S. president. And they generally see capriciousness in U.S. foreign policy, exhibited by America’s support of the Pakistani and Afghan mujahedin during the war against the Soviets and the U.S. disappearance afterward. They shake their heads remembering how they boasted that even its poorest citizens at least wore “chappals,” sandals. Now, they lament, young Afghan boys walk barefoot in the bazaar here in Lahore picking up trash to make small change.

Dadi comes into the room as the muzzein’s call for the sunset magrib prayer makes it to our ears even through the closed windows. “Proof deh-koy,” she says, curling the end of her sari’s “pallu” around her waist, mixing her little English with Urdu. Show proof.

Meanwhile, the rumblings of war continue. Dadi warns me to travel with only a notebook and small bag, so I can run quickly in case of trouble. I know I’ll at least have dadi’s dupatta, the paper bracelet my niece Safiyyah made for me with the message, “Be Happy,” and my mother’s invisible inscription upon my forehead. God keep you in his protection. Oh, and of course, I’ll also have a photo of a cousin, another marriage Dadi is trying to arrange.

“What do you mean ‘involved’?” Mariane asked.

“We think he committed the actual murder.”

To those following the case closely, this is not a huge surprise. “We’ve known all along that al-Qaida was involved,” Mariane told me Wednesday. “We just didn’t know how.” After initial relief at having Mohammed’s involvement confirmed, her reaction shifted back to impatience at the slow pace of unraveling the ties between the shadowy figures responsible for Danny’s kidnapping and murder. “We have worked so hard to find the truth,” Mariane says. “We have to continue.”

My interest in the investigation is more than a professional one. At the time Danny was kidnapped, he and Mariane, then pregnant with their first child, were staying with me at a house I had rented in Karachi, Pakistan, while writing a book. I had traveled to Pakistan for Salon, to cover the aftermath of the Sept. 11 attacks, and was happy to host the Pearls when Danny came to Karachi to interview a local Muslim cleric who was said to have ties to alleged “shoe-bomber” Richard Reid. He was pursuing other investigative threads, as well. When he didn’t return from the interview on Jan. 23, 2002, Mariane and I alerted U.S. officials and his Wall Street Journal editors, from the desk where Danny had left his laptop. We transformed my home into the investigation’s headquarters. For five weeks, we worked closely with U.S. and Pakistani investigators to find Danny; after investigators discovered he had been murdered, I left Pakistan, and moved to Paris to welcome Danny’s son, Adam, into the world, and later returned to the United States. I have remained close friends with Mariane, and have helped her follow the investigative threads in the case, talking with investigators and gathering information.

The confirmation of Mohammed’s involvement, make no mistake, is a serious breakthrough. According to American officials, Mohammed was one of three Arab men known to have arrived with video equipment and knives at the location where Pearl was held after his abduction in Karachi that day. We all know what followed: They videotaped him answering questions about his Jewish ancestry as he kept his composure, showing his classic irreverence for authority. A final image of the video showed him having his throat cut.

Mohammed’s bleary-eyed image was splashed across newspapers worldwide after he was captured by U.S. and Pakistani intelligence agents this past March. Although American officials first denied that Mohammed had anything to do with Pearl’s killing, this week they confirmed that they now believe he was responsible. But that revelation raises more questions than it answers. The full investigation into Danny’s death could well proceed in directions that will make both Pakistan and U.S. investigators uncomfortable.

Until now, Omar Saeed Sheikh, the young Pakistani London School of Economics dropout who was sentenced to death in July 2002 for organizing the Pearl kidnapping, had been identified as the ringleader of a carefully assembled alliance of extremist Muslim militants working in at least four different terrorist cells. Mohammed would link Omar Sheikh more explicitly to the wider and more sinister al-Qaida network. The question, though, is whether this will lead to an even more troubling connection: between al-Qaida and Pakistan’s intelligence agency, the ISI, which has been linked to Omar Sheikh.

As Mariane says, “When the Khalid Sheikh Mohammed name first came up, the obvious questions were what was his link to Omar Sheikh and what was his link to ISI? Those are the questions we have to answer now, and there are more. What is the direct link between Omar Sheikh and 9/11? Is Omar Sheikh a main player in 9/11? Should there be more charges against him? How much was al-Qaida involved in planning Danny’s kidnapping? What was the role of Saudi Arabia?”

Pakistan’s possible link to terrorism is already an extremely volatile subject. Pakistan, struggling to maintain its position as an ally of the U.S., bristles at any suggestion that the Pearl kidnappers had relations with the ISI. The allegation by French philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy that Sheikh was an ISI agent, contained in his book “Who Killed Daniel Pearl?” sparked a harsh rebuke from Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf last month. “ISI involvement in the killing of this young man is unthinkable,” the president insisted.

But of course it is quite thinkable, because of the shadowy way the ISI operates. Musharraf himself struggles constantly against the former generals who run the intelligence arm, which has historically maintained close relations with many of the country’s rogue terrorist groups, and seems to operate independently of the president’s authority. U.S. officials, because of their own need for a close ally in Musharraf, also struggle to hide their frustrations with his unruly intelligence arm. Deputy Secretary of State Richard Armitage, during a meeting a few weeks ago with members of Congress, implied as much when he said he did not believe “affection for working with us extends up and down the rank and file of the Pakistani security community.”

And no one symbolizes the ISI’s shadowy relationship with terrorist operatives better than Omar Sheikh.

A judge in an anti-terrorism court in Pakistan sentenced Sheikh to death for his role as the ringleader in Danny’s kidnapping and murder last July. An appeal has been pending ever since with countless postponements. Throughout his trial last year, Omar Sheikh maintained that — although he knew how, and by whom, Danny had been killed — he was not himself responsible. The judge sentenced three other young Pakistani men to life sentences for their roles in facilitating the kidnapping and disseminating hostage letters, including digital photographs of Danny in captivity, via the Internet.

When Pakistani police investigators traced the kidnapping plot to Sheikh on Feb. 5, 2002, Sheikh reportedly turned himself in to the custody of a former ISI official, who was then home secretary of the state of Punjab, based in Lahore, where Sheikh’s family lived. He remained in the protection of intelligence agents for one week, until Feb. 12, when he was handed over to Pakistani police. But his connections to the ISI didn’t begin or end there.

Sheikh was arrested in 1994 in New Delhi, India, for kidnapping American and British tourists, and was imprisoned pending trial in India’s maximum-security Tihar Prison. But Sheikh, a British national of Pakistani origin, was one of three militants horse-traded for the hostages of an Indian airline hijacked to Afghanistan in December 1999, by the terrorist group he previously belonged to, Harkat-ul-Ansar. The Indian government released Sheikh to Afghanistan. From there, and reportedly under ISI protection, he went back to Pakistan before returning to London to reunite with his family. He remained involved in the activities of militant Muslim groups in Pakistan, but stayed out of the news until his arrest for Danny’s kidnapping and murder. Sheikh laid the trap for Danny in Karachi, but left for Lahore before the actual abduction, by all accounts. It isn’t clear if Khalid Sheikh Mohammad was in the loop by then.

The trail for Mohammed included a Sept. 11, 2002, raid on a Karachi hideout. During an exchange of fire lasting about four hours, Mohammed allegedly escaped, but Ramzi Binalshibh was allegedly captured and airlifted out of Pakistan for interrogation. German and U.S. investigative and intelligence agencies had been hunting for Binalshibh since September 2001; U.S. officials identified him as the 20th hijacker who couldn’t join the 9/11 attack because he was unable to secure a visa into the United States. He was a member of the so-called Hamburg cell, which played a leading role in the planning, financing and execution of the Sept. 11 attack. Binalshibh is believed to have handpicked Mohammad Atta to lead the group of hijackers that flew planes into the World Trade Center.

Speculation about whether Mohammed was involved in Danny’s kidnapping and murder began immediately after his capture. The three men who arrived on Danny’s last day of captivity had been described to police as being of Yemeni origin. (There is some confusion about Mohammed’s nationality, however; he has been described as a Kuwaiti-born and U.S.-educated Pakistani.)

Yet the news that Mohammed killed Pearl doesn’t explain his motive. What would make al-Qaida target the Wall Street Journal’s Asian bureau chief? There are several theories. Robert Baer, a former case officer with the CIA’s directorate of operations, believes Pearl had begun to pursue Mohammed as a story for the Journal. Baer says Pearl called him the day after the Sept. 11 attack to talk about possible culprits, and that he told the reporter about Mohammed’s role as a key aide to bin Laden going back to 1997. He also told Pearl, Baer says, that the government of Qatar protected Mohammed and would have information about his activities. After Danny’s murder, Baer said that an official in the Qatar government told him that Danny had called the Foreign Ministry for information about Mohammed.

But Mariane and I weren’t aware that Danny was pursuing a Mohammed story at the time of his kidnapping. He had come to Karachi to interview a Muslim cleric called Sheik Mubarek Gilani. He was investigating whether there were any ties between Gilani and Richard Reid, the alleged shoe bomber, who was seized on a Boston-bound American Airlines jet from Paris allegedly trying to ignite explosive in his shoes. But there is always the possibility that Danny was reporting on additional leads he gathered about the shadowy networks with al-Qaida ties. The French philosopher Lévy claims in his book that Danny was killed for reporting that Pakistan was sharing nuclear secrets with North Korea. But there is no evidence he had made any such links between the two countries.

Mohammed’s involvement, however, does renew questions about possible links between Saudi Arabia and the kidnapping and murder because of well-known ties between individuals in Saudi Arabia (including, of course, 15 of the 19 9/11 hijackers) and al-Qaida. At one point, U.S. investigators were pursuing leads that linked a mobile phone number in Riyadh to phone calls to the web of militants involved in the plot to kidnap and kill Danny. In addition, law enforcement investigators traced the first known public distribution of the video in May 2002 on the Internet to Riyadh. (At the time, Mariane and I received a phone call in Paris. “It’s bad news. The video is on the Internet,” said the voice on the other end. For two days, Mariane and I maneuvered between officials from Lycos U.K. to Scotland Yard to track the source of the video’s posting. “An office building in Riyadh,” we were told. We couldn’t get any more information, and the investigation seemed to reach a dead end.)

But for the time being, the immediate questions that need to be answered are in Pakistan. And getting straight answers from anyone in ISI — protected by proxies in the press — will be difficult.

Inside Pakistani media circles, journalists refer to “agency reporters” who loosely work for two bosses: their editors and Pakistani intelligence agencies. In her book, “A Mighty Heart,” Mariane Pearl singled out Kamran Khan, a journalist for the English-language News in Karachi and a Washington Post stringer, who wrote the first story that identified Danny as a Jewish reporter, information that Mariane has equated to a “death sentence” in Pakistan. Khan recently told the Washington Post that he was simply pursuing the story aggressively and didn’t mean any harm.

Khan also published intelligence agency efforts to link India to the kidnapping by raising the possibility that I was a spy for India, claiming that I was Danny’s “full-time assistant,” identifying me as an “Indian journalist” (I was born in India, but have a U.S. passport and was raised a Muslim in the United States since the age of 4) and reporting falsely that Danny had brought me into Karachi to work with him. He also raised questions about why Danny would travel to Karachi from India, where he was based, saying “officials” were “intrigued as to why an American newspaper reporter based in Bombay would also establish a full-time residence in Karachi.” Anyone familiar with the fractured relations between Pakistan and India can understand how this sort of characterization could tarnish Danny’s reputation in Pakistan and weaken public outrage about his brutal killing, a goal some ISI officials might have wanted.

After Danny originally went missing, Mariane and I hunted through the house looking for clues. I found a photo on Danny’s computer of us, shortly after we all met up in Pakistan. He had a particularly befuddled look on his face, and had created an appropriate caption for the photo: “Clueless in Karachi.”

It turned out to be an apt description of all of us in Karachi, and of the complicated nature of relationships between Muslim extremists and their political and financial sponsors that Danny stumbled into. That is what must be explored further in order to learn who planned, financed and pulled off the kidnapping and murder of Danny. Even with the apparent admission of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the job is not done.

Asim is an international globetrotter, touching down in London, Paris, Frankfurt and Dubai in her travels. Fine works by Pakistani artists hang on the walls and a Louis Vuitton bag sits open at her side as she taps at her keyboard. And who stares back at us from her screensaver? Musharraf.

She salutes him, flicking her hand against her forehead. Then she stands and opens a long closet door that conceals locker-like shelving. Musharraf is looking over his left shoulder, wearing a purple tie, white shirt and gray suit that falls well-sculptured on his shoulders. Asim has glued this photo of the general onto the inside of the door.

“Look at him,” Asim says, punching her fist in the air. “Confident. Certain. Determined.” Her raves continue: “He’s a magnetic person.”

“I love him,” she gushes. Asim doesn’t want there to be any confusion. “I’m happily married,” she says. But as the rest of the world sees many of the furious turban-wearing fundamentalists burning Musharraf in effigy in the streets (they will likely be out in full force now with Musharraf out of the country, preparing to meet with President Bush and address the United Nations in New York) another part of the population feels quite differently.

There are no Gallup polls measuring public opinion here — approval is best measured by silence in the streets, which for Pakistan has largely been the case, even since U.S.-led forces began bombing Afghanistan a month ago. And for modern Muslims here who eagerly seek to embrace a global culture, Musharraf incongruously manages to be a military dictator and yet also a symbol of modernity. He breaks taboos with his pet dogs and consumption of alcohol — not to mention his penchant for Armani suits and golf.

Now, with his measured support of U.S. strikes on the neighboring Taliban — a government he had supported up until Sept. 11 — he has made a dramatic pro-West shift in his polices, most notably ditching hard-line elements from the country’s powerful intelligence agency. And his most avid followers are modern Muslims.

OK and fine, I’ll be honest. I was relieved to find Asim, because I, too, have developed a thing for Musharraf. When we realize our shared interest, we squeeze each other’s hands like soul sisters. I knew I couldn’t be the only one who watched him on television, playing host as a parade of world leaders took turns across from him while he sank into a nicely upholstered sofa, like a new Homecoming King. He is Muslim and a man of the world. At a time when the world sees images of crazed Muslims who not only want segregation from, but to decree violence on, nonbelievers, Musharraf is reassuring, inclusive and strong.

The photo that Asim has in her closet was shot from an unusual tour he took in July to India and the city of the Taj Mahal, where he and Indian Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee politically arm-wrestled over the disputed territory of Kashmir. It was on that tour that Musharraf won a special place in many a heart. He proved to be aggressive politically, personally sentimental and thoroughly hypnotizing. He ditched his usual military uniform to wear a cherwani, the trousers matched with a long coat and high collar that many have associated with the jacket popularized by Jawaharlal Nehru.

At the time, he made a side trip to visit his ancestral haveli (“big house”) in the Old Delhi neighborhood of Daryaganj where he was born. Early in his childhood, his family left it behind and called Pakistan their new home after India won independence from the British in 1947 and its north was sliced out to create a nation for Muslims. During the trip, he reached out to the people, Clinton-like, and hugged a very elderly woman servant who said she remembered him as a child. He showed none of the restraint of the most conservative of Muslim men, who try to avoid touching a woman unrelated to them, no matter what the age. “He was so sympathetic to the old lady,” remembers Asim fondly.

Then, when he faced off with India’s journalists, they wanted to ask him questions about anything other than Kashmir, so they could at least get to know the man on friendlier terms. He responded that they could, but it wouldn’t make much of a friendship. He proceeded to answer each journalist’s questions so precisely, viewers back home were impressed. A critic in an Indian newspaper complained that India’s tough journalists had turned into “salivating puppies and purring kittens.” (Musharraf manages to turn up on TV quite frequently. When he does, Asim says, her husband calls her over with an eager shout: “Your boyfriend is on TV!”)

Musharraf made an impression on me in an interview last spring when he admitted that he had trouble with an expanding waistline since taking office (just like Clinton), a sweet tooth (ditto) and with security detail — because he appreciates spontaneity. He said: “I think my natural self is the best. I just behave normally, what I like, I like. Whatever I don’t like, I don’t like.”

He said he didn’t really like pop bands (“I find them very stupid and silly”), but admitted liking Sufi music and ghazals, poetic Muslim songs (like the ones my mother used to hum at the kitchen sink when I was growing up) and a band called Junoon. What? I first saw Junoon, a Pakistani rock band inspired by Sufism, in a Central Park concert a few years back when very cute and hip teenage Pakistani-American boys from New Jersey moshed in Tommy Hilfiger shirts to the band’s Urdu chants of “Allahu, Allahu, Allahu” — belief in only one Allah.

And when Musharraf made his tour through India, I had just returned from visiting India and staying in my ancestral haveli, a sweeping white palace of a home called Latif Manzil in the village of Jaigahan in Jaunpur District in Uttar Pradesh. To be in your ancestral home is to feel the pulse of ancestors who seem very much alive, if only in the clouds that pass overhead from the courtyards. Maybe it seems, in the West, typical, perhaps calculated, for him to travel to his ancestral haveli during his short diplomatic mission. But to me and others at the time, it seemed to speak wonders about his soul.

He is a Rudy Guliani figure whose fans fear will leave office at some point (no problem there — as a military dictator, he could be dislodged only by a junta, although he has promised an election that many of his fans wish wouldn’t happen). While he hasn’t quite reached the sex symbol status of the shaggy-haired prime minister of Japan, he has become a bit of a fashion icon. A retired senior army officer recalled running into him at the Islamabad Marriott before the war and admiring his Armani suit. (Though it’s not so rare here, or even imported from Italy; Armani suits that get stitched here for export, like Bally shoes, are very inexpensive.) And, like some Western pols, he’s followed by rumors in higher society circles linking him with starlets and other ladies.

Musharraf is known among the younger set as a gentle uncle figure, tapping his daughter’s friends with a gentle touch on the shoulder. Years ago, Musharraf, his wife and two children used to visit his very progressive mother, who lived in the upper-middle-class neighborhood of F-7/1 in Islamabad, and was known to neighborhood children as mother dado, (a play off dadi, grandmother), who played traditional Indian subcontinent music with harmoniums and tabla instruments while Musharraf’s daughter bicycled around the neighborhood free as a kite. By listening to music, and caring for a pet dog inside her house, she openly violated taboos on two things that the strictest of Muslims abhor: music and dogs.

The dog issue, in fact, seems to hound Musharraf. In India, a columnist refers to Musharraf as “a dog-loving nattily uniformed general.” Musharraf boldly posed holding his two dogs for his photo-op after taking over the country. Go figure. The man knew that many Muslims go running when a dog starts approaching them, even with its tail wagging, especially with its slobbery pink tongue hanging out of its mouth. We have to do something called wuzu, a ritual washing, before doing namaz. We’re taught that touching a dog makes you dirty for namaz, so that you shouldn’t keep a dog in the house. Others interpret what is said in the Quran more liberally, though.

I had Pluto, the Majumdars’ Pekinese, to initiate me; when I was 11, the Majumdars, who practiced Hinduism, gave me something like $5 a week to walk him in Morgantown, W.V., when they were on vacation. My mother was trained early as a Muslim girl to distrust dogs (she claims because they were wild in India). She refused to get near Pluto, backing away from the reach of his chain when he would scamper toward us when he visited for dinners with Majumdar Aunty and Majumdar Uncle. Then there was Nikita, a beautiful Samoyed with soft white fur that moved in across the street, leaping whenever he could on Denise Pickle and me, both of us thrilled by his eager soft self. But my Athar Chacha, my father’s brother, here in Karachi goes running even when a little dachshund approaches him. Among Muslims here, that’s quite common.

Not surprisingly, Musharraf’s dog antics don’t play well with many people. But they do play well with moderate Pakistanis. One liberal woman repeated with glee seeing Musharraf allowing one of his furry companions seats at the breakfast table. They’re tired of the hypocrisy in a nation where people hide behind a veil of piety. They see it with the mullahs, who are often uneducated religious leaders who rally those in the lower class to despise modernity.

To understand how Musharraf fits into Pakistan is to understand the disenfranchisement of middle-class families from mullahs and political leaders. Many Pakistanis have gotten only false promises from political leaders who somehow manage to build their wealth and bank accounts.

This is the history as they tell it: Musharraf joined the Pakistan Military Academy in 1961 and was commissioned in an elite artillery regiment in 1964 while Ayub Khan was in power. The Pakistani armed forces were modeled after the British military, and Pakistani military culture had with the same values of dancing, drinking and dating found in its Western counterpart.

In 1965, Pakistan went to war with India. That war marked a turning point; the military became more conservative as more religious generals came into power. But Musharraf was part of the more liberal earlier graduating class. The very liberal Zulfiqar Bhutto came to power after Pakistan fought another war with India in 1971. Pakistanis remember his proud declaration that he drank alcohol at a public meeting as the natural end to an exhausting day. Society turned more conservative with the 1977 coup d’état of General Muhammad Zia-ul Haq, who presented himself as a religious man, shutting down nightclubs and raiding parties where alcohol flowed.

With Zia’s death in a mysterious plane crash, the liberal Benazir Bhutto came to power after elections in 1989, loosely drawing a dupatta over her head to appease conservative Muslims though it wasn’t the liberal image of her days studying in the West. To this day, I remember a friend of mine, an aide in the U.S. Congress, shocked at how U.S. congressmen and senators fell over themselves in front of the seductive image of this woman with a dupatta. But she left many in the middle class of Pakistan disenfranchised after growing evidence of corruption drove her from office. She was eventually followed by Nawaz Sharif, another leader hounded out of office amid findings of corruption, this time in the coup that blasted Musharraf to power.

In this highly polarized country where immigrants from India have formed a political party to demand more immigrant (mohajir) rights, it’s a coup of sorts for this group that Musharraf, himself a mohajir, has risen to power. Even Musharraf’s wife, Sehba, is nothing like a mullah’s wife. Unlike Bhutto, she doesn’t feel the need to drape a dupatta over her head, wearing it over her shoulders instead in elegant outfits. She is considered loyal and devoted — and the woman behind this man’s success. Even bolder, he’s known to prefer Johnny Walker Black Label scotch.

By all accounts, the Musharrafs lived a modest life, not filled with fancy upholstered sofas. At one time, according to a family friend, their furniture included a simple padded low wooden platform with a red fabric over it and big pillows upon which to rest. Their furniture often had “MES” printed on the back, standing for government-issued stock from the Military Engineering Services. His eldest daughter, Ayla, pursued an unconventional field in Pakistan for women — architecture — going to National College of Art in Lahore. There, she was courted by a man she eventually wed in a “love” marriage, as opposed to an arranged one, also not the norm in this culture. Even more surprising: The Musharrafs are Sunnis, and their daughter married a Shiite. By accepting the marriage, they also transcended many of the hangups of families who don’t allow their children to marry out of their specific group.

Friday’s much-hyped “strike,” organized by religious extremists against Musharraf’s alliance with America, was all about those who take issue with Musharraf’s modern lifestyle. I hopped behind my cousin Ali on his beat-up Honda CD-70 and sped off to the protests. This is what I noted: A young man tossed a ball menacingly in his hand as he crossed the street before us. Would he throw it at us? Not quite. No, he was crossing the street to get to the park where hundreds of young men and boys already had converged. My cousin brother Ali explained: “Today is a nice day. No school. No work.” It was a national holiday, the first in years, for Pakistan’s great poet Allama Iqbal.

Flatbed trucks passed us with flags unfurled. A truck full of police followed quickly behind. A juice walla stood at the roadside spinning sugar-cane juice. The windows of a Subway sandwich shop on I.I. Chandigar Street were covered with black fabric, a trick businesses use to somehow disguise their windows from rocks flung by mobs. As if they wouldn’t just aim at the sheets instead. We glided through the empty streets at Fresco Chowk Roundabout, known for the famous Fresco food store a few stores down from the corner. A boy was picking his nose.

Ali surveys the crowd. He knows what most Pakistanis know. The crowd is mostly filled with Afghan refugees, Pathans (the Pashto speakers, many of them with relatives across the border in Afghanistan) and boys driven in from the madrasas of the religious right that supports the Taliban. The voice over the loudspeaker trashes Musharraf, and welcomes a leader from one of the madrasas outside Karachi.

I’m the only woman there. I chose to keep my dupatta off my head today so I draw plenty of stares, though I spread it modestly over my tunic-like kurta. There is Taj Mohammad, a white-haired elderly man. He’s carrying a big plastic bag filled with smaller plastic bags of salty snacks, and reminds me of the peanut vendor at a Yankees game. A young man with bleary eyes comes toward us as we take pictures and tries to act menacing, saying someone is following us. Whatever. Ultimately, it’s a less than menacing turnout, even though images on TV will look frightening.

When I come back to my hotel I see Musharraf on TV, and admire his stylish frameless glasses, such a departure from the OSHA-approved-style safety glasses more common with men his age. I wonder what he should do with his hair. And I know that in a living room in the other side of Karachi, a husband is saying to his wife, “Your boyfriend is on TV.”

Is all this talk about anthrax frightening these young girls?

A refrain of “No!” “No!” “No!” “No!” comes stumbling out of the mouths of 10-year-old Arfa Khan and 11-year-old Quratul-Ain Nasir and their classmates, Kainat Akra and Mehak Sohail.

Why not? Quratul-Ain, in the spirit of her famous namesake (eclectic, cutting-edge Urdu novelist Qurratulain Hyder), explains from behind her spectacles: “Our God is with us.” Of course, she believes that’s the same God who happens to be watching over America. But Pakistanis, from elementary school-aged children to the reporters in the Daily Jang office, are taking the news of this scare with a calm that doesn’t seem to be the case in America — partly, they say, because this is a society that is unprotected by EPA clean-air regulations, Transportation Department air bag rules or Agriculture Department poultry farm requirements. They’re not used to having their health monitored and protected.

It’s a reaction that’s maybe a bit macabre considering the four deaths linked to anthrax in the United States. But to understand it in this Muslim society is to understand that the Quran spells out that death is predestined, so to fear it is essentially pointless. “Every soul shall have a taste of death,” says sur’ah Ali Imran. It’s a mantra I’ve heard much as a child of Islam. Our deaths are written before we are born. Live wisely, but fear not that which is an inevitable consequence of birth.

Back on Oct. 23, one of the commerce desk reporters here for the Daily Jang opened an envelope that spilled out white powder. Last Friday, the contents were announced to contain anthrax spores, according to tests at the very posh Aga Khan University Hospital, a Western-style campus that could have been dropped here from Southern California (students shouting to each other, “Yo! Where ya been?”).

Now, on Sunday night, in the midst of this anthrax scare, I go to see how the newsroom is reacting. The office is down a narrow lane usually crowded with reporters’ motorcycles and scooters. A rusty beat-up vehicle, a cross between a van and truck, sits outside with “PRESS” emblazoned on its front. On the way over, my dapper driver Gul Hussain shrugs off the anthrax scare. “The people of America fear death,” he says in Urdu. “The people of Pakistan do not fear death.”

Indeed, this is a place where the face of death and despair stares at you during even a simple drive, in the sunken faces of beggars who knock their knuckles on your window at intersections, the child who tries to sell you cummerbunds (the white cotton cords tied to keep shalwars up) for five rupees outside the Taj Medical Complex, the men piled without helmets on motorcycles, the teetering buses barreling by, threatening to tumble upon you.

A gentle-looking, middle-aged, uniformed guard sits on a stool inside a grilled gate pulled shut except for a narrow passageway. I slip up the stairs at the end of the lobby as if I belong there, without pausing at the guard desk. Nobody stops me. Nobody asks to check my little Samsonite Royal Traveler purse.

During a visit earlier in the week, there was a “PUSH” sign at the front door that somebody had altered to read “BUSH.” CNN played on the Sony TV in the Karachi editor Mahmood Shaam’s office. The air conditioner blasted away. Now, the PUSH/BUSH sign has been taken down. Highlights from Pakistan’s cricket match against Sri Lanka fill the TV screen in Shaam’s office (the World Series has no audience here). On his Philips computer screen, Shaam has the wire story about arrests in the anthrax mailing to his office. With his salt-and-pepper beard and spectacles, he is as good-humored and philosophical as he was almost a week earlier.

“We are not scared,” he says, laughing lightly. “We enjoy these things. They’re excitement for us. We know it’s part of our life in Third World countries.”

Ever since a Muslim, Mir Khalil-ur-Rehman, started the newspaper in New Delhi under British colonial rule during World War II (thus the name “Jang,” which means “war”), Daily Jang reporters have survived imprisonment, kidnapping threats and raids on their offices by disgruntled political parties (thus, the numerous metal grill gates outside the offices). Shaam spent two months in prison during the military dictatorship of General Zia ul-Haq, bunking in a cell with criminals his newspaper had helped send to jail (they were forgiving, he says). The jailing of journalists here is so commonplace an occurrence that it’s hardly a badge of honor.

A Boston Globe reporter calls from Islamabad. Shaam cradles the phone to his ear. “Hello? Yes?” He answers her questions with a trademark chuckle here and there. He asks her a question with another chuckle: “How are you finding time” to care about this anthrax scare “when your defense minister” — Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld — “is in Islamabad?”

CNN, BBC, the Associated Press, Reuters all call Shaam. There is little news, though the police have arrested two suspects. In the newsroom, a man with a Sindhi topi (hat) fiddles with his moustache; another man sips a cup of tea; another flicks his cigarette on the blue tiled floor.

“Europeans, Americans have protected lives,” says Shaam. “We think environmental protection is a luxury. We have bigger problems.”

No one has yet tested positive for anthrax exposure, Shaam says. The offices were closed for one day to be decontaminated. Everyone in the office has been offered Cipro; some have taken it, others have not.

Education and health reporter Arif Ishaq, a senior journalist here, slips into a black chair with the factory plastic still covering it. “I can’t say why Americans are so afraid. We are not. There are so many problems we are facing. Social, health, economic,” he says. “This is nothing.” Garbage here is dumped on the side of roads, not tossed into Hefty garbage bags that are then stuffed into neat garbage cans. Recycling? Ha.

So the reporters relish taking a brave pose.

“Civil society has not developed that much here,” says Shaam. “The water we drink, if it is drunk by an American, they will get sick. When there is a sun eclipse, a moon eclipse, people here run to the roofs to see it. You protect your eyes. When there is a cyclone here, people rush to the ocean.” In America, by contrast, we’ve got beeps interrupting TV broadcasts for warnings about hurricanes like Michelle, now raging in the Caribbean.

Haroon Leghari, director of Jang’s London operations, draws on a Swiss Villiger No. 7 cigar. “If anthrax germs were exposed to the germs around us,” he says, “they’d run for their lives. They’d come out and they’d say, ‘This ain’t New York!’”

Around the office, they joke about getting anthraxed. “Have you been anthraxed?” laughs Faisal Jamal Ayoob, group director of productions, who works next door to the “anthrax zone” — the area possibly exposed to the contents of the spilled envelope.

In this parlance, I get anthraxed. I sit in a dingy chair at the commerce desk where the reporter opened the letter. The chair wobbles on its wheels. An “Urdu Keyboard Layout” is taped to the CPU sitting on the top ledge of this long, two-tiered desk. The desk is empty right now, but not from fear. The reporters just aren’t around. A plastic trashcan (without a liner) is filled nearby with red betel nut juice from the men here who chew it and spit it out like chewing tobacco.

Abrar Bahtir, news editor, sits a few desks away. He just got the photo captions for Monday’s paper, a photo of a banner from a World Trade Organization protest on his computer screen (“Make World Trade Work for the WHOLE WORLD”). He is on Cipro, but he isn’t worried about this disease that is said to come from animals, even if the anthrax is now produced in laboratories. “Pakistan may jahnwar kay sath zindaghee guzarthahay.” In Pakistan, we spend our lives living beside animals.

It’s true. On Ma Jinnah Road here in Karachi — just like on nearly every other road in Pakistan, including the motorways (as highways are called) — donkeys and horses leading wagons gallop beside auto rickshaws and yellow taxis with rusty doors.

My phuppa (the husband of my father’s sister), M. Qamaruzzahaman Khan, a homeopathic doctor now retired from a bank, flips through a homeopathic manual and stops at “Anthracinum,” a homeopathic drug used to fight anthrax. He hasn’t had any customers lining up outside his door. Americans are “nazook,” he says. That means weak. He doesn’t mean to be insulting; it’s just that this is a culture without free-flowing pasteurized milk or filtered water — the best most people do is boil their milk and water on stoves.

Look, he admits, he was impressed with the toilet seat liners he remembers from the Greyhound bus station in Chicago. But that’s a thing of fantasy in this country, where folks cover their faces, Taliban woman-style, just to protect themselves from the clouds of diesel fumes that follow beat-up motorcycles. “Americans are over-spoiled. Pakistanis are under-spoiled,” says Qamaruzzahaman Phuppa.

And as a result, the deadly anthrax spore, regardless of its potency, has yet to rattle Pakistan, and has created an even greater cultural distance here when the public watches reports of the anxiety seeming to take hold of America.

One of my cousins watches a BBC profile of a U.S. postman fearful of getting anthrax. But the postman’s dangerous working conditions don’t catch his attention. Instead, he is impressed by the fancy dining-room table the postman and his family sit around for the interview.

“Look at how well postmen live in America!” he yells to his wife.

It’s a picture-perfect middle-class home. On a sofa nearby, one of her two children, Anum, has left behind a copy of the children’s book series “Goosebumps.” Visiting women feel the cotton of a black fabric with big white polka dots (“2 single bed sheets, 200 rupees”), a shocking pink fabric with little flowers (“suit piece, 200 rupees”), a green fabric with shocking pink flowers (“suit piece, 200 rupees”) and a fuchsia fabric (“suit piece, 200 rupees”). Mufti’s young son, Mustafa, pulls out a CD from his collection to sell for the mujahid cause.

Housewives and grandmothers as well as doctors and women of the educated urban elite are becoming soldiers of the jihad from their sitting rooms, as living rooms are called here, using prayer and tag sales in their artillery of weapons. They consider themselves each a mujahida, the female version of a mujahid, a freedom fighter, part of an Islamic revival over the last 15 years that has even converted thoroughly modern women — women who used to flash bright shades of Revlon lipstick, their slick, highlighted hair flowing over their shoulders, chic hand-embroidered shalwar kameez suits with sleeveless kurtas (risqui in Islam, which requires women to cover their arms down to their wrists with long sleeves)To be modern was to be called “Mod Squad.”

To fight in a jihad, these women believe, doesn’t mean simply running to the front lines with submachine guns and anti-artillery weapons. That’s a specific type of jihad, jihad bil qital, fighting with actual combat. Strictly speaking, jihad means “a struggle for Islam” and can be waged on many fronts. The mujahida here is part of a battalion of women quietly maneuvering around town in shapeless navy gowns, headscarves tightly pinned at their chins and, often, partial veils (niqab) drawn up over the bridge of their nose as their battle armor. They wield Nokia mobile handsets while driving mostly shiny white Honda Preludes through the quiet streets of Islamabad’s F and G sectors, the middle-class through upper-class neighborhoods where they live with servants, microwaves and Paknet Internet connections. And in their own way, they definitely feel they are waging their own unique jihad.

Some take the gold bangles off their arms to donate to the cause, a jihad bil mal, with money, using wealth to fund the fight, they believe, for the cause of Islam. And, like the American women who rallied behind the soldiers during World War II, donating their silk stockings to the armed forces to make parachutes, these women see their activities as simply the ordinary, obvious way to support the war effort.

To them, the U.S.-led coalition attacks on Afghanistan is truly an attack on Islam, and these fundamentalist Pakistani cricket moms’ sympathies lie mostly with the Taliban and even Osama bin Laden.

These mujahida come from the generations of women from their 20s through their 60s who have rediscovered Islam. In “Clash of Civilizations,” a much quoted book here in these times, author Samuel Huntington chronicles the “Islamic Resurgence” in countries from Algeria to Afghanistan over the last three decades. Students and intellectuals made up the militant “shock troops,” he says, but urban middle class people composed the bulk of the movement. Here in Pakistan, that includes the housewife mujahida.

From her sitting room in a cozy Islamabad neighborhood, with wide gates that swing open into driveways, Amira Ahsaan, a veteran political leader, has a special vantage point from which to observe this activity. A mother of four children, she chose not to work after earning her master’s degree in biology from Qaid-e-azam University, studied Western society during several years living in New York and now spearheads education about Islam among women. She watches the jihad work now being done by housewives and women professionals and says it’s modeled after the historical story of Hazrat Khansa, a mother and poet at the time of the Prophet Mohammed, who urged her four boys to fight for Islam in jihad. She extolled them: “Go into the midst of the thickest of the battle, encounter the boldest enemy and if necessary embrace martyrdom.” They died “shaheeds,” martyrs.

“Our maternal expression is for Islam. It’s not just for men. This is our special role in jihad,” she says. “In Islam, women are not prophets. They are the mothers of prophets. This is the role of women. She prepares men for jihad. She is not Jesus. She is Mary.” The hadiths, the sayings of the Prophet Mohammed and a guide for Muslims, she says, assigns the reward of jihad to a mother from conception to weaning. She is considered a ribat, one who guards the frontier of Islam. A woman who dies in childbirth gets the reward of a shaheed, a martyr.

Here, men who reach a certain religious discipline are called “mullahs.” These women are sometimes called “mullanis,” though there really isn’t such a thing. They’re also sometimes called “chaddar laynay wallee,” those who wear a chaddar, yards of usually cotton fabric under which they cloak their heads and bodies to remain modest, as the Quran tells both men and women to be. They glide across town here, gathering in sitting rooms and bedrooms for durs, Quran study groups, sometimes eating dates afterwards. (Many Muslims have traditionally mostly read the Quran in its original Arabic without translations; durs meetings include thurjomah, translations). These women don’t give themselves any clever name. They simply call themselves “Muslims.” Like Christianity’s born-again Christians, these women are something like reborn Muslims.

I have seen something of this evolution in the women of my own family. When one of my sister cousins started becoming a more observant Muslim, my Islamabad phuppi, my father’s sister, at first discouraged her. Islamabad phuppi also discouraged a neighbor, Aunty Sultan, from allowing her daughter to cover herself with her dupatta. She was still unwed; covering herself up would make it too difficult to attract a proposal (The daughter got married anyway).

But about three years ago, my Islamabad Phuppi started changing, too, slipping into durs sessions held in the sitting rooms of neighbors. Now, she quietly regrets encouraging one of her daughters to enter a professional field where she works with men.

Another phuppi rediscovered Islam through an Islamic educational organization aimed at women, Al-Huda International, the hub of Muslim rebirths over the last decade. I always felt a special kinship with this phuppi because I look so much like her, down to the mole on our necks, between our clavicle bones. She was always modern, gregarious and “smart,” as they like to say here about a well-dressed woman with style. But Islamabad phuppi also discouraged her, arguing, “Your husband won’t like it.” Still, she moved forward, not hosting the festive mehndi ceremony — in which the bride has henna ornately drawn onto her hands and feet — when her eldest son was married, and not allowing mixed gender seating at the wedding. (My wedding in 1992 was the last family wedding to have my younger sister cousins dancing at the mehndi ceremony.)

And at a cousin’s wedding not long ago, my smart phuppi’s older brother, my bure abu in Lahore, didn’t even recognize her when he saw her sitting in full hijab, the flap of a partial veil across the bridge of her nose, so only her eyes were visible. “Assalamalaikum,” he said to her, respectfully, as if she was a stranger to him.

Indeed, the return to conservative Islam in Pakistan isn’t only coming from men, says political activist Ahsaan. “It’s not a matter of a male-dominated society. We have women struggling with their husbands for their right to cover themselves up. It is not a symbol of male chauvinism. We are seeing women who do purdah and hijab” staying primarily at home, and remaining covered up, from head to toe, when they go out “by choice.”

Why? It reserves the sanctity of a woman’s sexuality for only her bedroom, not for a colleague with whom she might flirt with the flick of her hair. Ahsaan knows the argument that the women of Afghanistan don’t have a choice under edicts by the Taliban that they must cover up. It doesn’t much disturb her. For one thing, she says, it is part of the culture for the majority, anyway. Two, she says, Afghanistan was a culture of terror and exploitation for women before the Taliban took over. Covering up, she says, brought a safety and security to women that they are entitled to as a right in Islam.

“In Islam, we are given all the confidence of being a woman. We are proud to be women. We’re absolutely feminine. We’re proud of being feminine. In Islam, a woman is too precious to be shown around,” she says. “It’s the beautiful mansions that are guarded. A poor man’s hut has no door and nothing to guard it. In the West a girl loses her virginity at such a young age. She is like a poor man’s hut. Anyone can walk in any time of the day or night. She has nothing to lose.”

For the most part, these women are sympathetic to the Taliban, believing that they cleaned up the country’s chaos of rapes, robberies and kidnappings following the Soviet pullout from Kabul. They are annoyed by the constant rebroadcasts on CNN of “Beneath the Veil,” the documentary that lays out allegations of human rights abuses against the Taliban, particularly women. They claim it is unbalanced footage shot by Afghan Muslim women who belong to an urban elite minority — women who lack a connection to most of Afghanistan’s traditional rural majority.

At Karokoram Apartments, a luxury apartment complex here, about 30 of these bourgeois mujahida gather one recent morning for durs. One, a lecturer in chemistry at a women’s college here, leads them through a dua, a prayer, at this time of war. She learned it one recent afternoon when she sat with her daughter in a class at Colours of Islam, a Sunday school of sorts on Jumma, Friday, the Muslim holy day. In class, Madam, as teachers are called here, stuck several paper soldiers into a tray of soil. They were Muslim. Facing them were many more enemy soldiers.

This was the Battle of Bad’r, described in the eighth sura of the Quran, in which pagan tribes launch a war against a ragtag Muslim army with only three camels and hungry soldiers. Madam sprinkled water upon the soil and explained to the children, listening eagerly: Allah answered the prayers of Muslims and hurled rain upon the enemy, making them fall over each other in the mud. The history books say Prophet Mohammed’s army won in Islam’s first important battle, transforming it from a religion to a state-religion.

The children repeat the dua that the Prophet Mohammed is said to have recited during the war, following Madam’s lead: Oh, Allah, protect us from our enemy’s plans and misdeeds.

The prayers of many of these women include asking Allah to lead all people, Muslims and non-Muslims, on “the straight path.” There is another dua, “Qunoot-e-Nazala,” recited recently in a durs, the women holding their open palms before them. It’s repeated in other homes and during private prayers said as women prostrate themselves before Allah on the janamaz, prayer rug, they lay out in a corner of their bedroom. It has a more ominous message. It can alienate someone from the West. It frightens me. “Dua for invoking a curse,” reads the translation of this prayer.

Prophet Mohammed is said to have recited this prayer after he sent 70 learned men to teach Islam to a tribe of non-Muslims. The non-Muslims, it’s said, slaughtered 69 of the learned men, with only one escaping to relate the story. It begins, as do many a dua in times of calamity, seeking forgiveness for Muslims’ transgressions, and it asks for Muslims to clear their hearts and join together. “O Allah! Forgive us and all believing men and women and all Muslim men and women and put off actions between their hearts and reconcile between them and help them against your enemies and their enemies.”

Then, “O Allah! Curse the disbelievers, those who stop from your way and belie your messengers and fight your friends. O Allah! Put differences between them and make them falter in their footsteps and send upon them your punishment, one that you would not turn away from a transgressing and criminal people.”

The “silent majority” Pakistan’s president Gen. Pervez Musharraf talks about includes these housewife mujahedin praying this “Dua for invoking a curse.” To them, the West is the source of the “criminal people” who are raining death on Afghan civilians, and sending hungry Afghans with hollowed cheeks rushing across the border into Pakistan to flee the war. There is also a Salvation Army effort of sorts that women are spearheading. The night the bombing of Afghanistan began, I went into the house of former Pakistani intelligence officer Khalid Khawaja, a friend of Osama bin Laden and the Taliban. Now, there’s no room to sit on the ornately carved upholstered sofa in the sitting room. It’s filled with bags of used clothes, sweaters, frocks (as girls’ dresses are called here), pillows and a red-checkered baby sleeping bag. They are the donations of two women who dropped them off for distribution in Afghanistan. Winter is setting in; people there will be cold.

This groundswell is coming from an elite crowd: A first-class PIA (Pakistan International Airlines) baggage tag dangles on the handle of a Skyflite garment bag packed with donations. Inside is a flannel pajama suit with a pink rabbit on the front, a frilly pink frock. “It is our ‘farz,’” our duty, “to help,” says Khawaja’s wife, Shamama.

Back in the Mufti house, a daughter pulled out a lime green shalwar kameez suit with sleeves made of a tissue fabric with gold sequins, sitharo ke kam, star work, good for wearing at weddings. One of the household servants, 11-year-old Nazia, plucks the outfit to buy for herself, at a steal, 50 rupees (79 cents). She looks eagerly at a fuchsia outfit with a brocade work kameez. Why does she want her money to go to mujahedin?

“They are Muslim like me,” she says.

Another night, 10-year-old Farzeen Tariq, a gregarious, articulate aspiring journalist (if she doesn’t become a banker), negotiates 30 rupees (47 cents) for one of Mustafa’s CDs, “Read With Me Games.” “I’m so happy the money is going for the mujahid,” Farzeen says later, beaming with twinkling eyes. “They will have support from me.” Last night, young Farzeen saw the Afghan man who sells French fries in F/10 Markaz (market) crying. She overheard why: The man’s daughter had died in Kabul as a result of the bombing. “I feel so depressed,” says Farzeen.

One morning recently, about 100 women gather in a two-story house off a neat lane. They wear head scarves and sit cross-legged as they listen to a woman guiding them through a translation of a Quranic surah. Inside a small room off to the side, about a dozen organizers of this Islamic educational organization sit on the floor, listening to a woman cross-legged above them. They are impassioned, like others, about the U.S. decision to bomb Afghanistan without first showing clear proof that bin Laden is behind the Sept. 11 attacks. They too pray the duas against the enemy in time of war.

Among them is Bushra Najib, a doctor in her 30s. She chose to stay at home to raise her children and live in purdah, covering her face with a partial veil and gown when she glides around town doing her work as a nazima, organizer, spreading the teachings of Islam. Tooling around Islamabad, talking into her mobile phone to check the address of her next appointment, she talks about her rebirth.

She went to Mecca for haj, the holy pilgrimage of Islam, about six years ago. It’s said that Allah will fulfill any sincere prayer said when a Muslim first sets eyes on the Kaa’ba “sharif,” the all-black place that’s considered the house of Allah. At that time, Bushra said, “Dear God, set me on the straight path.”

She started going to durs when she returned home and is now an organizer of this women’s movement.

It’s a woman known as “Dr. Farhat” who has gotten many educated women to cover up by choice. She is Dr. Farhat Naseem Hashmi, 43, a Quran scholar who started the non-political foundation called Al-Huda International Welfare Organization in 1994, not long after she earned a Ph.D. in Islamic studies from the University of Glasgow, Scotland. She specialized in “Hadith Sciences,” a study of how the Prophet Mohammed said pious Muslims should live their lives. Her Web site biography mentions her “learned husband” and Al-Huda as “their brainchild.”

From its headquarters in a sweeping house in the upper class neighborhood known as F8, the organization runs one-year diploma programs, summer “crash courses” and regular programs such as a recent discussion of “The Muslim Marriage Guide,” a provocative book by Ruqaiyyah Waris Maqsood that lays out a Muslim wife’s rights in a marriage, including the right to “imta,” fulfillment in the bedroom. With the support of its well-to-do students and, they would say, Allah’s blessings, the house is now under construction with upgrades and freshly applied new concrete. A Nissan Sunny with a Karachi license plate sits outside with a Rutgers University bumper sticker on the back window and another sticker above it: “Smile! Allah Loves You!”

Inside the office, a large room cordoned off with a couple of desks and a sitting area, a binder sits on a shelf with “THINGS DONE” printed on the side in English. A young woman in a black gown and blue-gray scarf taps names and numbers into a spreadsheet. Another young woman whispers to one of the senior officials that a man is coming in to fix the photocopier. The women pull their veils over the bridges of their noses, as the photocopier man tinkers with the machine, his back to them. This is a touchy time. They want it to be known that they aren’t a political organization. Simply educational and charitable.

In the organization’s first year, they had 47 graduates from their one-year program. Last year, they had about 200 graduates. This year, they expect about 300 graduates. That doesn’t include the thousands of women who spill into its regular classes and durs gatherings. There is a tension: One Islamabad psychiatrist calls this revival the “al-Huda terror,” because he sees teenaged girls as patients, in conflict with reborn mothers over such things as mothers wanting to pull them out of the private coed schools they’ve been attending for years and enroll them in government girls’ schools.

Pakistanis are well aware of this revival movement. Last December, during the holy month of Ramadan, the national English-language newspaper Dawn reported the popularity of “Fehme-Quran” classes taught by Al-Huda’s Dr. Hashmi among “the beautiful begums,” married women.

“There are the usual … beautiful begums, dressed to kill, who fumble with their dupattas for the umpteenth time in an attempt to cover themselves, while sitting on these amazingly comfortable folding black chairs, a Quran clutched close to their hearts. Even their walk is a pace faster, one notices, than the one at the ‘aunty park,’ lest they miss out any discourse.” (“Aunty park” refers to parks where women and men walk after the morning’s fajr namaz prayers, the sun just rising, their lips often moving as they silently recite words that are part of “zikr,” the remembrance of God, their fingers moving the beads on a “thuzbi,” a Muslim’s rosary beads.)

Dawn also points out: “You’ll find the middle and lower middle class women, too, disembarking from rickshaws and cabs, seeming every bit as enthusiastic as their more modern counterparts alighting from Civics and Corollas.”

My Islamabad phuppi is with me as I visit Thabasum Mufti, the mujahida raising money in her sitting room, whose son is selling his CDs. A while back, I know, Mufti was wearing sleeveless kurtas, praying irregularly, often only on Friday. Then a friend invited her to durs led by Dr. Hashmi. At the time, Mufti admits: “I didn’t go for ‘ilm,’ knowledge. I just didn’t want my friend to be mad at me. I thought I’d go late and leave early.” She sat right in front of Dr. Hashmi, thinking she could outsmart her teachings. Dr. Hashmi started reading from the Quran: “We were born only from one person.” The lesson was to love others because of a devotion to God, not in exchange for love received or expectation.

“This was the first day that I loved God,” Mufti says now.

She started studying the translation of the Quran. Four years ago, she started making the rounds more regularly at durs gatherings. Two years ago, she took the al-Huda year-long course. She started living her life differently, pulling her veil up over her nose when she readied to go outside, putting new importance on Jumma (Friday) as a special day when she changes the bed sheets and puts daal (lentils) and masala (spices) in bottles. Now, she sweeps into houses to teach the translation of the Quran.

“Now, my life has begun,” she says.

During this past Saturday afternoon’s durs, Mufti sits on an upholstered chair and reads from a thick Quran with words highlighted in pink, blue, yellow and green, writing in the margins. She wears a white dupatta that frames her face snugly, spreading over her shoulders with a pattern of white tulips and a tan-colored pin under her chin. Today’s topic: the Quranic teachings about women’s rights in a separation or divorce. She lays out the long process of separation, mediation and reconciliation required before a couple can get divorced.

My phuppi asks the question on the tip of anyone’s tongue when they discuss the issue of women’s rights in Islam: What about “Thalak. Thalak. Thalak.” That a man can divorce his wife if he only says: I divorce you. I divorce you. I divorce you.

Mufti smiles. Allah says don’t make it “mazak,” a joke. She speaks in Urdu, sprinkling her lesson with humor, smiles, tales from her own life and banter about breastfeeding, children, husbands and gift cards now available with ‘hadiths,’ sayings of the Prophet Mohammed, printed on them. “Allah gave women protection.” It’s best for a woman to marry a man with a good knowledge and practice of Islam. She jokes, “If he looks like Anil Kapoor,” a Bollywood actor, “it isn’t enough.”

Mufti talks about the Prophet Mohammed’s return from al-Miraj, the timeless “Night Journey.” He found women swapping complaints about their husbands with each other. The women murmur among themselves that swapping stories lightens the heart. Mufti offers a religious weapon she uses in times of dispute with her husband, whom she is quick to add is a wonderful man. She recites a part of a surah in which it’s said “Allah stands beside you as your friend.” He can’t argue with her then. The women smile and ask her to repeat the words. Slowly.

Islamabad phuppi asks Mufti what she calls herself after becoming a student of the Quran. “Musilman.” A Muslim. She says she isn’t yet a “mohman.” That is a grade higher, a term much batted around in these circles as an ideal: a true follower.

Now it’s time for maghrib namaz, the prayer at sunset. Mufti slips onto the white bed sheet and crosses her legs beneath her. She opens her hands before her to guide the group through a dua. They are the prayers of women around the world: Dear Allah, you know everything. Make our husbands and children “tundah,” cool. Make cold the graves of our ancestors. Forgive them.

“Ameen.”

Make good matches for our children. Wherever Muslims are suffering, help them.

“Ameen.”

Allah, help the mujahedin. Keep me on the straight path.

“Ameen.”

In her prayer is one more request: “Give us all the strength to do jihad.”

Maybe Azaz Hussain, a young Pakistani journalist for an Urdu newspaper, Khabrain, my cousin and I had given a ride to some nights earlier, had been on to something. As we dropped him off at his newspaper office, he asked me, “Are you here for journalism or matrimonial?” Perhaps, it would seem, a little of both?

I do my best to discourage the mother. “This potential bahu is seriously thinking of buying a motorcycle to ride around Pakistan,” I say. “You wouldn’t like that, no?” The mother insists she doesn’t mind. In fact she had slaughtered a chicken for me, knowing I would be coming today.

“I did Isthikhara and saw in my dream that I would be going to report in Afghanistan. You don’t want a bahu running off to Afghanistan, do you? Why don’t you first see if I return or become a ‘shaheed’” — a martyr, I joke.

No, that’s OK, says the mother. We’ll marry both of you together first, she says, and then you can both go off to Afghanistan together. Great.

Who will take care of you in 10 years if you fall sick, the eligible boy asks; he’s 34 years old, a year and a half younger than I am, but still called a boy until he gets married. “But I might become a ‘shaheed’ tomorrow,” I say, joking, sort of. “What is the purpose of worrying?”

As I leave he stands at the top of the stairwell and asks, “Should I tell my family to bury their expectations?”

Yes, I think, perhaps.

Isthikhara is a Muslim act of faith in divine revelation, which reveals itself in the subconscious of dreams. I write as I bounce on the highway past trucks painted elaborately with peacocks and paisleys. The other day, on this same route, I saw a lorry, as the big trucks are called, with a larger-than-life Osama bin Laden airbrushed onto the back, a machine gun on his side. My would-be husband’s younger brother, beside me, repeated what has become a refrain over here: “Osama bin Laden, the hero of the Muslims.”

The driver of this slightly beat-up Suzuki taxi has a purple velvet “Allah” written in Arabic dangling off a suction cup attached to the front window, a graduation tassel swinging with each bounce. A small black-and-white photo of bin Laden from a newspaper sits in the right corner of his rearview mirror tucked below a watch. A reporter from South Africa took a photo of this driver, Mullah Abdul Hafiz Pirzadah, as he glanced his gentle eyes into the rearview mirror. He wishes he could remember the reporter’s name. It was a very difficult name. You know, one of those foreign names. Not as easy as a Muslim name.

A horse grazes on the side of the road, tied to a post. The sun blazes deep on this late afternoon carrying with it a thin layer of sweat. Men sit piled atop buses where luggage would normally rest. We circle around an exit ramp. Islamabad, nine miles away.

My cousin Arina had written the instructions for me to the Isthikhara, which Muslims are taught to recite when they want to make a decision. I know I want to go to Afghanistan. It is, after all, the birthplace of one of my Sufi spiritual inspirations, Rumi, when Afghanistan was part of the Persian Empire. The rest of the world has to get the blessing of the Taliban Embassy. Me, I had to e-mail my father two nights ago to pass his blessing onto my bure abu (my father’s eldest brother) and my phuppi (my father’s sister) who feel responsible for my safety here in Pakistan. (Dad, thanks for calling.)

My cousin Arina has gotten some 42 marriage proposals (really, only a slight exaggeration) and turned to Isthikhara to sort them all out. The instructions are simple: two rakats Naf’l prayer (that’s two sets of specific prostrations in the direction of Mecca, the holy city for Muslims), after which you read a prayer in which you think about the question before you. Then, you’re supposed to sleep without speaking to anyone. (I woke up and used AOL Instant Messenger without speaking a word. I don’t know if that counts.)

Sure enough, a message came to me in the moments before I awakened this morning. In the dream, I, a friend who is here as a journalist and another woman were having our papers surveyed by Sohail Shaheen, the deputy Taliban ambassador whom I recently wrote about. (I got reams of critical e-mail after I wrote of my visit with Shaheen and his two wives in his house, which is called the White House. One reader equated me to “Hanoi Jane” Fonda, who was ridiculed for being sympathetic to the Communists during the Vietnam War. I can only believe that some readers were made uncomfortable by any information about the Taliban, the monsters of the free world, that could make them seem remotely human. Islamabad Asra? Fine. And perhaps, one day, Afghanistan Asra, too.)

In this dream, the three of us were cleared to go to Afghanistan. I woke up from the dream with a smile, knowing the mandate. In the dream, I saw on TV CNN-like graphic flames on the northern four-fifths of Afghanistan with the southern one-fifth the only part left in Taliban control. That’s OK. We’d still go.

I go to the Taliban Embassy. It’s a right turn at the white sign with black lettering, “Embassy of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan.” There’s a Pakistani journalist escorting a Western reporter in for an interview with Sohail Shaheen, the sort of tag-team reporting that’s coming with a price tag during this war coverage. Some Afghans shuffle in and out. A guard puffs on a cigarette. The driveway is cracked. It’s not a posh place. A man known as Abid Saheb, one of the English-speaking officials inside, comes out barefoot. He hands out a press release photocopied on cheap Pakistani paper. The headline: “American Terrorist Attacks on Afghanistan Continue.”

A Western journalist puts his right hand over his heart as he approaches Abid Saheb. “Could I have one?” he asks gently.

“It is the last one,” says Abid Saheb.

“Visas?” the journalist asks meekly.

“Monday,” comes the response.

I have to return my application tomorrow, but I already got my answer in my dream. I hope. Now just that little matter of a stamp.

I come home, tell my phuppi about my day. I got the Pakistan visa extension (they’re only giving 14 days right now). Then, there was the small matter of the marriage proposal.

“Thoba. Thoba. Thoba.” Loosely translated: What a shame. What gall. Howcouldtheybesobold?

I guess that’s a no.