A Kafkaesque exit from Pakistan

Sometime in the early 1990s, our vessel was loading oil in Jeddah, bound ostensibly for a port in Sudan. The cargo, we were told, was a donation from Saudi Arabia to Sudan. While the bill of lading listed a Sudanese port as the destination, the shipper’s representative in Saudi Arabia quietly informed us that we were, in fact, to proceed to Karachi. We were thus asked to prepare for the voyage accordingly.

It was reasonably presumed that, once the vessel had departed Jeddah, the oil would be sold mid-sea by the consignee (ostensibly Sudan) to a Pakistani entity or business, likely at a price far below market value. Once the transaction was completed, a revised bill of lading naming Karachi as the discharge port would arrive via email. One could reasonably infer that this post-departure transaction was, if not overtly fraudulent, certainly irregular and very likely approved or at least tacitly sanctioned by the vessel’s owner.

Though the ship did not fly an Indian flag, its officers and crew were Indian. The legality of the paperwork meant little in practice for the Indian crew, given that the bill of lading had been formally processed. As my leave was due and the vessel was set to embark on a Europe–US run, I requested to be signed off in Karachi. I was fully aware, however, that for an Indian seafarer, disembarking in a Pakistani port could be a bureaucratic nightmare.

At the time, Karachi imposed stringent requirements for crew sign-off, especially for nationals of India, Israel, and Taiwan. Such crew members were required to hold a confirmed flight ticket departing within 24 hours of setting foot ashore. They had to be accompanied at all times by both an immigration officer and a policeman until clearing immigration at the airport. If an overnight hotel stay was required, then these two officials were to be lodged in the adjoining room, ensuring the crew member did not step outside.

Fortunately, I was spared the indignity of hotel surveillance. After completing inward immigration formalities which took nearly four hours and involved considerable effort by our ship’s local agent, I proceeded straight to the airport.

This local agent was a warm and friendly man. His ancestors, he told me, had migrated from Bihar to Pakistan during the Partition of 1947. Over the course of our four-hour wait, this Pakistani, a Mohajir as such migrants are known, shared two insights into the country’s politics.

The first concerned the status of Mohajirs in Pakistan. Although they had migrated on religious grounds, they had never been fully accepted as equals in Pakistani society. It was a bitter irony that many had come seeking belonging, only to be treated as outsiders. This sense of exclusion, he suggested, had sown the seeds of the MohajirQaumi Movement.

The second insight came during the drive to the airport. I sat in the vehicle with the immigration officer and policeman, chatting freely. At one point, traffic came to a halt due to VIP movement, an experience familiar to anyone who has lived in New Delhi. After a long wait, a convoy of motorcycles, official cars and eventually the VIP passed by. I asked who it was. “Sir ji, it is my baap, General saab,” replied the Pakistani official, half-jokingly. I remarked that in India, even a high-ranking army officer travels with just a pilot jeep and a couple of motorcycles.

It was then that I realised what many in Pakistan already knew: the army is not just an institution but the master of politics. And while the army is traditionally meant to instil fear in a country’s enemies, in Pakistan, it is the citizens who appear more terrified. I observed this first-hand: ordinary Pakistanis seemed genuinely scared of their military.

After finally clearing immigration at Karachi airport, I thanked my escorts and bid farewell to the ex-Bihari shipping agent, a Mohajir for whom I still feel a pang of sympathy. Perhaps one day, Sunny Deol - India’s celluloid patriot - will cross the border again to uproot another water pump. If so, he might find a willing helper in this former Bihari, now a Mohajir.

As for neighbours, one cannot choose them. But like many Indians, I continue to wonder: who will change Pakistan, and how and when for the better?

(The author, a former merchant navy sailor, is presently a shipping and marine consultant and member, Singapore Shipping Association)