Street performers first appeared along Islamabad’s busy intersections a few years ago. Coated from head to toe in eye-catching gold paint, they stood perfectly still, leaning on shiny walking sticks and with their hats open. As I accepted tips from passers-by, some smiled and nodded slowly.
Perhaps nowhere else would the presence of mimes on the streets to earn a few dollars go unnoticed. But this is Pakistan, where the situation under the security state is often not as simple as it seems. So as the number of golden performers grew, so did the intrigue surrounding them. Could they become informants for the national intelligence agency? Are you looking for a strong politician? Maybe he’s a spy for the CIA?
“If you see a beggar in any other country, it is clear that he is a beggar,” said Habib Karim, 26, a lawyer in the capital Islamabad. “But here, when you see a beggar, you think, ‘He’s working for them.’” he added, referring to Pakistan’s powerful intelligence agencies.
Today, Islamabad’s “golden man” has been added to the ranks of conspiracy theories sprouting, being debunked and rehashed daily across the city. In Pakistan, where the hand of security services is ubiquitous, conspiracy theories have had mainstream acceptance for decades, dominating conversations among street vendors, politicians and everyone in between.
Doubts are so common that absurd stories take root after almost every news event. After the great floods of 2010, people claimed that the floods were caused by the CIA’s weather manipulation techniques. Media pundits claimed that an American “think tank” was behind the failed Pakistani-American car bombing in Times Square that year and that Osama bin Laden was actually Jewish.
Others were convinced that the CIA staged an assassination attempt on girls’ education activist Malala Yousafzai in 2012 after a local newspaper conducted a satirical “investigation” that described the plot in bizarre detail. (A disclaimer was later added to the article, intended to ridicule the country’s love of conspiracy theories and make it clear that it was fiction.)
Some trace Pakistan’s embrace of conspiratorial thinking back to the Mughal emperors of the 16th and 17th centuries, who unified Islam in South Asia and whose reigns were filled with palace intrigue. In recent decades, fantastical notions have emerged from the mythology that has formed around Pakistan’s military and its main intelligence agencies, the forces seemingly directing the country’s politics behind the scenes.
In such an atmosphere, everyone, even street performers, can be seen as a potential tool of the state.
“Some of them are definitely from the agency,” said Aqsa Batool, 24, sitting in an outdoor cafe with her friend Shiza Kajol, 23, on a chilly spring evening in Islamabad. They were leaning against a red plastic table, holding cups of sweet milk tea.
They explained that if you spend enough time in the city, you will have a trained eye to spot informants working for the major spy services, Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) and other intelligence agencies.
They have definite characteristics. They all wear casual shirts and pants but dress shoes. Shirt sleeves are always buttoned. Their clothes are stiff, as if they were properly pressed. They often hold the phone to their ear but never actually speak into it.
“Did you see the man who was here just now?” Mr. Batool said in his explanation: She was referring to a man who had approached the table a few minutes earlier where I was sitting with her friends. The man draped his coat over his head, mumbled if he had any change, and sat down on a nearby curb.
“Yes, yes, him! He had a very different attitude,” said Ms. Kajol.
“And since you are a foreigner, he went straight to your table,” Mr. Batool added. Both agreed: he was definitely an ISI.
The two young women were wary of the golden man, but they were not sure. On the one hand, they thought, street performers couldn’t really eavesdrop while standing at a busy intersection. On the other hand, they could monitor passing cars.
“You should make sure you do the obvious, like take a picture of the car with your phone, just to be sure,” Mr Batool said.
As with many conspiracy theories, the suspicions came from a kernel of truth.
Pakistan’s security agencies are not so subtle in alluding to their immense power to keep politicians and others in check.
A political scandal erupted when audio recordings or videos purportedly captured from bugs inside people’s homes were mysteriously leaked. Intelligence agents sometimes track down people of interest, sometimes overtly (sometimes with a friendly greeting from the car). Rideshare drivers admit they sometimes get paid by intelligence agencies.
People widely assume they are being watched and speak in code, referring to the military as “sacred cow” and the ISI as “our friend” in case intelligence agents overhear.
“There was a meta narrative that our intelligence services were the best in the world, that they were everywhere, that they were always watching, whether you were at home or out, and that eyes were watching you,” explained Mr. Kareem, a lawyer. “It was intentionally built by the state itself.”
For most of Pakistan’s 76-year history, surveillance has been a routine aspect of daily life. But in recent years, frustration with the military’s role in politics has exploded, leaving many unable to bear the military’s constant eyes and ears.
“The political climate has become so polarized that there are growing doubts about who is being watched and who is being listened to,” said Ali Abbas, 25, sitting outside a tea shop with his friend Amal, 26, late one afternoon. He said.
“The situation is getting worse these days,” Amal said, referring to the surveillance situation. Amal, who preferred to use his first name for fear of retaliation, took a slow drag from the cigarette, fiddling with the pack in her other hand.
“People are becoming more and more frustrated with all this,” Mr. Abas said. “Is it safe to be in my house? Is anyone watching us right now? Are there people walking around our streets watching us? “There are too many.”
On the other side of Islamabad, Mustaq Ahmed, 53, stood on the grass median of a busy intersection. His jeans jacket, canvas pants, cane, and hat were all spray-painted gold. There was gold makeup on his face and hands and smeared on his bright green, blue and purple sunglasses.
Mr. Ahmed calls himself Islamabad’s Golden Thakur, after the famous Pakistani actor and comedian known as Iftikhar Thakur, with whom he bears a slight resemblance. Each Golden Man has a different repertoire of poses and each has a unique name, he explained. His favorite thing to do was to stretch his left heel and cane into a precarious leaning position. He calls this “London style.”
Mr Ahmed once sold umbrellas on the side of the road, but became a golden Thakur three years ago, saying he earned up to 8,000 Pakistani rupees (about $30) a day from the head of another golden man. It was more than five times more than what Mr. Ahmed took home.
Recently, as the novelty of the Golden Man has waned, so has its cash, he said. When asked if he would consider supplementing his income with a bit of a side job in the intelligence community, he immediately responded, “No, no.”
What other golden men in town were likely to make a few extra bucks that way? He paused for a moment and moved his wand between his hands.
“Maybe.” He said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s Pakistan.”
Zia ur-Rehman contributed to the report.
