The Shah of Pakistan

General Pervez Musharraf is a busy man. He is preparing for 2007, when, if all goes well for him, elections will extend his seven-year quasi-military rule for a further five. He doesn't want to stay president because he's power-hungry; it's just that no one else can reform Pakistan. Who else can keep fanatical Islamic radicals at bay while making the economy soar? "Democratic dictatorship," he says, is what the country needs.

This narrative has sold well in the US, where Musharraf's recent book tour—complete with an entourage of 70—was a roaring success. His memoir has already attracted a huge readership, but it is not an edifying piece of literature. We learn that the "precocious" young Musharraf turned into a valiant commando who "should have received two awards for gallantry," not one. He declares that, as an officer, "my seniors recognised me as an exceptional leader," while "I have always been loved by those under my command."

The general is mindful of where power lies. This is perhaps why he published his memoir in the US—which, as he reveals here, had threatened to bomb Pakistan "back to the stone age" if it did not co-operate after 9/11. When asked about this at a press conference with President Bush, he said that he was under contract not to reveal the contents of his book prematurely. In effect, Musharraf attached more value to the demands of his publisher than to those of the state of 160m people of which he is head. This episode notwithstanding, his outpourings of loyalty to the US once again earned him praise from Bush as a "strong defender of freedom." Bush made no demand for democratic rule in Pakistan.

No one expected otherwise. Squeamishness about military rule in Pakistan has rarely troubled the US. Musharraf is the fourth general in 40 years to seize power. In 1965 the staunchly anti-communist Ayub Khan brought to his nation the dubious distinction of being, in John Foster Dulles's words, America's "most allied ally." Then, in 1971, Richard Nixon rallied to the defence of General Yahya Khan, who had led the country into a catastrophic civil war. But it was the coup of 1977 by General Zia ul-Haq which was to have the most profound influence. Zia brought a messianic zeal to the redefinition of Pakistan as an Islamic state. Initially, the US was unenthusiastic, but after the Soviets walked into Afghanistan in 1979, Zia ul-Haq's stock rose.

For Musharraf, the break came on 11th September 2001. In a matter of hours, he switched roles from promoter of jihad in Kashmir and Afghanistan to America's prime bounty hunter. He records that, "we have done more than any other country to capture and kill members of al Qaeda, and to destroy its infrastructure in our cities and mountains." This may be true, but it ignores the fact that no other country had done more to establish this infrastructure.

Success in tracking down the leaders of al Qaeda and the Taliban has not been matched by success as a social reformer. In 2004, Musharraf introduced the phrase "enlightened moderation," advertising it as a radical change. No longer would his country function as a medieval theocratic state. But seven years after the coup, there is more continuity than change and it is hard to see how his policies can stem the tide of religious radicalism. Like many of its predecessors, Musharraf's regime has a single agenda—to stay in power. As a result, Pakistan slips further away from modern values or rooted democratic institutions.

Musharraf's dependence upon the west requires his regime to be perceived abroad as a liberal state pitted against radical Islamists. But in reality, to preserve its grip on power, it must maintain the status quo. Staged conflicts between Musharraf and the mullahs are therefore a regular part of Pakistani politics. In 2000, Musharraf announced a new procedure making it harder to register cases under the blasphemy law. This offence, for which the maximum penalty is death, has often been used by the mullahs to harass opponents. Musharraf's modified procedure would have been a modest improvement. But weeks after announcing it, he backed down, justifying his decision on the grounds that it was the "unanimous demand of the ulema [Islamic scholars]… and the people." A similar volte-face occurred in 2004, when Musharraf declared that passport-holders would no longer have to specify their religion, only to reverse the decision after Islamic parties denounced it as a plan to secularise Pakistan.

But even these climbdowns are less dramatic than the recent retreat over reforming the hudood ordinance, a grotesque imposition of General Zia ul-Haq's government. Enacted in 1979, it was conceived as part of a more comprehensive plan to convert Pakistan into a theocracy governed by sharia laws. Musharraf and his prime minister, former Citibank executive Shaukat Aziz, proposed amending the hudood ordinance and in early September sent a draft for parliamentary discussion. As expected, it outraged the fundamentalists of the MMA, the main Islamic parliamentary opposition. The government cowered and withdrew. So much for Musharraf's claim that "we have set into motion an irreversible process towards the emancipation of women."

While generally deferential to the mullahs, Musharraf has been prepared to use the iron fist elsewhere. The examples of Waziristan and Balochistan stand out. In 2002, presumably acting on Washington's instructions, the Pakistan army established military bases in the northwest region of South Waziristan, which had become a refuge for Taliban and al Qaeda fighters fleeing Afghanistan. Despite unleashing artillery and US-supplied Cobra gunships, the army encountered fierce resistance, which Musharraf's generals ascribed to "a few hundred foreign militants and terrorists." In reality, they were taking heavy losses (as suggested by their refusal to reveal casualty figures) and morale soon collapsed. In 2004, the army was forced to make peace with the militants, conceding South Waziristan to them. By now, however, the fighting had spread to North Waziristan, where a similar "peace treaty" was signed in September 2006. As a result of this disastrous campaign, the whole of Waziristan is now firmly in the grip of the Pakistani Taliban. The locals pay taxes not to the Pakistani government but to the Taliban administration, which has closed girls' schools and is enforcing harsh sharia laws.

Then there is Balochistan, in west Pakistan. Eight years ago, there was no visible separatist movement in this region, which makes up nearly 44 per cent of Pakistan's land mass and is the repository of its gas and oil. Now there is a full-blown insurgency built upon Baloch grievances, most of which arise from a perception of being denied a fair share of their natural resources. The army has spurned negotiations. "They won't know what hit them," boasted Musharraf, after threatening to crush the insurgency. The crisis worsened in August when the charismatic 80-year-old Baloch chieftain Nawab Akbar Khan Bugti was killed by army bombs. Musharraf outraged the Baloch by calling it "a great victory." Reconciliation now seems a distant dream.

Pakistan's problems are multiplying. In 15 years, its population will exceed the US's. The economy fails to provide jobs and the inadequate education system contributes directly to the growth of madrassas promoting jihad. The attention of the international press mostly focuses on the media-savvy generalissimo who flits between being a respectable presence on the world stage and a destroyer of political opponents and a deal-maker with the mullahs at home.

Musharraf's memoir contains no hint that he will shed his uniform in the forthcoming elections. But when the current Shah of Pakistan exits, Pakistan may become another Iran—with a difference. With a population that is three times larger, a well-developed nuclear arsenal, highly organised independent jihadist groups, and a weak civil society, Pakistan is likely to be more dangerous than Iran for its own people and the world.