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Mission Unfinished
In the twilight of America's decade-long, multibillion-dollar intervention, Afghanistan remains highly unstable, the Pakistanis trust us less than ever, and it is not at all clear how "the big things are going to turn out."
By JILL ABRAMSON Published: September 8, 2011
In Afghanistan's magnificent Panjshir Valley, there is an eerie memorial to a pre-9/11 world.
It is the tomb of Ahmed Shah Massoud, the fallen leader of the Northern Alliance and passionate foe of the Taliban, who was assassinated in Afghanistan two days before the Sept. 11 attacks. His killing, intelligence analysts have come to realize, should have been seen as a warning bell for the carefully planned attacks in the United States. Mr. Massoud was struck by two suspected Al Qaeda suicide bombers posing as journalists in a killing directly ordered by Osama bin Laden.
The tomb is surrounded by jagged mountains that have made Afghanistan such an impregnable fortress to those who have come to fight there, including the United States for the past decade. The building with Mr. Massoud's grave has been finished, but a planned library and grand exhibit hall are still unbuilt. Only a few mourners pass through the ghostly footprints of the future construction.
The half-built martyr's tomb is symbolic of the unfinished business of 9/11.
Ten years ago, as Washington bureau chief of The New York Times, after sending out the most stories Washington had ever supplied for the next day's news report, I remember driving home about 3 a.m. on Sept. 12. I saw part of the Pentagon still in flames. Flags flew in front of just about every house in the neighborhood, including mine.
We were soon a nation at war, virtually united in resolve to strike Al Qaeda and the Taliban in their Afghan havens and to hunt down Bin Laden. The initial invasion of Afghanistan seemed swift and victorious, but has turned into the longest conflict for American troops in history. The nation has sent tens of thousands of troops to Afghanistan, more than 1,600 of whom were killed. It has sent $51.8 billion in civilian and military aid to Afghanistan, in hope of building a stable ally in one of the world's most unstable regions. It sent $20.7 billion to neighboring Pakistan, a hideout of Al Qaeda, haven for the Taliban and breeding ground of insurgents, and yet an official ally made more crucial because of its nuclear arsenal.
The last decade redefined our understanding of what modern warfare is, and our notion of shadowy enemies and inconstant allies. As a nation, we grieved for the 3,000 people who were lost on 9/11, but we have not really done the same for the thousands more people — including NATO soldiers and Afghan citizens — who have died in the 10 years since.
For as much as it occupies the news, Afghanistan is still a far-off and mysterious place to most Americans. Relatively few civilians have seen firsthand what came out of our commitments in the region — harried diplomats, journalists and aid workers risking life and limb. As a senior editor at this newspaper, in Washington and then in New York since shortly after the United States invasion of Iraq, I have helped lead coverage of our military and counterterrorism operations over the last decade. But that was from afar. This summer, accompanied by colleagues in the field and sometimes unwanted official escorts, I visited Afghanistan and Pakistan. The journey made visceral the fact that the United States has not achieved the ending envisioned a decade ago.
Senior American civilian and military officials interviewed in the region, as well as representatives of NATO allies, often described their outlook with the same two words: "cautiously optimistic." They cited real progress to justify the optimism: the killing of Bin Laden; the ousting of the Taliban from power in Afghanistan and the establishment of a civilian government; the degrading of Al Qaeda, including the recent, successful drone attacks on its leaders; the building of schools and the inclusion of female students; and the military successes of the surge. All praised the dogged patriotism of American troops in accomplishing this progress.
The officials have equal cause for caution. The Taliban have regained a foothold and, in some places more than that. Deadly attacks by insurgents continue to make life in Afghanistan and Pakistan deeply unstable. Endemic corruption inside the governments of both countries make them inconstant allies, and both the drone program and the attack in Abbottabad have greatly heightened tensions with Pakistan and increased uncertainty over its nuclear weapons.
Attacks on schools and women are still part of life here. Domestic support for the war has waned, while there is exhaustion among troops who have been deployed many times. In this region, no one predicted there would be anything close to a "mission accomplished" moment.
As he prepared to leave Afghanistan after nearly a decade there as a NATO official and United States ambassador, Lt. Gen. Karl W. Eikenberry said that his biggest regret was not being around to see how "the big things are going to turn out." Despite the killing of Bin Laden in May, 9/11 has no denouement — for the United States and its troops or for the people of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Here are scenes from an unfinished history.
Trying to Build Durability
The welcome sign at the base in Paktika, a province in violent eastern Afghanistan, still telegraphs American military bravado: "Ass Kicking Able Guts and Glory."
But on a Black Hawk helicopter tour of Paktika and Ghazni and Bagram Air Base, Lt. Gen. David M. Rodriguez, the No. 2 commanding general in Afghanistan, seemed more reflective than swaggering. Like his boss, David H. Petraeus, General Rodriguez, too, was making his exit. The five-hour tour gave him time for final military intelligence briefings, emotional goodbyes from his soldiers and a last chance to view Afghanistan's ancient contours from the sky.
To be heard above the roar inside the Black Hawk, the general talked into a microphone as we listened on headphones. "We have to figure out how to build durability," he said, a task he viewed as doable.
In Paktika, the general inspected a checkpoint being built to disrupt a major Taliban supply route. Construction, supervised by the United States military, was moving rapidly. But one Army officer worried that when the checkpoint was finished and turned over to the Afghan soldiers, "I don't think they are going to stay here and man it 24 hours a day. They miss their families, their children, their religion."
By 2014, President Obama says, Afghans should be ready to protect their own country. That leaves little time for building durability.
A Nervous Warlord
Muhammad Mohaqeq is a powerful man in Kabul, a member of Parliament and former warlord representing a number of the 2.5-million-strong Hazara minority in Afghanistan. A bearded, fierce warrior who began fighting the Soviets in 1979, he became a leading fighter against the Taliban in northern Afghanistan.
He lives in a spacious, well-fortified house, guarded by a substantial security force. If anyone should feel safe in Kabul these days, one might assume it would be this warlord. But a visit to Mr. Mohaqeq involved a veritable labyrinth of security measures. Journalists were patted down and their equipment was searched. A bottle of allergy pills in a colleague's purse was sniffed to make sure the pills did not contain explosives.
Mr. Mohaqeq is nervous about many things, especially talk of a United States withdrawal and the weakness of President Hamid Karzai, both of which he believes could let the Taliban return to power. In 2010, Mr. Mohaqeq broke with Mr. Karzai over his policy of appeasement toward the Taliban.
"The Taliban are coming back," Mr. Mohaqeq warned, voicing a pessimism shared by other Afghan leaders. "They have deeply infiltrated the Afghan forces, the police and the army. Security is getting worse as the Taliban are getting stronger. If the international community goes away and the Taliban returns, our country will face another civil war and crisis. In the last 10 years, the international community has spent billions, but we did not see the progress we hoped for."
Gains Hard Won Seem Precarious
The sound of their voices was unforgettable — the soft, high voices of girls — and yet some were surrounded by children of their own, and the stories of their journeys to this secret place were chilling.
We were at a women's shelter in Kabul, about 30 women and two Western journalists. As they told of being forced to marry men much older, of being beaten and raped, then finally, of their escape, some wiped back tears. They were asked their ages, and the most common replies were "15" or "16."
A major success of the last decade has been the gains in girls' education and more people around the world embracing the cause of Afghan women generally. Around 5,000 Afghan girls were enrolled in school in 2001. Now there are 2.4 million. Women for Afghan Women, which operates the Kabul shelter and others in Afghanistan, is one of many nonprofits that have attracted considerable financial support from the West. Billions of dollars have been donated to rebuild the education system. But even in recent years, schoolgirls have been targeted by antigovernment forces and extremists, prompting teachers to quit and parents to keep their children out of the classroom.
There is worry that the West is losing interest in the plight of Afghan women, as the focus shifts to troop drawdowns. "I am very concerned that our centers will be closed if the U.S. leaves," said Manizha Naderi, the executive director of Women for Afghan Women.
The Kabul shelter where we met once housed Bibi Aisha, the young woman whose nose had been cut off and who appeared on the cover of Time magazine last year under the headline "What Happens if We Leave Afghanistan." On this visit, a young woman lifted her scarf to show a bald spot where she said her mother-in-law had repeatedly beaten her with a wooden mallet. Another told of running away from a much older brother-in-law who insisted she marry him when she turned 14. "He bothered me for more than four months," she said in a quivering voice. Every woman who runs away in Afghanistan risks arrest for adultery and harsh penalties, even death.
Ms. Naderi, herself six months pregnant, hoped to open two more shelters this year. A 10th-anniversary celebration of her organization in New York might also attract fresh financing. But generating fresh passion for her cause has become harder. Meanwhile, the women in her shelter continue to dream the dreams that are common to girls around the world. When asked what they hoped to become after they left the shelter, "teacher" and "doctor" were among the more popular answers.
Uneasy Allies
Our hotel in Karachi, Pakistan, stood across from the Village Restaurant, where Daniel Pearl, my friend and Wall Street Journal colleague, was kidnapped in 2002. Mr. Pearl's murder was one of the first terrorism-related deaths of a journalist. The looming exterior of the Village, the fact that our hotel had five security checks before the main entrance, and the constant lobby presence of snoops from the Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence made our time in Karachi seem nefarious.
For in the wake of the raid on the Bin Laden compound in Abbottabad, relations between the United States and Pakistan have reached a nadir, with American officials openly questioning whether the Pakistanis have ever been, or can ever be trusted to be, real allies against terrorism. The 2011 Pew Global Attitudes Project found that 12 percent of Pakistanis surveyed had a favorable view of Americans, a low for the decade. Just about everywhere we went in Karachi, and sometimes in the rest of Pakistan, I.S.I. spies followed us. One Pakistani assured us that this was for our protection, but given that intelligence service's recent focus on journalists, it didn't feel that way.
At a dinner in Islamabad hosted by Pakistan's ministry of information, several Pakistani journalists accused their visitors from The Times of being mouthpieces and even spies for the United States government.
Distrust was not always so prevalent. Jamal Yusuf, one of two Pakistani investigators in the Pearl case I met with in Karachi, remembers "there was a lot of sympathy and awareness" at the time of the murder, so soon after 9/11.
But since then, Mr. Yusuf, and his associate, Dost Ali Khan, said they have suffered setbacks for their efforts to exact justice in the case. Because he had worked closely with the F.B.I. on the Pearl case, Mr. Yusuf came under suspicion within the Pakistani police and intelligence service, and in 2003 he was abruptly dismissed from his post in charge of the Citizen-Police Liaison Committee. Mr. Dost, too, saw his career ruined.
Both men mused about how many strands of the case remain unresolved. Ahmed Omar Saeed Sheikh, a British national of Pakistani origin, plotted the kidnapping and was sentenced to death in 2002. But both Mr. Yusuf and Mr. Dost believe he will walk out a free man, in still another piece of unfinished 9/11 business.
"Omar is the most safe person in the world," Mr. Yusuf said.
Practicing journalism has become very dangerous in Pakistan, for foreigners but more so for independent-minded Pakistani reporters. Umar Cheema, an investigative reporter for The News in Islamabad, has questioned the conduct and performance of the army and the intelligence services and detailed accusations of corruption against President Asif Ali Zardari. He had been a Daniel Pearl fellow at The New York Times for several months, and I was excited to see him in his own country.
Arranging this was not easy. Last year, men in black commando garb stopped Mr. Cheema's car, blindfolded him and drove him out of town, where he was beaten and videotaped in humiliating positions. Six hours later, he was dumped on a road 100 miles from Islamabad.
Mr. Cheema believes the I.S.I. was behind his abduction, in part because the intelligence service had warned him about his coverage shortly before it happened. We were able to meet at a colleague's guest house in Islamabad, but Mr. Cheema needed to leave long before dark, as he did not want to risk another ominous roadside episode. He told me he knows he's taken chances by speaking in public about his ordeal, but continues to report.
Final Justice?
Just how outraged some Pakistanis are by the killing of Bin Laden in their territory came through in snatches of conversation. Some people used the same tone when they referred to "the 2 of May" as Americans did when they said "9/11."
Driving the three hours to Abbottabad from Islamabad can be risky now, as outside visitors are no longer allowed near the compound where Bin Laden lived and died. Journalists had been detained on their way there in recent days. But we wanted to see the compound with our own eyes, believing it to be an important symbol of the past 10 years of struggle.
From the roadside a few hundred feet away, the compound looked rather unremarkable. It is simply a concrete building with a wall sitting in the middle of a dusty cabbage field. It was not that much larger than other houses in the area and certainly did not look like the multimillion-dollar "mansion" that some American journalists breathlessly described. It did not look like a powerful symbol of 9/11 finality.
Our driver made an upsetting, but possibly true, observation. "The dangerous trend in Pakistan," he said, "is that there is far more hate for America now than there was ever love of Osama."
Nytimes
In the twilight of America's decade-long, multibillion-dollar intervention, Afghanistan remains highly unstable, the Pakistanis trust us less than ever, and it is not at all clear how "the big things are going to turn out."
By JILL ABRAMSON Published: September 8, 2011
In Afghanistan's magnificent Panjshir Valley, there is an eerie memorial to a pre-9/11 world.
It is the tomb of Ahmed Shah Massoud, the fallen leader of the Northern Alliance and passionate foe of the Taliban, who was assassinated in Afghanistan two days before the Sept. 11 attacks. His killing, intelligence analysts have come to realize, should have been seen as a warning bell for the carefully planned attacks in the United States. Mr. Massoud was struck by two suspected Al Qaeda suicide bombers posing as journalists in a killing directly ordered by Osama bin Laden.
The tomb is surrounded by jagged mountains that have made Afghanistan such an impregnable fortress to those who have come to fight there, including the United States for the past decade. The building with Mr. Massoud's grave has been finished, but a planned library and grand exhibit hall are still unbuilt. Only a few mourners pass through the ghostly footprints of the future construction.
The half-built martyr's tomb is symbolic of the unfinished business of 9/11.
Ten years ago, as Washington bureau chief of The New York Times, after sending out the most stories Washington had ever supplied for the next day's news report, I remember driving home about 3 a.m. on Sept. 12. I saw part of the Pentagon still in flames. Flags flew in front of just about every house in the neighborhood, including mine.
We were soon a nation at war, virtually united in resolve to strike Al Qaeda and the Taliban in their Afghan havens and to hunt down Bin Laden. The initial invasion of Afghanistan seemed swift and victorious, but has turned into the longest conflict for American troops in history. The nation has sent tens of thousands of troops to Afghanistan, more than 1,600 of whom were killed. It has sent $51.8 billion in civilian and military aid to Afghanistan, in hope of building a stable ally in one of the world's most unstable regions. It sent $20.7 billion to neighboring Pakistan, a hideout of Al Qaeda, haven for the Taliban and breeding ground of insurgents, and yet an official ally made more crucial because of its nuclear arsenal.
The last decade redefined our understanding of what modern warfare is, and our notion of shadowy enemies and inconstant allies. As a nation, we grieved for the 3,000 people who were lost on 9/11, but we have not really done the same for the thousands more people — including NATO soldiers and Afghan citizens — who have died in the 10 years since.
For as much as it occupies the news, Afghanistan is still a far-off and mysterious place to most Americans. Relatively few civilians have seen firsthand what came out of our commitments in the region — harried diplomats, journalists and aid workers risking life and limb. As a senior editor at this newspaper, in Washington and then in New York since shortly after the United States invasion of Iraq, I have helped lead coverage of our military and counterterrorism operations over the last decade. But that was from afar. This summer, accompanied by colleagues in the field and sometimes unwanted official escorts, I visited Afghanistan and Pakistan. The journey made visceral the fact that the United States has not achieved the ending envisioned a decade ago.
Senior American civilian and military officials interviewed in the region, as well as representatives of NATO allies, often described their outlook with the same two words: "cautiously optimistic." They cited real progress to justify the optimism: the killing of Bin Laden; the ousting of the Taliban from power in Afghanistan and the establishment of a civilian government; the degrading of Al Qaeda, including the recent, successful drone attacks on its leaders; the building of schools and the inclusion of female students; and the military successes of the surge. All praised the dogged patriotism of American troops in accomplishing this progress.
The officials have equal cause for caution. The Taliban have regained a foothold and, in some places more than that. Deadly attacks by insurgents continue to make life in Afghanistan and Pakistan deeply unstable. Endemic corruption inside the governments of both countries make them inconstant allies, and both the drone program and the attack in Abbottabad have greatly heightened tensions with Pakistan and increased uncertainty over its nuclear weapons.
Attacks on schools and women are still part of life here. Domestic support for the war has waned, while there is exhaustion among troops who have been deployed many times. In this region, no one predicted there would be anything close to a "mission accomplished" moment.
As he prepared to leave Afghanistan after nearly a decade there as a NATO official and United States ambassador, Lt. Gen. Karl W. Eikenberry said that his biggest regret was not being around to see how "the big things are going to turn out." Despite the killing of Bin Laden in May, 9/11 has no denouement — for the United States and its troops or for the people of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Here are scenes from an unfinished history.
Trying to Build Durability
The welcome sign at the base in Paktika, a province in violent eastern Afghanistan, still telegraphs American military bravado: "Ass Kicking Able Guts and Glory."
But on a Black Hawk helicopter tour of Paktika and Ghazni and Bagram Air Base, Lt. Gen. David M. Rodriguez, the No. 2 commanding general in Afghanistan, seemed more reflective than swaggering. Like his boss, David H. Petraeus, General Rodriguez, too, was making his exit. The five-hour tour gave him time for final military intelligence briefings, emotional goodbyes from his soldiers and a last chance to view Afghanistan's ancient contours from the sky.
To be heard above the roar inside the Black Hawk, the general talked into a microphone as we listened on headphones. "We have to figure out how to build durability," he said, a task he viewed as doable.
In Paktika, the general inspected a checkpoint being built to disrupt a major Taliban supply route. Construction, supervised by the United States military, was moving rapidly. But one Army officer worried that when the checkpoint was finished and turned over to the Afghan soldiers, "I don't think they are going to stay here and man it 24 hours a day. They miss their families, their children, their religion."
By 2014, President Obama says, Afghans should be ready to protect their own country. That leaves little time for building durability.
A Nervous Warlord
Muhammad Mohaqeq is a powerful man in Kabul, a member of Parliament and former warlord representing a number of the 2.5-million-strong Hazara minority in Afghanistan. A bearded, fierce warrior who began fighting the Soviets in 1979, he became a leading fighter against the Taliban in northern Afghanistan.
He lives in a spacious, well-fortified house, guarded by a substantial security force. If anyone should feel safe in Kabul these days, one might assume it would be this warlord. But a visit to Mr. Mohaqeq involved a veritable labyrinth of security measures. Journalists were patted down and their equipment was searched. A bottle of allergy pills in a colleague's purse was sniffed to make sure the pills did not contain explosives.
Mr. Mohaqeq is nervous about many things, especially talk of a United States withdrawal and the weakness of President Hamid Karzai, both of which he believes could let the Taliban return to power. In 2010, Mr. Mohaqeq broke with Mr. Karzai over his policy of appeasement toward the Taliban.
"The Taliban are coming back," Mr. Mohaqeq warned, voicing a pessimism shared by other Afghan leaders. "They have deeply infiltrated the Afghan forces, the police and the army. Security is getting worse as the Taliban are getting stronger. If the international community goes away and the Taliban returns, our country will face another civil war and crisis. In the last 10 years, the international community has spent billions, but we did not see the progress we hoped for."
Gains Hard Won Seem Precarious
The sound of their voices was unforgettable — the soft, high voices of girls — and yet some were surrounded by children of their own, and the stories of their journeys to this secret place were chilling.
We were at a women's shelter in Kabul, about 30 women and two Western journalists. As they told of being forced to marry men much older, of being beaten and raped, then finally, of their escape, some wiped back tears. They were asked their ages, and the most common replies were "15" or "16."
A major success of the last decade has been the gains in girls' education and more people around the world embracing the cause of Afghan women generally. Around 5,000 Afghan girls were enrolled in school in 2001. Now there are 2.4 million. Women for Afghan Women, which operates the Kabul shelter and others in Afghanistan, is one of many nonprofits that have attracted considerable financial support from the West. Billions of dollars have been donated to rebuild the education system. But even in recent years, schoolgirls have been targeted by antigovernment forces and extremists, prompting teachers to quit and parents to keep their children out of the classroom.
There is worry that the West is losing interest in the plight of Afghan women, as the focus shifts to troop drawdowns. "I am very concerned that our centers will be closed if the U.S. leaves," said Manizha Naderi, the executive director of Women for Afghan Women.
The Kabul shelter where we met once housed Bibi Aisha, the young woman whose nose had been cut off and who appeared on the cover of Time magazine last year under the headline "What Happens if We Leave Afghanistan." On this visit, a young woman lifted her scarf to show a bald spot where she said her mother-in-law had repeatedly beaten her with a wooden mallet. Another told of running away from a much older brother-in-law who insisted she marry him when she turned 14. "He bothered me for more than four months," she said in a quivering voice. Every woman who runs away in Afghanistan risks arrest for adultery and harsh penalties, even death.
Ms. Naderi, herself six months pregnant, hoped to open two more shelters this year. A 10th-anniversary celebration of her organization in New York might also attract fresh financing. But generating fresh passion for her cause has become harder. Meanwhile, the women in her shelter continue to dream the dreams that are common to girls around the world. When asked what they hoped to become after they left the shelter, "teacher" and "doctor" were among the more popular answers.
Uneasy Allies
Our hotel in Karachi, Pakistan, stood across from the Village Restaurant, where Daniel Pearl, my friend and Wall Street Journal colleague, was kidnapped in 2002. Mr. Pearl's murder was one of the first terrorism-related deaths of a journalist. The looming exterior of the Village, the fact that our hotel had five security checks before the main entrance, and the constant lobby presence of snoops from the Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence made our time in Karachi seem nefarious.
For in the wake of the raid on the Bin Laden compound in Abbottabad, relations between the United States and Pakistan have reached a nadir, with American officials openly questioning whether the Pakistanis have ever been, or can ever be trusted to be, real allies against terrorism. The 2011 Pew Global Attitudes Project found that 12 percent of Pakistanis surveyed had a favorable view of Americans, a low for the decade. Just about everywhere we went in Karachi, and sometimes in the rest of Pakistan, I.S.I. spies followed us. One Pakistani assured us that this was for our protection, but given that intelligence service's recent focus on journalists, it didn't feel that way.
At a dinner in Islamabad hosted by Pakistan's ministry of information, several Pakistani journalists accused their visitors from The Times of being mouthpieces and even spies for the United States government.
Distrust was not always so prevalent. Jamal Yusuf, one of two Pakistani investigators in the Pearl case I met with in Karachi, remembers "there was a lot of sympathy and awareness" at the time of the murder, so soon after 9/11.
But since then, Mr. Yusuf, and his associate, Dost Ali Khan, said they have suffered setbacks for their efforts to exact justice in the case. Because he had worked closely with the F.B.I. on the Pearl case, Mr. Yusuf came under suspicion within the Pakistani police and intelligence service, and in 2003 he was abruptly dismissed from his post in charge of the Citizen-Police Liaison Committee. Mr. Dost, too, saw his career ruined.
Both men mused about how many strands of the case remain unresolved. Ahmed Omar Saeed Sheikh, a British national of Pakistani origin, plotted the kidnapping and was sentenced to death in 2002. But both Mr. Yusuf and Mr. Dost believe he will walk out a free man, in still another piece of unfinished 9/11 business.
"Omar is the most safe person in the world," Mr. Yusuf said.
Practicing journalism has become very dangerous in Pakistan, for foreigners but more so for independent-minded Pakistani reporters. Umar Cheema, an investigative reporter for The News in Islamabad, has questioned the conduct and performance of the army and the intelligence services and detailed accusations of corruption against President Asif Ali Zardari. He had been a Daniel Pearl fellow at The New York Times for several months, and I was excited to see him in his own country.
Arranging this was not easy. Last year, men in black commando garb stopped Mr. Cheema's car, blindfolded him and drove him out of town, where he was beaten and videotaped in humiliating positions. Six hours later, he was dumped on a road 100 miles from Islamabad.
Mr. Cheema believes the I.S.I. was behind his abduction, in part because the intelligence service had warned him about his coverage shortly before it happened. We were able to meet at a colleague's guest house in Islamabad, but Mr. Cheema needed to leave long before dark, as he did not want to risk another ominous roadside episode. He told me he knows he's taken chances by speaking in public about his ordeal, but continues to report.
Final Justice?
Just how outraged some Pakistanis are by the killing of Bin Laden in their territory came through in snatches of conversation. Some people used the same tone when they referred to "the 2 of May" as Americans did when they said "9/11."
Driving the three hours to Abbottabad from Islamabad can be risky now, as outside visitors are no longer allowed near the compound where Bin Laden lived and died. Journalists had been detained on their way there in recent days. But we wanted to see the compound with our own eyes, believing it to be an important symbol of the past 10 years of struggle.
From the roadside a few hundred feet away, the compound looked rather unremarkable. It is simply a concrete building with a wall sitting in the middle of a dusty cabbage field. It was not that much larger than other houses in the area and certainly did not look like the multimillion-dollar "mansion" that some American journalists breathlessly described. It did not look like a powerful symbol of 9/11 finality.
Our driver made an upsetting, but possibly true, observation. "The dangerous trend in Pakistan," he said, "is that there is far more hate for America now than there was ever love of Osama."
Nytimes
