The street performers first appeared along busy intersections of Islamabad a few years ago. Covered from head to toe in striking gold paint, they stood completely still, leaning on gleaming walking sticks and popping open their top hats. Some smiled or nodded slowly as they received tips from passersby.
Perhaps in another place, the rise of mimes on the streets looking to make a few bucks might go unnoticed. But this is Pakistan, where things under the security state are often not as simple as they seem. So as the number of gold artists grew, so did the intrigue surrounding them. Could they be informants for the country’s intelligence service? Maybe spies for the CIA?
“If you see a beggar in any other country, it is clear that he is a beggar,” said Habib Kareem, 26, a lawyer in Islamabad, the capital. “But here you see a beggar and you think to yourself, ‘He works for them,’” he added, referring to Pakistan’s powerful intelligence services.
Today, Islamabad’s ‘golden men’ have joined the ranks of conspiracy theories that are sprouting, shot down and rekindled every day in the city. In Pakistan, where the hand of the security services is everywhere, conspiracy theories have been embraced into the mainstream for decades, sparking conversations among street vendors, politicians and everyone in between.
Distrust has become so universal that wild stories take root after almost every news event. In the aftermath of catastrophic flooding in 2010, people claimed they were caused by CIA weather control technology. Media experts claimed that an American “think tank” was behind a failed car bombing by a Pakistani American in Times Square that year, and that Osama bin Laden was actually Jewish. Others were convinced that the CIA staged the 2012 assassination of girls’ education activist Malala Yousafzai after a local newspaper ran a satirical “investigation” describing the plot in bizarre detail. (A disclaimer was later added, intended to poke fun at the country’s love of conspiracy theories, making it clear that this was fiction.)
Some trace Pakistan’s embrace of conspiratorial thinking to the Mughal emperors of the 16th and 17th centuries, whose rule consolidated Islam in South Asia and was full of palace intrigue. In more recent decades, fantastic ideas have emerged from the mythology that has built up around Pakistan’s military and its main intelligence agency, the seemingly all-seeing forces that direct the country’s politics from behind the scenes.
In such a climate, everyone – even street performers – can be seen as potential instruments of the state.
“Some of those guys are definitely from the agencies,” said Aqsa Batool, 24, who was sitting at an outdoor cafe with her friend Shiza Kajol, 23, on a cold spring evening in Islamabad. They leaned back from a red plastic table while holding cups of sweet, milky tea.
Spend enough time in the city, they explained, and you’ll develop a trained eye for spotting informants working for the primary spy agency, the Inter-Services Intelligence, or ISI, and other intelligence agencies.
They have certain characteristics: they all wear casual shirts and trousers, but have dress shoes. The cuffs of their shirts are always buttoned. Their clothing is stiff, as if well pressed. They often hold phones to their ears but don’t actually talk into them.
“Did you see the man who was just here?” Ms. Batool said by way of explanation. She was referring to a man who approached a table where I was sitting with friends a few minutes earlier. The man had a jacket draped over his head and mumbled about change before sitting down on a curb.
“Yes, yes, that guy! He had a completely different look,” Ms Kajol said.
“And he went straight to your table because you are a foreigner,” Ms. Batool added. Both agreed: he was definitely ISI
As for the golden men, the two young women were wary, but less sure. On the one hand, the street performers couldn’t really eavesdrop while standing at a busy intersection, they mused. On the other side, they could keep an eye on the passing cars.
“To be safe, I would have to see them doing something obvious like taking pictures of the cars with their phones,” Ms Batool said.
As with many conspiracy theories, the suspicions stemmed from kernels of truth.
Pakistan’s security services not so subtly allude to their enormous power to control politicians and others.
Political scandals arise from voice recordings or videos believed to have been captured through listening devices in people’s homes and then mysteriously leaked. Intelligence agents occasionally follow interesting people, sometimes openly (and occasionally even saying friendly hello from their cars). Drivers sometimes admit to being paid by the intelligence services.
People assume so widely that they are being watched that they speak in code, calling the military the “sacred cow” and the ISI “our friends,” in case intelligence agents are listening.
“There is a meta-narrative that our intelligence service is the best in the world, it is everywhere, it is always watching, whether you are inside or outside, there are eyes watching you,” explained Mr. Kareem, the lawyer, out. “It was deliberately built by the state itself.”
For most of Pakistan’s 76-year history, surveillance was a routine – if somewhat resented – part of daily life. But in recent years, frustration over the military’s role in politics has exploded, making the ever-present eyes and ears less bearable for many people.
“With the political atmosphere so polarized, we are becoming more and more suspicious of being watched or listening,” said Ali Abas, 25, who was sitting outside a tea stall late one afternoon with his friend Amal, 26.
“It’s getting worse these days,” Amal said, referring to the surveillance. Amal, who preferred to go by his first name for fear of retaliation, slowly took a drag on his cigarette while playing with a pack in his other hand.
“People are getting more and more frustrated with all of this,” Mr. Abas chimed in. ‘There is a feeling of: are we safe in our house? Is there anyone watching us right now? Is there someone walking down our street to keep an eye on us? It is too much.”
Across Islamabad, Mustaq Ahmed, 53, stood on the grassy median of a busy intersection. His denim jacket, canvas pants, walking stick and top hat were all spray-painted gold. There was gold makeup on his face and hands and on his bright green, blue and purple sunglasses.
Mr Ahmed calls himself the Golden Thakur of Islamabad, a nod to a famous Pakistani actor and comedian known as Iftikhar Thakur, whom he resembles – somewhat. Each golden man has a different repertoire of poses, each with its own name, he explained. His favorite was stretching his left heel and cane in a precarious leaning motion – what he calls “London style.”
Mr Ahmed once sold umbrellas on the side of the road, but became the Golden Thakur three years ago after hearing another golden man say he was making 8,000 Pakistani rupees – or almost $30 – every day. It was more than five times what Mr. Ahmed took home.
That money has dwindled lately as the novelty of the gold men has waned, he said. When asked if he would ever supplement his income with some side work for the intelligence services, he immediately replied: “No, no, no.”
Was there any chance the other gold men in town could make a few extra dollars that way? He paused and shifted his cane between his hands.
“Maybe,” he shrugged. “It’s Pakistan.”
THE GOLDEN MEN
– Mime artists from Islamabad have been added to the ranks of the conspiracy theories that are sprouting, knocked down and rekindled every day in the city
– Suspicion has become so universal that wild stories take root after almost every news event
– In the aftermath of catastrophic flooding in 2010, people claimed they were caused by CIA weather control technology
– Media experts claimed that an American ‘think tank’ was behind a failed car bombing by a Pakistani American in Times Square that year, and that Osama bin Laden was actually Jewish
©2024 The New York Times News Service