The Taliban-led opposition to the occupation continues to grow, though little has changed in the Taliban's vision of the future, which is as bleak as its past for Graham Usher, who interviews a more fortunate comrade of Dadullah in Hawed, Pakistan They emerge on the back of a pick-up truck from the shores of a sunken river. Six young men in black turbans, thick black beards and guns strapped to their shoulders, hips and chest. They are Taliban, or religious seminary students, but we are not in Afghanistan. We are in Hawed, a Pakistani village near the Afghan border. We are here to meet Qari Safraz, the local Taliban commander. In a rare gesture, he has agreed to speak with Western journalists. He is a Pakistani but fought in Afghanistan, "both against the Russian occupying forces (between 1979-89) and alongside the Taliban, against their enemies," he says. He is coy about whether these included NATO and the Pakistan army. But he sees no contradiction between the Pakistani and Afghan Taliban. "We are active in Pakistan. The Afghan Taliban is active in Afghanistan. But we have the same world-view. We support the Taliban's cause in Afghanistan and its struggle against foreign occupation. We also see the United States as the enemy of Muslims. But in Pakistan we are a peaceful Taliban. We were sent here [to Hawed] because we are needed here. Things were happening here that were un- Islamic." To correct them, Safraz and his men have imposed their own brand of rule. In nearby towns, stores have been firebombed for selling Western DVDs and other "immoral" material. Three Pakistanis were killed in a neighbouring village because of "vice". And the Taliban has banned music throughout the district, including at weddings, in the teeth of tribal tradition. For a movement that prides itself on having local support, aren't such decrees counterproductive? "Yes the ban on the music has annoyed some people," says Safraz. "But the important thing is not to annoy Allah. Allah tells us to stop un-Islamic things. And music is un-Islamic". But should this not be the job of Pakistan to decide, a self-proclaimed Islamic state? Safraz sighs: "We have waited 55 years for the introduction of Islamic law in Pakistan. But the state and the police have done nothing. You see, being a Muslim doesn't just mean reading the Quran. It means preventing things that are visibly un-Islamic. That is what we are trying to do. We may not be able to do it throughout the whole country, to bring a Taliban regime or Islamic government in Pakistan. But we are conveying a message -- that there must be an end to un-Islamic activities in an Islamic state". Isfan Khan agrees that the task of the Taliban in Pakistan is not so much to overthrow the regime as implement Islamic laws in a state that has failed to do so. Isfan is a Taliban commander in Bannu, a market town close to Hawed. We meet in a madrassa, beside a dreary industrial estate. Unlike Safraz, Isfan carries no gun, though a Kalashnikov is propped up against the wall. He is also nervous. During our conversation, he picks away at the arm of his sofa, as if trying to undo the knot of his life. "I was a doctor, but now I've become a soldier," he says. "When I returned to Bannu, crime was everywhere and the police were sleeping. If criminals were caught, they paid bribes and got released. Our way, the Taliban's way, is different. We punish all wrongdoers -- no matter how high or powerful -- according to the Quran. I do not judge. I leave that to our muftis on the basis of the Quran and hadith [sayings of the Prophet Mohamed]. But I implement their verdicts. Now 80 per cent of Bannu is clean." It seems an odd fate for a doctor. Isfan pulls more threads from the sofa. "I was a doctor in Mazer Sharif in Afghanistan. I worked for the Taliban government but I treated everybody, including the Northern Alliance (NA), the enemies of the Taliban. When Afghanistan was occupied in 2001, the NA sold me to the US for $20,000. I spent three years in Guantanamo Bay and one year in a Pakistani prison. Last year I returned to Kabul, in search of my wife and son, who are Afghans. I was re-arrested by the police. I had to bribe them $2,250 to get out of the country". Isfan picks the threads bare and for the first time looks into my eyes. "You ask me whether my leader is (Pakistan President Pervez) Musharraf or (Afghan Taliban leader) Mullah Omar. I will tell you: if Musharraf kills my Taliban brothers in Afghanistan and Pakistan, then I, personally, am ready to kill him." Back in Hawed, Safraz invites us for lunch, an act of local hospitality that not even the Taliban can change. "It's ok," he says. "You are perfectly safe. We control things here, not the police." We decline and return to our car, hounded by a gang of boys awestruck by their local mujahideen and the lengths that Western journalists will go to, in order to interview them. Safraz clears our way with a martial wave of the arm. The boys obey, of course. "We think they're great," says one. "We support everything they do."
