Pakistan’s Success Story

MINGORA , Pakistan—Hundreds of schools for girls sweep across the land where , in 2012 , 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai was shot by the Taliban .
This was the land where , under Taliban control between 2007 and 2009 , schools were destroyed and girls barred from education .
These days in Mingora , Malala ’ s hometown in Pakistan ’ s Swat Valley , few , if any , signs remain of the city ’ s grisly past .
The former militant stronghold is nestled at the base of the Hindu Kush mountains , equidistant from Pakistan ’ s capital @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Afghanistan .
Endless hotels and restaurants line its main arteries—a new building is under construction every few blocks .
Although international tourism is still rare , local travelers flock to what was once one of the most dangerous spots on the planet .
The Swat Valley is , in many ways , a success story in a country where success stories are rare .
Yet everybody here has a story of what it was like to live under the Taliban .
At checkpoints scattered across the city , residents were stopped and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to one over the summer who recalled armed men pulling him by the hair and demanding he cut his hair .
But it wasn ’ t just the streets outside that fell under scrutiny .
Another local told me about the time that militants , noticing the dish antenna on his roof , barged in and broke his TV .
In those days , the local population had three unappealing choices : comply , leave , or get killed .
A once bustling junction in Mingora became known as Khooni Chowk ( literally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ corpses of nonconformists , critics , and opponents would be found strung up—sometimes without their heads .
The shops surrounding Khooni Chowk were shuttered , their windows shattered , their walls pierced with bullet holes .
Today , the walls have been rebuilt , the glass replaced , and the scars plastered over .
Khooni Chowk , back to being called by its old name , Green Chowk , could be a junction in any one of Pakistan ’ s major cities .
The roads are choked with cars and motorcycles , slowed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ traffic policeman directs the four-sided onslaught .
The air is thick with blaring horns , conversation , smoke , and dust .
Shops crammed side by side sell everything from shawls to toys .
Street vendors swoop in to occupy whatever gaps exist between them .
A large billboard featuring a female model selling women ’ s clothing floats above .
Exploiting a weak judicial system , lack of development , neglect from the central government , and a religiously leaning population , Fazlullah was able to quickly amass influence over the radio @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with the United States in the global war on terrorism and preaching his twisted version of Islam , one that extolled jihad , confined women to the home , and forbade female education , polio vaccinations , and technology .
In December 2007 , when the Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan ( TTP ) —an umbrella organization of dozens of militant groups in Pakistan—was formed , Fazlullah was appointed the head of its Swat chapter .
On the banks of the river , he built a seminary , funded in part by jewelry donations from his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ By virtue of living mostly within the confines of their homes , women were the primary consumers of his radio sermons . )
His Friday khutbahs drew tens of thousands of listeners .
As the full extent of Fazlullah ’ s strict regime and brutality toward anyone who dared to oppose him became apparent—dancing , criticism , and even suspected insubordination were capital offenses—popular support for his movement waned .
But it wasn ’ t until a four-month operation in 2009 , the first major military action against the local Taliban post-9/11 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ regain control .
Fazlullah escaped to eastern Afghanistan , from where he continued to direct targeted assassinations of law enforcement , military officers , and local political leaders in Swat .
In 2014 , he even orchestrated a terrorist attack on an army-run school in Peshawar , killing 149 people , mostly children .
By then , his penchant for attacking children was well established ; two years prior , he ordered the attempted assassination of Malala because she championed education for girls , an attack that wounded two other students in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Shazia Ramzan .
I met Ramzan last summer .
At the height of the Taliban ’ s power , not only was she unable to go to school , but she couldn ’ t leave home without her face hidden behind a chador .
On the days that it was open , the school asked its students not to wear their usual uniforms and to hide their books under their scarves .
Like 2 million other residents , Ramzan , her parents , and her eight siblings left town during the military operation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ city , she returned to school .
But the threat continued to linger , and eventually , she was shot .
The daughter of a bakery owner , Ramzan had never considered activism .
She had always supported Malala but had never contemplated speaking up about a girl ’ s right to an education .
The monthlong hospital stay convinced her of the importance of schooling , and she resolved to complete her studies .
But her school van had stopped running , and rickshaw drivers hesitated to take her for fear of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her family scrambled to figure out how to get to school .
Early the following year , both Ramzan and Riaz accepted a scholarship to study at UWC Atlantic College in South Wales , a globally focused International Baccalaureate program with students from 90 nationalities .
When Ramzan arrived at her homestay , a few weeks before the beginning of high school , she spoke no English .
She learned as much of the language as she could from her hosts and then walked through the gates of UWC , fearing she would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ friends .
She was wrong , and at boarding school , Ramzan saw girls who had the freedom to do the things that she couldn ’ t in Swat : They could go out alone .
They could go camping or climbing or swimming .
“ I wanted girls in Pakistan to be free and safe in the same way , ” she told me .
While Ramzan spent the following three years in high school , the reconstruction of Swat continued .
The Taliban , and the operation that pushed them out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ collapsed bridges , burnt-down police stations , demolished roads .
A year later , intense floods ravaged the valley .
And then , in 2015 , came a massive 7.5 magnitude earthquake .
Streams of funding from the provincial and federal government , international NGOs and agencies such as U.S. Agency for International Development , and the government of the United Arab Emirates financed the rebuilding of a valley devastated by terrorism and natural disasters .
The Pakistan Army Corp of Engineers and the provincial government led the construction efforts on the ground @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of more than 100 militant-damaged schools .
Today , around 1,600 public schools scatter the Swat Valley ’ s rugged terrain , where a population of 2.3 million lives .
That is too few schools , Jawad Iqbal , an education activist , researcher , and principal at Khushal School , where Malala and Ramzan were middle school students , told me last month .
Outside urban areas like Mingora , schools are few and far between , and the mountainous landscape makes it hard for parents to send girls alone .
Using @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Pakistan Bureau of Statistics and Independent Monitoring Unit , Iqbal performed extensive research on the state of education in Swat .
He found that while there were hundreds of schools at the primary level , numbers drastically dropped at upper levels of education .
He also observed that schools exclusively for girls—where conservative families are most willing to send their daughters—were only 36 percent of the total number of schools .
Khushal School , founded by Malala ’ s father in 1994 , is one of approximately 350 private schools in Swat @ @ @ @ @ @ @ best-performing ones , Iqbal said .
Iqbal , who joined Khushal as a principal in 2016 , recalled a dark period in the school ’ s history .
Both the attack on Malala and the subsequent Taliban assault on a school in Peshawar instilled fear in the students and their parents .
Several left the school .
“ They thought Khushal might be next , ” said Muhammad Faruq , the director of the school .
However , these days , things are close to back to normal .
Iqbal said his students @ @ @ @ @ @ @ extracurriculars .
Recently , he said , they did extraordinarily well in board exams .
But , as both he and Faruq acknowledge , student enrollment is still half of what it used to be .
“ These days , all signs of the Taliban have disappeared , ” Faruq added .
But perhaps not from people ’ s minds .
Swat ’ s return to normalcy has come at an immense cost to civilians , 2 million of whom were displaced in the military operation .
And the operation was by no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ decade , the fragile peace was maintained by a heavy military presence until administrative control was handed over to civilian authorities .
It was only around two years ago that the military checkpoints that kept a watchful eye on Mingora began closing .
There is still a permanent military base on the outskirts of the city , and the targeted killing of a local politician in December by unidentified gunmen , the first in four years , is a reminder that the security situation is still , in some ways , tenuous .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ trajectory is worth giving thought to , not only because it serves as a case study for how neglected areas can slip into the grip of militancy but also as a blueprint for how they can be restored .
In some ways , Swat ’ s encounter with militancy has mirrored Pakistan ’ s own .
As terrorism has been rooted out of here , it has also receded from the rest of the country .
Indeed , the Swat case demonstrates that those parts of the world that are vulnerable to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to stop the disenfranchisement of the local population .
This could take the form of beneficial social reforms , stronger local governments , and a justice system that works .
These areas also need vigilance from the central government , which Pakistan had failed at until it was too late .
It used to be the case that fear , and a Taliban-imposed curfew , confined people to their homes after 8 p.m. A decade later , nights in Mingora are alive , loud , and brightly lit by streetlights , neon signs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stay open late .
Musicians and dancers have returned .
Families stroll down the winding paths of the Fiza Gatt park , which stretches along the river .
The spot where Fazlullah ’ s seminary once stood is visible to the park ’ s patrons , perpetually serving as a reminder .
This story was supported by the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting .

MINGORA, Pakistan—Hundreds of schools for girls sweep across the land where, in 2012, 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai was shot by the Taliban. This was the land where, under Taliban control between 2007 and 2009, schools were destroyed and girls barred from education.
MINGORA, Pakistan—Hundreds of schools for girls sweep across the land where, in 2012, 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai was shot by the Taliban. This was the land where, under Taliban control between 2007 and 2009, schools were destroyed and girls barred from education.
These days in Mingora, Malala’s hometown in Pakistan’s Swat Valley, few, if any, signs remain of the city’s grisly past. The former militant stronghold is nestled at the base of the Hindu Kush mountains, equidistant from Pakistan’s capital city of Islamabad and the eastern border of Afghanistan. Endless hotels and restaurants line its main arteries—a new building is under construction every few blocks. Although international tourism is still rare, local travelers flock to what was once one of the most dangerous spots on the planet.
The Swat Valley is, in many ways, a success story in a country where success stories are rare.
Yet everybody here has a story of what it was like to live under the Taliban. At checkpoints scattered across the city, residents were stopped and questioned about their activities. I spoke to one over the summer who recalled armed men pulling him by the hair and demanding he cut his hair. But it wasn’t just the streets outside that fell under scrutiny. Another local told me about the time that militants, noticing the dish antenna on his roof, barged in and broke his TV.
In those days, the local population had three unappealing choices: comply, leave, or get killed.
A once bustling junction in Mingora became known as Khooni Chowk (literally “bloody intersection”), where corpses of nonconformists, critics, and opponents would be found strung up—sometimes without their heads. The shops surrounding Khooni Chowk were shuttered, their windows shattered, their walls pierced with bullet holes.
Today, the walls have been rebuilt, the glass replaced, and the scars plastered over. Khooni Chowk, back to being called by its old name, Green Chowk, could be a junction in any one of Pakistan’s major cities. The roads are choked with cars and motorcycles, slowed to a crawl, while a harried traffic policeman directs the four-sided onslaught. The air is thick with blaring horns, conversation, smoke, and dust. Shops crammed side by side sell everything from shawls to toys. Street vendors swoop in to occupy whatever gaps exist between them. A large billboard featuring a female model selling women’s clothing floats above.
The Swat River glides along the northern border of the city. Across this narrow body of water lies the village of Imam Dheri, which once served as the terrorist group’s headquarters. It was there that a former ski lift operator, Maulana Fazlullah, started a radio broadcast in 2004 that carried him into people’s homes and, eventually, into their hearts.
Exploiting a weak judicial system, lack of development, neglect from the central government, and a religiously leaning population, Fazlullah was able to quickly amass influence over the radio waves, denouncing Pakistan’s alliance with the United States in the global war on terrorism and preaching his twisted version of Islam, one that extolled jihad, confined women to the home, and forbade female education, polio vaccinations, and technology.
In December 2007, when the Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP)—an umbrella organization of dozens of militant groups in Pakistan—was formed, Fazlullah was appointed the head of its Swat chapter. On the banks of the river, he built a seminary, funded in part by jewelry donations from his ever growing female support base. (By virtue of living mostly within the confines of their homes, women were the primary consumers of his radio sermons.) His Friday khutbahs drew tens of thousands of listeners.
As the full extent of Fazlullah’s strict regime and brutality toward anyone who dared to oppose him became apparent—dancing, criticism, and even suspected insubordination were capital offenses—popular support for his movement waned. But it wasn’t until a four-month operation in 2009, the first major military action against the local Taliban post-9/11, that the Pakistan Army was able to regain control. Fazlullah escaped to eastern Afghanistan, from where he continued to direct targeted assassinations of law enforcement, military officers, and local political leaders in Swat. In 2014, he even orchestrated a terrorist attack on an army-run school in Peshawar, killing 149 people, mostly children. By then, his penchant for attacking children was well established; two years prior, he ordered the attempted assassination of Malala because she championed education for girls, an attack that wounded two other students in the open-backed school van: Kainat Riaz and Shazia Ramzan.
I met Ramzan last summer. At the height of the Taliban’s power, not only was she unable to go to school, but she couldn’t leave home without her face hidden behind a chador. On the days that it was open, the school asked its students not to wear their usual uniforms and to hide their books under their scarves. Like 2 million other residents, Ramzan, her parents, and her eight siblings left town during the military operation. After the military took back the city, she returned to school. But the threat continued to linger, and eventually, she was shot.
The daughter of a bakery owner, Ramzan had never considered activism. She had always supported Malala but had never contemplated speaking up about a girl’s right to an education. The monthlong hospital stay convinced her of the importance of schooling, and she resolved to complete her studies. But her school van had stopped running, and rickshaw drivers hesitated to take her for fear of retaliation. Each day, Ramzan and her family scrambled to figure out how to get to school.
Early the following year, both Ramzan and Riaz accepted a scholarship to study at UWC Atlantic College in South Wales, a globally focused International Baccalaureate program with students from 90 nationalities. When Ramzan arrived at her homestay, a few weeks before the beginning of high school, she spoke no English. She learned as much of the language as she could from her hosts and then walked through the gates of UWC, fearing she would fail her exams and never make any friends.
She was wrong, and at boarding school, Ramzan saw girls who had the freedom to do the things that she couldn’t in Swat: They could go out alone. They could go camping or climbing or swimming. “I wanted girls in Pakistan to be free and safe in the same way,” she told me.
While Ramzan spent the following three years in high school, the reconstruction of Swat continued. The Taliban, and the operation that pushed them out, left destruction all around—shelled-out buildings, collapsed bridges, burnt-down police stations, demolished roads. A year later, intense floods ravaged the valley. And then, in 2015, came a massive 7.5 magnitude earthquake.
Streams of funding from the provincial and federal government, international NGOs and agencies such as U.S. Agency for International Development, and the government of the United Arab Emirates financed the rebuilding of a valley devastated by terrorism and natural disasters. The Pakistan Army Corp of Engineers and the provincial government led the construction efforts on the ground.
Among the endeavors was the repair of more than 100 militant-damaged schools. Today, around 1,600 public schools scatter the Swat Valley’s rugged terrain, where a population of 2.3 million lives. That is too few schools, Jawad Iqbal, an education activist, researcher, and principal at Khushal School, where Malala and Ramzan were middle school students, told me last month. Outside urban areas like Mingora, schools are few and far between, and the mountainous landscape makes it hard for parents to send girls alone.
Using figures from data collection organizations such as the Pakistan Bureau of Statistics and Independent Monitoring Unit, Iqbal performed extensive research on the state of education in Swat. He found that while there were hundreds of schools at the primary level, numbers drastically dropped at upper levels of education. He also observed that schools exclusively for girls—where conservative families are most willing to send their daughters—were only 36 percent of the total number of schools.
Khushal School, founded by Malala’s father in 1994, is one of approximately 350 private schools in Swat. It is also one of the best-performing ones, Iqbal said.
Iqbal, who joined Khushal as a principal in 2016, recalled a dark period in the school’s history. Both the attack on Malala and the subsequent Taliban assault on a school in Peshawar instilled fear in the students and their parents. Several left the school. “They thought Khushal might be next,” said Muhammad Faruq, the director of the school.
However, these days, things are close to back to normal. Iqbal said his students are performing well both in academics and extracurriculars. Recently, he said, they did extraordinarily well in board exams. But, as both he and Faruq acknowledge, student enrollment is still half of what it used to be.
“These days, all signs of the Taliban have disappeared,” Faruq added. But perhaps not from people’s minds. Swat’s return to normalcy has come at an immense cost to civilians, 2 million of whom were displaced in the military operation. And the operation was by no means perfect. For more than a decade, the fragile peace was maintained by a heavy military presence until administrative control was handed over to civilian authorities. It was only around two years ago that the military checkpoints that kept a watchful eye on Mingora began closing.
There is still a permanent military base on the outskirts of the city, and the targeted killing of a local politician in December by unidentified gunmen, the first in four years, is a reminder that the security situation is still, in some ways, tenuous.
Even so, Swat’s overall trajectory is worth giving thought to, not only because it serves as a case study for how neglected areas can slip into the grip of militancy but also as a blueprint for how they can be restored. In some ways, Swat’s encounter with militancy has mirrored Pakistan’s own. As terrorism has been rooted out of here, it has also receded from the rest of the country. Indeed, the Swat case demonstrates that those parts of the world that are vulnerable to the influence of militant groups require early intervention to stop the disenfranchisement of the local population. This could take the form of beneficial social reforms, stronger local governments, and a justice system that works. These areas also need vigilance from the central government, which Pakistan had failed at until it was too late.
This past summer, Ramzan was home from her first year at the University of Edinburgh, where she is studying medicine. She had just wrapped up an internship at a major hospital in Multan. “Today, everything has changed,” Ramzan remarked. She pointed out that more girls than ever are getting educated in Swat. “It makes me so happy to know that they see Malala as a role model.” As horrific as the 2012 attack was, Ramzan feels that it ultimately brought attention to the cause of girls’ education and inspired people to fight for their rights.
It used to be the case that fear, and a Taliban-imposed curfew, confined people to their homes after 8 p.m. A decade later, nights in Mingora are alive, loud, and brightly lit by streetlights, neon signs, and storefronts. Markets and restaurants stay open late. Musicians and dancers have returned. Families stroll down the winding paths of the Fiza Gatt park, which stretches along the river. The spot where Fazlullah’s seminary once stood is visible to the park’s patrons, perpetually serving as a reminder.
“Swat is unrecognizable now,” Ramzan said.
This story was supported by the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.


foreignpolicy--2020-02-19--Top Pentagon Policy Official Pushed Out

Top Pentagon Policy Official Pushed Out

The U.S. Department of Defense ’ s top policy official , John Rood , is stepping down from his post following pressure from the White House , leaving another gaping hole in the Pentagon ’ s senior leadership as the department comes under increased scrutiny over its handling of the president ’ s hold on military aid to Ukraine .
Trump lost confidence in Rood , a former Lockheed Martin executive who has been serving as undersecretary of defense for policy since January 2018 , after a steady drumbeat of departures of senior policymakers from the Pentagon over the past @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The decision was based on a recommendation by Robert O ’ Brien , the national security adviser , according to one source .
“ I would like to thank John Rood for his service to our Country , and wish him well in his future endeavors !
” Trump tweeted .
There is no evidence that Rood ’ s ouster is related to the Pentagon ’ s handling of Trump ’ s directive to freeze roughly $ 250 million in military aid to Ukraine , which resulted in his impeachment .
But the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ whether the president is done purging officials involved in dealings with Ukraine .
Rood approved the aid in May 2019 , before Trump directed the hold .
CNN and other outlets first reported on Rood leaving his post .
Alyssa Farah , the Pentagon ’ s press secretary , said Rood will step down from his post at the end of this month .
He will be temporarily replaced by acting Deputy Under Secretary of Defense for Policy James Anderson .
“ I would like to thank John Rood for his service to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mark Esper said in a statement released on Wednesday .
“ John has played a critical role on a wide range of DoD issues including modernizing our nuclear deterrence capability , efforts to increase burden sharing by our NATO allies , our Missile Defense Review and implementing the National Defense Strategy .
I wish him all the best in his future endeavors.
” The news comes as the nomination of another senior Pentagon leader may hang in the balance .
The White House reportedly mulled pulling the nomination of Elaine McCusker to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with Trump ’ s directive to withhold the aid .
The initial report by the right-leaning New York Post has not been confirmed , and some lawmakers and Pentagon officials have cast doubt on whether such a decision will go forward .
Despite his best efforts , Esper has struggled to stem the flow of senior civilians leaving the Pentagon .
Six senior officials tendered their resignation in a span of just a few weeks late last year , including Navy Secretary Richard Spencer and Assistant Secretary of Defense for Indo-Pacific Security Affairs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , 16 are currently vacant .
Rood is seen as a major contributor to the Pentagon ’ s struggle to fill empty leadership posts .
Current and former officials who spoke to Foreign Policy on condition of anonymity this past December said Rood created a hostile work environment , saying that he is frequently “ abrasive ” toward his staff .
A defense official recounted an episode in which Rood was verbally abusive , yelling , cursing , and slamming his hand on the table .
Rood dragged out the minor dispute for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Foreign Policy at the time that Rood does not stand up to his military counterparts in the Joint Chiefs of Staff and that those working at the Office of the Under Secretary of Defense for Policy , sometimes referred to as OSD ( P ) , feel Rood does not have their backs .
“ He never did much to advance the civil service and he doesn ’ t rely on the advice of OSD ( P ) , ” said a former defense official .
“ You get the impression that he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Sources told Foreign Policy at the time that Rood relied on the Joint Staff over the Office of the Under Secretary of Defense for Policy on such issues as the war in Syria and the negotiations over Fort Trump in Poland .
“ I have known and worked with John in various capacities for decades .
My working relationship with him at OSD was always excellent , ” David Trachtenberg , a former deputy undersecretary of defense for policy , told Foreign Policy in December , in a statement provided by a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fact that John and I both previously served in OSD Policy contributed to our understanding of the importance of civilian oversight of the military and our appreciation of the talent and professionalism of the Policy workforce.
” Update , Feb. 19 , 2020 : This article was updated to include a statement from the defense secretary and Pentagon press secretary .

The U.S. Department of Defense’s top policy official, John Rood, is stepping down from his post following pressure from the White House, leaving another gaping hole in the Pentagon’s senior leadership as the department comes under increased scrutiny over its handling of the president’s hold on military aid to Ukraine.
The U.S. Department of Defense’s top policy official, John Rood, is stepping down from his post following pressure from the White House, leaving another gaping hole in the Pentagon’s senior leadership as the department comes under increased scrutiny over its handling of the president’s hold on military aid to Ukraine.
Trump lost confidence in Rood, a former Lockheed Martin executive who has been serving as undersecretary of defense for policy since January 2018, after a steady drumbeat of departures of senior policymakers from the Pentagon over the past year, sources tell Foreign Policy. The decision was based on a recommendation by Robert O’Brien, the national security adviser, according to one source.
“I would like to thank John Rood for his service to our Country, and wish him well in his future endeavors!” Trump tweeted.
There is no evidence that Rood’s ouster is related to the Pentagon’s handling of Trump’s directive to freeze roughly $250 million in military aid to Ukraine, which resulted in his impeachment. But the timing of the decision raises questions about whether the president is done purging officials involved in dealings with Ukraine. Rood approved the aid in May 2019, before Trump directed the hold. CNN and other outlets first reported on Rood leaving his post.
Alyssa Farah, the Pentagon’s press secretary, said Rood will step down from his post at the end of this month. He will be temporarily replaced by acting Deputy Under Secretary of Defense for Policy James Anderson.
“I would like to thank John Rood for his service to the Department,” Secretary of Defense Mark Esper said in a statement released on Wednesday. “John has played a critical role on a wide range of DoD issues including modernizing our nuclear deterrence capability, efforts to increase burden sharing by our NATO allies, our Missile Defense Review and implementing the National Defense Strategy. I wish him all the best in his future endeavors.”
The news comes as the nomination of another senior Pentagon leader may hang in the balance. The White House reportedly mulled pulling the nomination of Elaine McCusker to be Pentagon comptroller after she raised legal concerns with Trump’s directive to withhold the aid. The initial report by the right-leaning New York Post has not been confirmed, and some lawmakers and Pentagon officials have cast doubt on whether such a decision will go forward.
Despite his best efforts, Esper has struggled to stem the flow of senior civilians leaving the Pentagon. Six senior officials tendered their resignation in a span of just a few weeks late last year, including Navy Secretary Richard Spencer and Assistant Secretary of Defense for Indo-Pacific Security Affairs Randall Schriver. Of 59 Senate-confirmed positions, 16 are currently vacant.
Rood is seen as a major contributor to the Pentagon’s struggle to fill empty leadership posts. Current and former officials who spoke to Foreign Policy on condition of anonymity this past December said Rood created a hostile work environment, saying that he is frequently “abrasive” toward his staff.
A defense official recounted an episode in which Rood was verbally abusive, yelling, cursing, and slamming his hand on the table. Rood dragged out the minor dispute for several days.
Pentagon civilians also told Foreign Policy at the time that Rood does not stand up to his military counterparts in the Joint Chiefs of Staff and that those working at the Office of the Under Secretary of Defense for Policy, sometimes referred to as OSD(P), feel Rood does not have their backs.
“He never did much to advance the civil service and he doesn’t rely on the advice of OSD(P),” said a former defense official. “You get the impression that he doesn’t trust his own staff.”
Sources told Foreign Policy at the time that Rood relied on the Joint Staff over the Office of the Under Secretary of Defense for Policy on such issues as the war in Syria and the negotiations over Fort Trump in Poland.
Other former defense officials defended Rood.
“I have known and worked with John in various capacities for decades. My working relationship with him at OSD was always excellent,” David Trachtenberg, a former deputy undersecretary of defense for policy, told Foreign Policy in December, in a statement provided by a department spokesperson. “I think the fact that John and I both previously served in OSD Policy contributed to our understanding of the importance of civilian oversight of the military and our appreciation of the talent and professionalism of the Policy workforce.”
Update, Feb. 19, 2020: This article was updated to include a statement from the defense secretary and Pentagon press secretary.


Terrorist Rehab

“ You ’ re not scared of me ?
” Yusuf sked half-jokingly as he tossed his burnt pizza crust on the plate .
“ No , ” I told him , but I probably should have been .
Yusuf was convicted on terrorism charges for his connection to the 2002 Bali bombing that killed more than 200 people .
He spent 10 years in an Indonesian prison , fought with al Qaeda , and personally knew Osama bin Laden .
In his crowded restaurant in Surakarta , Indonesia , all that seemed very far away .
But to him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I built my business the same way I built my teams in Afghanistan , ” he explained .
“ I fundraise , recruit people , track spending , monitor competition—it ’ s the same game.
” In the United States , someone like Yusuf might never walk free once in prison due to fears that he might return to militancy .
The November 2019 terrorist attack in London , in which two people were stabbed to death by a man released from jail after serving half of his 16-year sentence for terrorism offenses @ @ @ @ @ @ @ public eye .
Those concerns were deepened in February after another stabbing in which two people were killed by a man who had recently been released from prison for terrorism offenses .
But in reality , these incidents were outliers .
A recent study released by West Point ’ s Combating Terrorism Center , which examined nearly 30 years of U.S. data , demonstrates that recidivism rates among the most dangerous category of jihadi offenders , namely people directly involved in violent terrorist plots , are far below traditional criminal recidivism rates .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ little choice but to release such prisoners anyway .
They simply don ’ t possess the resources to indefinitely incarcerate all their citizens who have been convicted of terrorism charges .
The United States is relatively unique in this regard , with fewer terrorism convictions and far more resources .
As of last spring , the United States had released only about 250 people who had been convicted of terrorism-related offenses after 9/11 .
By contrast , the Colombian government was tasked with demobilizing approximately 13,000 members of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ forging a peace accord with the group in 2016 .
Countries with larger numbers of people affiliated with terrorist or militia groups have a pressing need to develop effective reintegration programs for those who are released from prison .
Some of their success stories can offer insights for how reentry might work—both for people who served prison time for terrorism crimes , and those in for other types of offenses .
Entrepreneurship can often help people who were formerly incarcerated reintegrate into civil society , the job market , and mainstream economies .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ former members of the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka , al Qaeda-affiliated groups in Indonesia , the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia ( FARC ) , and the Lord ’ s Resistance Army in Uganda , as well as 30 people involved in their reintegration—business owners who hired them , victims , NGOs , and government officials—it is clear that entrepreneurship can often help people who were formerly incarcerated reintegrate into civil society , the job market , and mainstream economies .
The success rate for entrepreneurs of any demographic is low .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ entrepreneurship .
In fact , they face additional hurdles like gaining access to start-up capital because of their records .
And there are few credible statistics on successful ex-terrorist entrepreneurial ventures due to underreporting , difficulty in measuring informal economies , and access issues in remote areas where many of the ventures are based .
Still , for many of those I interviewed between 2014 and 2016 , starting their own businesses was integral to their transition back into society .
Indeed , even after ex-terrorists have served time , undergone rehabilitation , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to be disassociated from a terrorist group , their pasts often make them unattractive candidates to employers .
Consequently , some are lured back into their former groups by salaries that can reach thousands of dollars per month .
In the types of poverty-stricken areas many terrorist groups typically recruit , those salaries are a means of survival .
Entrepreneurship helps circumvent the cycle : Generating revenue depends on individuals ’ skills , business acumen , and quality of service—not their pasts .
Former terrorists may also be particularly suited to entrepreneurship because @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rafiq used to manufacture weapons in his garage for various al Qaeda-affiliated groups in Poso , Indonesia .
Following a stint in prison , he created what he called a “ peace radio station , ” devoted to broadcasting messages that aim to reduce tensions and foster unity among Christians , Muslims , and members of other religions .
He gradually expanded it to include a cafe , karaoke space , billiard area , dance hall , and study clubs .
At his multifloor facility , people from different religions , ethnicities , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ employs members of different faiths to encourage friendship and unity among them .
Next , he intends to launch a vocational skill-building program for women .
Although his business initially faced threats from extremists , marginalization from the government , and skepticism from the community , over time he won the public ’ s trust and support .
The fluctuations , high stakes , and unpredictability of life in a terrorist organization are more analogous to life in a start-up than working a 9-to-5 job .
Some ex-terrorists said they have had a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the same employer for an extended period of time—they ’ re simply not used to the monotony of routine .
Starting an entrepreneurial venture typically involves the kind of unstructured lifestyle with which they ’ re familiar .
Entrepreneurship can also moderate extreme beliefs .
Yusuf spent five years in prison in connection with the 2002 Bali bombings .
Post-release , he launched a successful restaurant after receiving seed funding from the government and entrepreneurship training from a local university .
“ When my former prison guards first showed up for a meal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ conflicted in my heart .
I hated them , but it was my job to serve them , to be charming and smile.
” Over time , he had to start seeing them as real people .
“ I started chatting and joking with them : ‘ You used to give me food for free , and now you have to pay me for it.
’ They loved my jokes .
Eventually , having to continually serve and converse with them made our relationship and feelings toward each other warmer.
” He has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ years spent espousing hostile views toward people who do not share their worldview , starting an entrepreneurial venture requires ex-terrorists to engage with customers from diverse backgrounds .
They have to treat each customer with respect because revenue depends on it .
Over time , such constant engagement can reduce stereotypes and moderate perceptions on both sides .
Research scientists have long held that interaction with opponents and exposure to diversity can reduce tensions , foster empathy , and ultimately change the way people think .
Finally , entrepreneurship can help reintegrate extended @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jalber , a former FARC member , started a sports clothing retail chain , supplying team uniforms to schools and sports clubs in Colombia .
He also organizes local sports tournaments to turn at-risk youth away from drugs , crime , and gangs .
He built 25 clothing workshops and employs ex-FARC members and their mothers in the production process .
He also gave jobs to 40 single mothers in the community .
In 2010 , the Colombian government recognized Jalber for his peace efforts in helping to reintegrate former FARC members and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ entrepreneurs hire other ex-terrorists struggling to find jobs .
In doing so , they help reduce the risk of recidivism among those who might otherwise return to their former groups .
Some regular employers are willing to hire ex-terrorists , but there ’ s far less explaining to do when you ’ re hired by one of your own .
Ultimately , lower recidivism rates increase public safety .
And if economic reintegration can work for even ex-terrorists overseas , surely there are lessons that can be applied to people who were formerly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ country should provide people who are released from prison a pathway out of crime , access to quality jobs , and a genuine opportunity to join the legal economy .
That pathway must equip them with the tools to become economic assets in the communities to which they return .
According to a 2018 Bureau of Justice Statistics study of 401,288 people released from state prison between 2005 and 2014 , national prisoner recidivism rates are strikingly high : 44 percent of people were rearrested within one year , 68 percent within three @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and 83 percent within nine years .
The overall numbers contrast sharply with those from U.S.-based organizations like the Prison Entrepreneurship Program and Defy Ventures , which support the entrepreneurial businesses of people who were formerly incarcerated .
Recidivism rates among participants of these programs hover below 10 percent .
No single solution will achieve perfect results .
But in our efforts to address reentry challenges in the criminal justice system , entrepreneurship is one promising option that ought to be more deeply explored .

“You’re not scared of me?” Yusuf asked half-jokingly as he tossed his burnt pizza crust on the plate. “No,” I told him, but I probably should have been. Yusuf was convicted on terrorism charges for his connection to the 2002 Bali bombing that killed more than 200 people. He spent 10 years in an Indonesian prison, fought with al Qaeda, and personally knew Osama bin Laden. In his crowded restaurant in Surakarta, Indonesia, all that seemed very far away. But to him, perhaps it did not. “I built my business the same way I built my teams in Afghanistan,” he explained. “I fundraise, recruit people, track spending, monitor competition—it’s the same game.”
“You’re not scared of me?” Yusuf asked half-jokingly as he tossed his burnt pizza crust on the plate. “No,” I told him, but I probably should have been. Yusuf was convicted on terrorism charges for his connection to the 2002 Bali bombing that killed more than 200 people. He spent 10 years in an Indonesian prison, fought with al Qaeda, and personally knew Osama bin Laden. In his crowded restaurant in Surakarta, Indonesia, all that seemed very far away. But to him, perhaps it did not. “I built my business the same way I built my teams in Afghanistan,” he explained. “I fundraise, recruit people, track spending, monitor competition—it’s the same game.”
In the United States, someone like Yusuf might never walk free once in prison due to fears that he might return to militancy. The November 2019 terrorist attack in London, in which two people were stabbed to death by a man released from jail after serving half of his 16-year sentence for terrorism offenses, catapulted fears about recidivism into the public eye. Those concerns were deepened in February after another stabbing in which two people were killed by a man who had recently been released from prison for terrorism offenses.
But in reality, these incidents were outliers. A recent study released by West Point’s Combating Terrorism Center, which examined nearly 30 years of U.S. data, demonstrates that recidivism rates among the most dangerous category of jihadi offenders, namely people directly involved in violent terrorist plots, are far below traditional criminal recidivism rates.
And for most countries, there is little choice but to release such prisoners anyway. They simply don’t possess the resources to indefinitely incarcerate all their citizens who have been convicted of terrorism charges. The United States is relatively unique in this regard, with fewer terrorism convictions and far more resources. As of last spring, the United States had released only about 250 people who had been convicted of terrorism-related offenses after 9/11. By contrast, the Colombian government was tasked with demobilizing approximately 13,000 members of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) guerilla militia after forging a peace accord with the group in 2016. Countries with larger numbers of people affiliated with terrorist or militia groups have a pressing need to develop effective reintegration programs for those who are released from prison. Some of their success stories can offer insights for how reentry might work—both for people who served prison time for terrorism crimes, and those in for other types of offenses.
The United States has the highest incarceration rate in the world. According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, almost 1.5 million people were in prison by the end of 2017, ranging from people who committed violent offenses to those who were wrongfully convicted. That means for every 100,000 U.S. residents, approximately 440 people were in prison. An estimated $80 billion is spent each year to run correctional facilities, according to the Brookings Institution. Additionally, 95 percent of all state prisoners will eventually be released at some point. Therefore, policymakers should examine successful reintegration models globally and identify best practices to reduce recidivism rates.
Entrepreneurship can often help people who were formerly incarcerated reintegrate into civil society, the job market, and mainstream economies.
Based on interviews with more than 50 former members of the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka, al Qaeda-affiliated groups in Indonesia, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), and the Lord’s Resistance Army in Uganda, as well as 30 people involved in their reintegration—business owners who hired them, victims, NGOs, and government officials—it is clear that entrepreneurship can often help people who were formerly incarcerated reintegrate into civil society, the job market, and mainstream economies.
The success rate for entrepreneurs of any demographic is low. Not every ex-terrorist will be suited for entrepreneurship. In fact, they face additional hurdles like gaining access to start-up capital because of their records. And there are few credible statistics on successful ex-terrorist entrepreneurial ventures due to underreporting, difficulty in measuring informal economies, and access issues in remote areas where many of the ventures are based. Still, for many of those I interviewed between 2014 and 2016, starting their own businesses was integral to their transition back into society.
Yaldan is a former bomb-maker for the Moro Islamic Liberation Front in Southeast Asia. In 2012, he created a lucrative disposable medical products business. He coordinates with manufacturers in neighboring countries and, after hitting record sales in 2015, became his country’s sole distributor of those products to hospitals. “One of our concerns as I grew the business was that people might stigmatize the company because of my past,” Yaldan said. “It’s very dangerous to my business for people to know. When others returned from prison to their communities, it’s been a huge challenge. The stigma is so great.”
Indeed, even after ex-terrorists have served time, undergone rehabilitation, and are considered by their own governments to be disassociated from a terrorist group, their pasts often make them unattractive candidates to employers. Consequently, some are lured back into their former groups by salaries that can reach thousands of dollars per month. In the types of poverty-stricken areas many terrorist groups typically recruit, those salaries are a means of survival. Entrepreneurship helps circumvent the cycle: Generating revenue depends on individuals’ skills, business acumen, and quality of service—not their pasts.
Former terrorists may also be particularly suited to entrepreneurship because they are familiar with taking risks.
Rafiq used to manufacture weapons in his garage for various al Qaeda-affiliated groups in Poso, Indonesia. Following a stint in prison, he created what he called a “peace radio station,” devoted to broadcasting messages that aim to reduce tensions and foster unity among Christians, Muslims, and members of other religions. He gradually expanded it to include a cafe, karaoke space, billiard area, dance hall, and study clubs. At his multifloor facility, people from different religions, ethnicities, and professional backgrounds interact. He deliberately employs members of different faiths to encourage friendship and unity among them. Next, he intends to launch a vocational skill-building program for women. Although his business initially faced threats from extremists, marginalization from the government, and skepticism from the community, over time he won the public’s trust and support.
The fluctuations, high stakes, and unpredictability of life in a terrorist organization are more analogous to life in a start-up than working a 9-to-5 job. Some ex-terrorists said they have had a hard time doing the same work for the same employer for an extended period of time—they’re simply not used to the monotony of routine. Starting an entrepreneurial venture typically involves the kind of unstructured lifestyle with which they’re familiar.
Entrepreneurship can also moderate extreme beliefs. Yusuf spent five years in prison in connection with the 2002 Bali bombings. Post-release, he launched a successful restaurant after receiving seed funding from the government and entrepreneurship training from a local university. “When my former prison guards first showed up for a meal at my restaurant, I was so conflicted in my heart. I hated them, but it was my job to serve them, to be charming and smile.” Over time, he had to start seeing them as real people. “I started chatting and joking with them: ‘You used to give me food for free, and now you have to pay me for it.’ They loved my jokes. Eventually, having to continually serve and converse with them made our relationship and feelings toward each other warmer.” He has since disavowed his extremist beliefs.
After years spent espousing hostile views toward people who do not share their worldview, starting an entrepreneurial venture requires ex-terrorists to engage with customers from diverse backgrounds. They have to treat each customer with respect because revenue depends on it. Over time, such constant engagement can reduce stereotypes and moderate perceptions on both sides. Research scientists have long held that interaction with opponents and exposure to diversity can reduce tensions, foster empathy, and ultimately change the way people think.
Finally, entrepreneurship can help reintegrate extended communities of ex-terrorists. In 2008, Jalber, a former FARC member, started a sports clothing retail chain, supplying team uniforms to schools and sports clubs in Colombia. He also organizes local sports tournaments to turn at-risk youth away from drugs, crime, and gangs. He built 25 clothing workshops and employs ex-FARC members and their mothers in the production process. He also gave jobs to 40 single mothers in the community. In 2010, the Colombian government recognized Jalber for his peace efforts in helping to reintegrate former FARC members and at-risk individuals into society.
Many ex-terrorist entrepreneurs hire other ex-terrorists struggling to find jobs. In doing so, they help reduce the risk of recidivism among those who might otherwise return to their former groups. Some regular employers are willing to hire ex-terrorists, but there’s far less explaining to do when you’re hired by one of your own.
To be sure, entrepreneurship won’t be the best method to reintegrate all ex-terrorists. Supporting their ventures doesn’t discount the need to monitor their progress or ensure that their business profits aren’t used to fund the same illegal activities that led to their imprisonment. And supporting their reentry doesn’t negate the necessity to respect the pain and trauma of victims and communities who’ve been harmed by crime and violence.
Ultimately, lower recidivism rates increase public safety. And if economic reintegration can work for even ex-terrorists overseas, surely there are lessons that can be applied to people who were formerly incarcerated in the United States. The country should provide people who are released from prison a pathway out of crime, access to quality jobs, and a genuine opportunity to join the legal economy. That pathway must equip them with the tools to become economic assets in the communities to which they return.
According to a 2018 Bureau of Justice Statistics study of 401,288 people released from state prison between 2005 and 2014, national prisoner recidivism rates are strikingly high: 44 percent of people were rearrested within one year, 68 percent within three years, 79 percent within six years, and 83 percent within nine years. The overall numbers contrast sharply with those from U.S.-based organizations like the Prison Entrepreneurship Program and Defy Ventures, which support the entrepreneurial businesses of people who were formerly incarcerated. Recidivism rates among participants of these programs hover below 10 percent.
No single solution will achieve perfect results. But in our efforts to address reentry challenges in the criminal justice system, entrepreneurship is one promising option that ought to be more deeply explored.


foreignpolicy--2020-02-20--How Virus Lockdown Orders Went From Xi Jinping to My Neighborhood Auntie

Since the outbreak of the coronavirus epidemic now known as COVID-19 , China has split into hundreds of thousands of isolated cells .
Across China , apartment complexes , villages , and whole cities closed themselves off to the world for weeks .
At the height of the quarantine , I needed a ration ticket to go outside .
In a movie , there would have been loudspeakers all over town , blaring something like : “ All citizens are confined to their homes by order of the district commissar.
” In real-life China , new rules arrived like a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I was visiting , got a text message from the company that runs her apartment building .
These are the people you ’ d normally talk to about the plumbing or a squeaky elevator .
Imagine your co-op board declaring martial law .
We did get the loudspeakers , eventually , but I ’ ll get to that later on .
In this city , quarantine came in two waves .
The first lasted from Jan. 25 to Feb. 3 .
At that point , life was fraught but relatively normal .
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and with it being confined to the house .
Who was really keeping us inside and why ?
I never really found out .
I never really found out what the rules were , for that matter .
But I can tell you what I saw myself and a bit of what I heard from friends .
I was visiting friends in a city of about half a million in Zhejiang province for the Chinese New Year when state media first reported the scale of the outbreak on Jan. 25 .
When we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , we were relieved .
It had been obvious for days that something very serious was happening in Wuhan , in the central province of Hubei , and that Lunar New Year travel was going to bring the problem to the rest of China .
State media had played down the story , encouraging people to carry on with holiday plans and allowing the infection to spread .
I ’ d planned to return to my home in Beijing at the end of the week , but fearing infection on the train , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ government sprang into action .
Public health messages encouraged residents to take ordinary precautions : Stay indoors as much as possible , avoid crowded places , wear masks , and wash hands .
We went outside for exercise and visited vegetable markets .
On the whole , compliance seemed high—by the second or third day , almost everyone we saw wore a mask , and people gave each other a wide berth .
I saw pictures of red propaganda banners with messages like : “ To eat together is to seek death .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” The same day , across China but especially in the provinces of Henan and Zhejiang near the epicenter , villages took quick action to stop people from gathering for traditional new year ’ s activities , including visiting relatives .
They used strong language : I saw pictures of red propaganda banners with messages like : “ To eat together is to seek death .
To visit relatives is to harm them.
” On Jan. 30 , we went out for a drive and saw our first checkpoints .
On country roads @ @ @ @ @ @ @ similar messages to those in the online images .
Smaller checkpoints appeared at every village , housing compound , or cul-de-sac .
These usually consisted of two people in yellow vests—often nondescript younger men but in other cases older people—and a folding table .
At major intersections and at highway onramps and offramps , we had to pass larger checkpoints manned by four to five people wearing police uniforms or white lab coats .
We were allowed to enter and walk around a larger town with a historic center and permitted to use @ @ @ @ @ @ @ checks , but were turned away from another village by a guard who appeared to think we were idiots to have gone for a pleasure drive .
We were mostly reassured by all this—maybe more so because it didn ’ t really affect us .
Other places , especially villages , seemed to be panicking , closing themselves off to outsiders .
Friends sent photos of bulldozers digging up the roads into villages .
A few videos passed around online showed men with spears posted at village entrances as if they were trying @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reportedly began searching for people who had escaped the quarantine and were hiding .
Other banners we saw on social media carried messages like : “ Those who have been to Hubei and do not report themselves are the enemy within.
” It was clear that there was no such thing as a national plan—just thousands upon thousands of local officials , businesses , and village heads scrambling to respond .
The tempo of response wasn ’ t set by the virus—if it were , Wuhan would have been quarantined before millions of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by messages from Beijing .
As President Xi Jinping called for “ boldness , ” and then a few days later warned that those who did not show boldness would be punished and finally declared a “ people ’ s war ” on the virus , local governments moved from inaction to aggressive public health messaging to locking down most of China .
As often happens in China , they never got around to telling us what the rules were .
We could see the roadblocks , and heard rumors of people being @ @ @ @ @ @ @ places , but were left guessing about what we were and weren ’ t allowed to do .
For the time being , we could still walk by the river .
We noticed that the flower shops were closed , but they left funeral arrangements outside on an honesty box system .
Other families were evidently more cautious : Sitting on our 16th-floor balcony one sunny afternoon , the air was suddenly cut by a young boy ’ s voice repeatedly howling : “ I need to go out and play !
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I need to go out and play !
I need to go out and play !
” It was around Feb. 3 that the government asked everyone in the city to stop going outside .
In an online notice , the city government pleaded for people to stay indoors , suggesting that it would be best to send only one person out every other day , for under two hours .
It concluded : “ Staying indoors is your contribution to the Party and the Country.
” But the message did not say @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our evening walks by the river didn ’ t seem like much of a risk—especially because in the whole area around the city there were only four cases of the virus .
We went out again , and nobody said anything .
But we started to notice mysterious barricades going up around neighboring housing compounds .
From our 16th-floor window , they didn ’ t appear to be intended to block people but cars .
It made us wonder what was coming next .
In the small Hubei city of Shiyan , under @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that on the same day , the government also called for people to stop going outside .
A poem was broadcast over local public address systems : “ If you have a grain of rice , you can still avoid crowds .
If you have one sprig of spring onion , you don ’ t need to shop for vegetables.
” Things changed again on Feb. 5 .
We were just about to go out for a walk when Mrs. W told us we weren ’ t allowed .
She showed us a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , explaining that staying indoors was now mandatory and that there was a new ticket system .
We were shocked—we simply couldn ’ t believe that the property management company could force us to stay inside .
Our first impulse was to go downstairs and see if anyone stopped us—but Mrs. W was dead set against trying , warning that we would use all the tickets for the next few days , that we would all get in trouble .
In the end , we didn ’ t make it to the elevator @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the tinny sound of a roving police car with an announcement on loop , repeating the city government ’ s pleading message from Feb. 3 .
There was nowhere we could confirm this officially in print .
The city government ’ s website boasted that it was working hard to fulfill Xi ’ s call to obstruct and treat and , again , pleaded for us to stay inside .
The car-borne loudspeakers started to mention criminal penalties for “ breaking the rules ” —but no one ever told us any rules besides @ @ @ @ @ @ @ end , it wasn ’ t Xi or the city or the coronavirus or even the property management company that kept us inside on Feb. 5—it was Mrs. W. The fear that traveled down the system eventually became her fear of trouble with the local authorities , and she made sure that her children and I did what we were asked .
Were they really enforcing the ticket system ?
For three days , we sat by the window in the living room , trying to figure out what was happening outside .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
A middle-aged woman wandering by the river was a point for us .
A cop was a point for the tickets .
When we stopped seeing people , we started counting cars .
Mrs. W went to buy vegetables once and told us things were very strict .
With the city quiet , nature started to move back in .
By the third day , the apartment was full of birdsong , even on the 16th floor .
One day , an eagle flew by outside .
Finally , on Feb. 8 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ticket .
It was the Lantern Festival , the last day of the traditional Lunar New Year festival , and as it was getting dark , we took a new ticket and some garbage as an excuse .
Two of us went downstairs—and we got out !
Maybe it was the holiday , but we found a lone guard at the entrance to our building , who barely looked up as we passed .
We found the city empty and barricaded .
The table checkpoints we ’ d seen before had been replaced @ @ @ @ @ @ @ manned by at least three black-clad men .
The tent at our building advertised local beer .
We managed a tense walk by the river , trying to keep out of sight among the trees .
But the only people we passed were a few couples walking and a middle-aged man doing exercise .
A few plainclothes guards standing on the bluffs above seemed to notice but not to care .
But the next day , the system was back in full force .
The refrigerator had broken overnight , and we wanted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s office , so we set out again in her car .
We found three guards at the entrance , who told Mrs. W she ’ d been going out too often and that three people was too many .
“ If upstairs finds out , they ’ ll blame us , ” they said .
She went out , and we went back upstairs .
Finally , on Feb. 10 , I had to leave—unless I made it to Shanghai , my visa would expire .
I wasn ’ t entirely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ enter Shanghai or that I would be allowed into the apartment I ’ d arranged to stay in .
But I didn ’ t have a choice .
I needed Mrs. W to give me a ride to a train station out of town , and a friend in the police told her that we could go but she might not be able to return .
He suggested that she carry the deed to her apartment as proof of residency .
In the end , Mrs. W managed to get a permit from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the trip , and it was uneventful .
On the town ’ s main street , we even saw pedestrians , and we passed through only one checkpoint—with a line of trucks waiting to get into town—on the way to the station .
At the station , I was met by workers in hazmat suits and signs warning that anyone who left town would face a 14-day quarantine on their return home .
The train was empty , and the app in which I had to apply to enter Shanghai rated me a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arrived to an improvised channel and announcements : Class B to the right .
Like most of the passengers , I walked through on the right .
I saw only one person pulled out of the line , a woman in late middle with heavy bags and the posture of someone who has been carrying heavy things for hours .
I assume she was rated Class A—high risk .
Shanghai is almost as quiet as Zhejiang was , but here I ’ ve been able to take walks .
I ’ ve seen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Going into a building here means guards , temperature checks , mask checks , and filling out registration forms .
When I leave the apartment complex , the guards give me a paper pass to get back in .
Still , compared with what I heard from smaller cities , towns , and villages , this is an open city .
I still need to get back to Beijing , but I ’ ve read that if I went there , it would mean another 14 days ’ isolation .
Back in Zhejiang @ @ @ @ @ @ @ total lockdown ended after nine days on Feb. 14 .
It was replaced by surveillance and limited lockdowns .
The city asked citizens to register with an online system created by the Zhejiang tech giant Alibaba , which rates infection risks as red , yellow , or green based on a short survey about recent travel , symptoms , and contact with infected people or people from Hubei .
My friends got green—and for them , the isolation period is over .
According to the news , yellow means seven days ’ isolation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is still under guard , and the new system is watching where you go : Entering an apartment compound or a market requires scanning a QR code generated by the app , keeping the yellows and reds inside and generating data about where the greens go .
But tourist attractions have reopened , and shops are starting to reopen .
This system is supposed to go national next week , and I can ’ t wait to be surveilled .
For weeks , I ’ ve been afraid to travel , fearing that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or place me in isolation as a suspicious outsider .
But I ’ ve already signed up for the Alibaba app , and it rated me green .
If I can go back to Beijing next week and use my new national green rating , I might finally see my own house again .

Since the outbreak of the coronavirus epidemic now known as COVID-19, China has split into hundreds of thousands of isolated cells. Across China, apartment complexes, villages, and whole cities closed themselves off to the world for weeks. At the height of the quarantine, I needed a ration ticket to go outside.
Since the outbreak of the coronavirus epidemic now known as COVID-19, China has split into hundreds of thousands of isolated cells. Across China, apartment complexes, villages, and whole cities closed themselves off to the world for weeks. At the height of the quarantine, I needed a ration ticket to go outside.
In a movie, there would have been loudspeakers all over town, blaring something like: “All citizens are confined to their homes by order of the district commissar.” In real-life China, new rules arrived like a rumor: Mrs. W, whose family I was visiting, got a text message from the company that runs her apartment building. These are the people you’d normally talk to about the plumbing or a squeaky elevator. Imagine your co-op board declaring martial law.
We did get the loudspeakers, eventually, but I’ll get to that later on.
In this city, quarantine came in two waves. The first lasted from Jan. 25 to Feb. 3. At that point, life was fraught but relatively normal. But from Feb. 5, true lockdown came and with it being confined to the house.
Who was really keeping us inside and why? I never really found out. I never really found out what the rules were, for that matter. But I can tell you what I saw myself and a bit of what I heard from friends.
A man wears a protective mask as he runs past red lanterns at a canceled Spring Festival event at a park in Beijing on Feb. 8.
The first wave
I was visiting friends in a city of about half a million in Zhejiang province for the Chinese New Year when state media first reported the scale of the outbreak on Jan. 25.
When we saw the outbreak reported as an emergency, we were relieved. It had been obvious for days that something very serious was happening in Wuhan, in the central province of Hubei, and that Lunar New Year travel was going to bring the problem to the rest of China. State media had played down the story, encouraging people to carry on with holiday plans and allowing the infection to spread.
I’d planned to return to my home in Beijing at the end of the week, but fearing infection on the train, I decided to stay longer.
The government sprang into action. Public health messages encouraged residents to take ordinary precautions: Stay indoors as much as possible, avoid crowded places, wear masks, and wash hands. We went outside for exercise and visited vegetable markets. On the whole, compliance seemed high—by the second or third day, almost everyone we saw wore a mask, and people gave each other a wide berth.
I saw pictures of red propaganda banners with messages like: “To eat together is to seek death. To visit relatives is to harm them.”
The same day, across China but especially in the provinces of Henan and Zhejiang near the epicenter, villages took quick action to stop people from gathering for traditional new year’s activities, including visiting relatives. They used strong language: I saw pictures of red propaganda banners with messages like: “To eat together is to seek death. To visit relatives is to harm them.”
On Jan. 30, we went out for a drive and saw our first checkpoints. On country roads, we also saw red banners with similar messages to those in the online images. Smaller checkpoints appeared at every village, housing compound, or cul-de-sac. These usually consisted of two people in yellow vests—often nondescript younger men but in other cases older people—and a folding table. At major intersections and at highway onramps and offramps, we had to pass larger checkpoints manned by four to five people wearing police uniforms or white lab coats. We were allowed to enter and walk around a larger town with a historic center and permitted to use the highway, both times after temperature checks, but were turned away from another village by a guard who appeared to think we were idiots to have gone for a pleasure drive.
We were mostly reassured by all this—maybe more so because it didn’t really affect us. Other places, especially villages, seemed to be panicking, closing themselves off to outsiders. Friends sent photos of bulldozers digging up the roads into villages. A few videos passed around online showed men with spears posted at village entrances as if they were trying to catch a werewolf.
Many places reportedly began searching for people who had escaped the quarantine and were hiding. Other banners we saw on social media carried messages like: “Those who have been to Hubei and do not report themselves are the enemy within.”
It was clear that there was no such thing as a national plan—just thousands upon thousands of local officials, businesses, and village heads scrambling to respond.
The tempo of response wasn’t set by the virus—if it were, Wuhan would have been quarantined before millions of people left for the Lunar New Year—but by messages from Beijing. As President Xi Jinping called for “boldness,” and then a few days later warned that those who did not show boldness would be punished and finally declared a “people’s war” on the virus, local governments moved from inaction to aggressive public health messaging to locking down most of China.
As often happens in China, they never got around to telling us what the rules were. We could see the roadblocks, and heard rumors of people being locked into, or out of, places, but were left guessing about what we were and weren’t allowed to do.
For the time being, we could still walk by the river. We noticed that the flower shops were closed, but they left funeral arrangements outside on an honesty box system. Other families were evidently more cautious: Sitting on our 16th-floor balcony one sunny afternoon, the air was suddenly cut by a young boy’s voice repeatedly howling: “I need to go out and play! I need to go out and play! I need to go out and play! I need to go out and play!”
Airport staff bid farewell to medical team members before their departure for Shiyan in Hubei province from Nanning, China, on Feb. 12.
The second wave
It was around Feb. 3 that the government asked everyone in the city to stop going outside. In an online notice, the city government pleaded for people to stay indoors, suggesting that it would be best to send only one person out every other day, for under two hours. It concluded: “Staying indoors is your contribution to the Party and the Country.” But the message did not say that these measures were mandatory, and our evening walks by the river didn’t seem like much of a risk—especially because in the whole area around the city there were only four cases of the virus. We went out again, and nobody said anything.
But we started to notice mysterious barricades going up around neighboring housing compounds. From our 16th-floor window, they didn’t appear to be intended to block people but cars. It made us wonder what was coming next.
In the small Hubei city of Shiyan, under full quarantine, a friend told me that on the same day, the government also called for people to stop going outside. A poem was broadcast over local public address systems: “If you have a grain of rice, you can still avoid crowds. If you have one sprig of spring onion, you don’t need to shop for vegetables.”
Things changed again on Feb. 5. We were just about to go out for a walk when Mrs. W told us we weren’t allowed. She showed us a WeChat message from the property management company, explaining that staying indoors was now mandatory and that there was a new ticket system.
We were shocked—we simply couldn’t believe that the property management company could force us to stay inside. Our first impulse was to go downstairs and see if anyone stopped us—but Mrs. W was dead set against trying, warning that we would use all the tickets for the next few days, that we would all get in trouble. In the end, we didn’t make it to the elevator. A little later, we heard the tinny sound of a roving police car with an announcement on loop, repeating the city government’s pleading message from Feb. 3.
There was nowhere we could confirm this officially in print. The city government’s website boasted that it was working hard to fulfill Xi’s call to obstruct and treat and, again, pleaded for us to stay inside. The car-borne loudspeakers started to mention criminal penalties for “breaking the rules”—but no one ever told us any rules besides the property management company.
In the end, it wasn’t Xi or the city or the coronavirus or even the property management company that kept us inside on Feb. 5—it was Mrs. W. The fear that traveled down the system eventually became her fear of trouble with the local authorities, and she made sure that her children and I did what we were asked.
A Chinese worker wears a protective suit as he stands outside an office building in Beijing while checking people entering on Feb. 10.
Staying in
Were they really enforcing the ticket system?
For three days, we sat by the window in the living room, trying to figure out what was happening outside. This turned into keeping score with pedestrians. A middle-aged woman wandering by the river was a point for us. A cop was a point for the tickets. When we stopped seeing people, we started counting cars. Mrs. W went to buy vegetables once and told us things were very strict.
With the city quiet, nature started to move back in. By the third day, the apartment was full of birdsong, even on the 16th floor. One day, an eagle flew by outside.
Finally, on Feb. 8, we decided to try using a ticket. It was the Lantern Festival, the last day of the traditional Lunar New Year festival, and as it was getting dark, we took a new ticket and some garbage as an excuse. Two of us went downstairs—and we got out! Maybe it was the holiday, but we found a lone guard at the entrance to our building, who barely looked up as we passed.
We found the city empty and barricaded. The table checkpoints we’d seen before had been replaced with bigger ones with tents, most manned by at least three black-clad men. The tent at our building advertised local beer. We managed a tense walk by the river, trying to keep out of sight among the trees. But the only people we passed were a few couples walking and a middle-aged man doing exercise. A few plainclothes guards standing on the bluffs above seemed to notice but not to care.
But the next day, the system was back in full force. The refrigerator had broken overnight, and we wanted to take some food to Mrs. W’s office, so we set out again in her car. We found three guards at the entrance, who told Mrs. W she’d been going out too often and that three people was too many. “If upstairs finds out, they’ll blame us,” they said. She went out, and we went back upstairs.
A woman wearing a protective face mask uses her cell phone while riding a train in Shanghai on Feb. 20.
A journey to Shanghai
Finally, on Feb. 10, I had to leave—unless I made it to Shanghai, my visa would expire. I wasn’t entirely sure that I would be allowed to enter Shanghai or that I would be allowed into the apartment I’d arranged to stay in. But I didn’t have a choice.
I needed Mrs. W to give me a ride to a train station out of town, and a friend in the police told her that we could go but she might not be able to return. He suggested that she carry the deed to her apartment as proof of residency. In the end, Mrs. W managed to get a permit from a local Communist Party office to make the trip, and it was uneventful. On the town’s main street, we even saw pedestrians, and we passed through only one checkpoint—with a line of trucks waiting to get into town—on the way to the station.
At the station, I was met by workers in hazmat suits and signs warning that anyone who left town would face a 14-day quarantine on their return home. The train was empty, and the app in which I had to apply to enter Shanghai rated me a Class B risk—the good kind. I arrived to an improvised channel and announcements: Class B to the right. Like most of the passengers, I walked through on the right. I saw only one person pulled out of the line, a woman in late middle with heavy bags and the posture of someone who has been carrying heavy things for hours. I assume she was rated Class A—high risk.
Shanghai is almost as quiet as Zhejiang was, but here I’ve been able to take walks. I’ve seen a few cafes and restaurants open. Going into a building here means guards, temperature checks, mask checks, and filling out registration forms. When I leave the apartment complex, the guards give me a paper pass to get back in.
Still, compared with what I heard from smaller cities, towns, and villages, this is an open city. I still need to get back to Beijing, but I’ve read that if I went there, it would mean another 14 days’ isolation.
Doctors check the car information at a novel coronavirus prevention-and-control checkpoint of an expressway exit in Wenzhou, east China's Zhejiang province, on Feb. 8.
Surveillance sets us free
Back in Zhejiang, my friends tell me that the total lockdown ended after nine days on Feb. 14. It was replaced by surveillance and limited lockdowns.
The city asked citizens to register with an online system created by the Zhejiang tech giant Alibaba, which rates infection risks as red, yellow, or green based on a short survey about recent travel, symptoms, and contact with infected people or people from Hubei. My friends got green—and for them, the isolation period is over. According to the news, yellow means seven days’ isolation and red two weeks.
The city is still under guard, and the new system is watching where you go: Entering an apartment compound or a market requires scanning a QR code generated by the app, keeping the yellows and reds inside and generating data about where the greens go. But tourist attractions have reopened, and shops are starting to reopen.
This system is supposed to go national next week, and I can’t wait to be surveilled. For weeks, I’ve been afraid to travel, fearing that any new city could turn me away or place me in isolation as a suspicious outsider. But I’ve already signed up for the Alibaba app, and it rated me green. If I can go back to Beijing next week and use my new national green rating, I might finally see my own house again.