American Identity Distilled: Islamabad Idol

When I first imagined the Diplomatic Enclave, the walled-off sector of the city with all the embassies, I envisioned a square mile of well-irrigated and exquisitely landscaped gardens dotted with mansions. Holland's embassy would rise among a sea of tulips. The British would maintain a Buckingham Palace replica amid a rose garden maze. Maybe the Australians would have a kangaroo preserve in their foyer, the way the MGM hotel in Las Vegas keeps a lion in a plexi-glass cage. Ambassadors would take tea on stone benches, dabbing their foreheads with monogrammed handkerchiefs, engaging it highly diplomatic conversations:

"It is certainly hot in Islamabad."
"It certainly is."
"Soon there will be monsoons, of course."
"Yes, there will be monsoons. In fact, we plan to put up our plastic monsoon dome next week."
"Oh?"
"Indeed. We have an extra one, if you'd like to borrow it. I know yours cracked last year."
"That would be splendid. Iran extends her warmest thanks to Israel."
"The pleasure is Israel's."

And so I was shocked and rather disappointed to discover that once you penetrate the dreary walls and rolls of razor wire and armed guards, you find more dreary walls and rolls of razor wire and armed guards. It is a little like being on the campus of a prison (because, naturally, I've been on the campus of many prisons), where each embassy is it's own gray fortress. Untamed weeds grow in the no man's land that stretches between between the edge of the road and the compound walls.

After I recovered from my disillusionment, I foolishly imagined that I might enter Eden or even Giovanni's Garden if only I could weasel through one more layer of security. And so, the weekend before last, I harvested an occasion to visit the American compound, which includes the embassy, some residences, and the American Club. The event was Islamabad Idol, a karaoke night that riffed off American Idol (reruns of which are, incidentally, on TV nearly every night -- in my world, Melinda Doolittle is still in the running).

The American compound is not so Emerald City so much as it is University of Oklahoma - Stillwater. Think 1970s brick utilitarian construction and grass and some gestures at landscaping in the form of potted ferns. The inside of the American Club building has all the sterility you would expect, replete with picture-free cream walls.

As for Islamabad Idol, it was a strange night. About 30 people stood spread out on a patio that could have comfortably held 150. Nineteen-year-old marines in too-tight shorts and Hawaiian shirts sang, "You Raise Me Up," and NSYNC's "Bye, Bye, Bye," with too little ironic remove. Intermittently, two young women, who dubbed themselves The Filipino Girls, did synchronized dances to "Let Me Clear My Throat," and I wondered what it would mean to be compelled to choreograph and practice their act for such a small and strangely desperate audience.