Since the dramatic killing of Osama bin Laden, Pakistan is increasingly in the news. According to the bulletins, it is the land which may yet fall into the hands of absolutists, terrorist fundamentalists. I understand what the reporters mean, of course. However, I also smile at the irony.

My visit to Pakistan took place almost three years ago. I must admit that it was a sustained lesson in relativism.

The glamorous, rich and populist Benazir Bhutto had recently been assassinated. I had an inner feeling that if I wanted to visit Pakistan I should do so when it was still relatively safe.

The taxi driver from the airport was in a talkative mood. As soon as he found out my nationality he surprised me by mentioning the name Agatha Barbara. He remembered a visit I had long forgotten.

Being interested in history and the origins of words, I knew that the word “orange” had its roots in the Indian sub-continent and later entered the European languages through Iran.

But my driver, an Iranian, told me that one of the Iranian words for orange is “Malta”. And it is the juiciest and sweetest of the several kinds available.

It was after this conversation that he offered me a bargain fare, or at least that is what it seemed until I learned, later, that I had given him the average takings for two-thirds of the week.

All things in life are relative. Having just come from the shambles of Kabul, in Afghanistan, my first impressions of Pakistan’s capital, Islamabad, were that it was a picture-perfect city. A four-lane motorway was being refurbished and widened.

The central strips were lined with trees. The roundabouts were full of flowers. Large impressive buildings dotted the main thoroughfares, some parks were immaculate, the mosques were magnificent.

After three days, on my return trip to the airport, I was rather less convinced that it was picture perfect.

But it was still an impressive city. Above all, the lessons in relativism were drilled and driven home in countless ways, some humorous, some sombre, others a political eye-opener.

The security at the hotel should have startled me. Getting in was very much like queuing into a gate at the airport. Outside security was physical and technological.

I could see inside the security room and noticed that the undercarriage of the car was on screen. Boot and engine were sniffed by dogs.

How could I have anticipated that a few weeks later this very hotel would be completely obliterated by an overwhelming truck bomb?

Notwithstanding all that, however, I did not think it unusual having just come from Kabul. Almost everything is relative.

Take the time in Lahore when I wanted time alone at the Bashahi Mosque, built in 1673, one of the world’s largest historic mosques and resting place of the famous philosopher-poet Iqbal.

I had taken off my shoes to walk under the domes of red sand and marble. Then Irhan, the world’s most persistent guide, turned up. I offered him 100 rupees to leave me alone and let me savour the spirituality of the place. He informed me helpfully that I was standing right in the centre of a red-light district. I tried to explain to Irhan that it was not my scene and he seemed relieved. “Very good or else nothing left for tip for me”.

Despite his initial diabolical offer, Irhan was a Godsend. Or so it seemed to this student of relativism. He knew the old city like the back of his hand.

However, the political lessons in relativism are the ones that remain vividly etched in memory. This had partly to do with the fact that one of my main teachers was a taxi driver whose forte was not English, while mine was not Urdu.

We communicated mainly by gestures and simple words while he alternated between slamming his foot on the gas and brake pedals, slipping in and out of the back streets, side streets, motorways and railway crossings in Karachi while avoiding, sometimes by a matter of inches, oxen, donkeys and carts piled with people, goods and animals.

But what that conversation, and others, taught me as I travelled through certain cities and got thumbs up/thumbs down in response to the names of certain national politicians, is that the country is not easily assimilated to other democracies. Yes, there is a democratic election process but within the country power and authority do not lie only with the Executive.

As you travel through it, the power of a particular politician waxes and wanes.

No wonder that the then President, now exiled, General Pervez Musharraf exuded strength when I had met him in the European Parliament. His power depended on his personal charisma and the military.

But not even within the security forces does the Executive have the full power. The armed forces are not homogeneous. The intelligence service, which is notorious for the use of all methods of interrogation to obtain information, does not necessarily pass on all the information. It considers itself a power in itself. Not to mention that there are parallel intelligence services whose very existence is denied.

The army is also split. There are elite units and then there are the others.

The news reports may say that the army has been sent to carry out a particular operation but what that means will depend on which section of the army has been dispatched.

Since that visit, three years ago,I have been appointed vice-chairman of the European Parliament delegation for relations with South Asia, which includes Pakistan. What surprises is why the West keeps wondering how bin Laden could have been settled so close to an army base without anyone knowing. The lessons in relativism remain salient, particularly if nuclear-armed Pakistan is not to become absolutist.

Dr Attard Montalto is a Labour member of the European Parliament.