Daughter of the east by benazir bhutto
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After we had worked out the rest of the itinerary, the other PPP leaders returned to Pakistan to start organising everything, though the final date of my own return was kept a secret. By this time we’d learned not to give Zia a chance to make preparations. We got an unexpected bonus when this element of secrecy did our publicity work for us. All over Pakistan, people started a guessing game. ’She is coming on March 23, Pakistan Day,’ one popular rumour ran. ’No, she is coming on April 4, the an-niversary of her father’s death,’ others insisted. Even the press carried the latest speculations. Threats on my life began. A PPP supporter in Pakistan forwarded a message from an army officer in Sindh. ’Tell her not to come,’ the message said. ’They plan to kill her.’ Other messages of the imminent threat to my life were coming in from Punjab, from the Frontier, from all over the country: ’A woman in politics is more vulnerable than you know. Don’t come back.’ My private telephone began ringing at odd hours, early in the morning and late at night. When I picked it up, there was no one there. A friend telephoned to tell me that a Pakistani Major carrying my picture had been intercepted at Heathrow Airport and turned back. I didn’t know whether the threats were real, or whether the regime was just trying to intimidate me into not returning. But there was one very ominous sign. Noor Mohammed, my father’s old and trusted former valet, had been brutally murdered in Karachi in January. Before his death, I had received a letter from his young niece and ward, Shahnaz, telling me that Noor Mohammed was very anxious to speak to me and to please tele-phone him. The regime was after him, he’d told her, because he ’knew something’. I had called immediately from London, but it was too late. Not only Noor Mohammed but also Shahnaz, a young girl of eleven, was dead, brutally stabbed to death. Shortly thereafter, I received a letter from Noor Mohammed himself, posted before his death. Again, there was
I flew to Washington, wanting to draw attention to our forthcoming test of the regime’s will to democracy. The people of Pakistan had been waiting for nine years for elections and the, reinstatement of a democratic government. Who knew what my return would trigger among them and what the response would be from the regime? Zia’s Prime Minister Moham-med Khan Junejo had gone on record to assure me I would not be arrested. But who knew what Zia would do? In Washington I had meetings with Senator Pell, Senator Kennedy and Congressman Stephen Solarz, the bright, energetic Representative who had monitored the recent elections in the Philippines which brought Cor-azon Aquino democratically into office and who had become a personal friend of mine. They were very supportive of my return to Pakistan. They, too, were pressing for free elections and the restoration of human rights to Pakistan and promised to monitor the situation there closely following my return. Mark Siegel, a political consultant whom I had met on my visit to Washington in 1984, was also very helpful, persuading elected officials and other influential people to write to Pakistani officials, warning them of grave consequences if I were mistreated. As an added precaution, Mark bought me a bullet-proof vest. Members of the American press were intrigued by the similarities be-tween my approaching battle with Zia and Corazon Aquino’s challenge to Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines. Their views of the similarities be-tween Mrs Aquino and me were a bit romantic, however. Yes, we were both women from well-known land-owning families who had been edu-cated in the US. Both of us had lost loved members of our families to dictators - Mrs Aquino her husband, and I, my father and brother. Mrs Aquino had fought Marcos with ’people power to orchestrate a peaceful revolution just as I was hoping to do in Pakistan. But the similarities between us ended there. In the Philippines, Corazon Aquino had enjoyed the support of both the military and the church in her move to oust the Marcos regime. I had neither in Pakistan. The Generals opposed me because I threatened the corrupt system by which they received discounts on land, free cars, and exemptions on customs duties. And while some of the religious establish-ment was with me, the fundamentalist mullahs supported Zia’s dictator-ship. Most important of all, the Americans had served notice on Marcos in the Philippines, and even provided transport out of the country for him, his family and entourage. The Reagan administration, however, was solidly behind Zia. Pending before Congress was a six year 4.2 billion dollar military and economic aid package to Pakistan, strongly supported by the
TAKING ON THE DICTATOR Reagan White House. I could expect little real help from America, except for the good wishes and moral support of various members of the US government and the press. ’We’ll go with you,’ several correspondents said to me. ’The Foreign press are the best insurance.’ I thanked them, trying not to remind myself that opposition leader Benigno Aquino had also been accompanied back to the Philippines by the press when he was shot to death at the airport before he even set foot on Philippino soil. Someone had slipped a note under my door at the Barbican which read: ’Remember Aquino.’ I didn’t know whether I would live or die when I returned to Pakistan. Nor did I want to think about it much. Whatever fate God had in store for me would await me no matter what I did or where I went. But nonetheless I wanted to fulfil a commitment I had made to my father to perform the Umrah, a religious pilgrimage, in his name. Almost im-mediately after I returned from Washington I flew to Mecca, accompanied by some friends. Every Muslim who is able must make the journey to Mecca once in his life to perform the greater pilgrimage during the month of Haj. The Umrah, which takes only a few hours rather than four days, can be made at any time of year. I had had the intention of going on Umrah on behalf of my father since 1978. Twice Zia’s so-called Islamic regime had denied me permis-sion to travel to Mecca. Not knowing what lay ahead for me now, this was my last opportunity. In Mecca my friends and I changed into the white, seamless robes of the pilgrims and began the rituals. ’Allah, You are the Peace and from You all Peace proceeds. Oh Lord of ours, greet us with Peace,’ we prayed together in Arabic at the Gate of Peace, the entrance to the vast white marble courtyard of the Holy Mosque. Seven times we circled the Kaaba, the black structure fifty feet high and thirty-five feet long which Muslims believe marks the site where Abraham built the first house of worship dedicated to a single God. ’Allahu akbar - God is great,’ we recited each time we passed the Black Stone set in the Kaaba’s southeastern corner. The Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him, had kissed the small stone when he helped to place it in the Kaaba in the 7th century. I felt my burdens lighten as we performed the rituals of the Umrah. At each stop, I prayed for my father, for the other martyrs struck down by the regime, for my brother Shah Nawaz, for the men and women still in prison. I felt uplifted by the religious experience, and stayed an extra day to perform the Umrah a second time for myself. Spiritually cleansed I returned to the world of politics and flew on to the Soviet Union where I had been invited by a women’s group. Going to Russia, I hoped, would deflect the critics in the PPP who continued to accuse me of being too pro-American. I needed my return to Pakistan to have as solid a backing as possible.
Anticipation of the PPP’s successful challenge to Zia in the international press was enormous. But I had no idea what to expect in Pakistan. The years of repression might have sapped many of the people’s will to resist. In Prisoner Without a Name, Cell Without a Number, Jacobo Timermar, had observed the stages oppressed populations go through: anger, fear, apathy. Would the people respond to the PPP’s call or had they been bludgeoned into a silence necessary for survival? A whole generation of Pakistanis had grown up under the shadow of Martial Law. A child of ten in July, 1977, had grown into a young adult of nineteen, unaware of his or her elementary rights. Would they want to recapture what they had never had? We had put ourselves on the line by announcing our intention to return. The whole world would be watching. ’How many people do you think will meet us in Lahore?’ I asked Jehangir Badir, President of the Punjab PPP, who was flying back just ahead of us. ’500,000,’ he said. ’That’s much too high a number,’ I cautioned Jahangir. ’But there will be at least 500,000,’ he protested. ’You haven’t even left London and we have reports that people are already streaming into Lahore.’ ’But we can’t be sure,’ I told him. ’If the press asks you, say that we expect 100,000, not 500,000. That way if the crowd is estimated at 470,000, no one can say it was smaller than expected.’ There was no flight from Europe to Lahore, so on April 9 I flew with Bashir Riaz, Nahid, Safdar, my schoolfriend Humaira and many others from London to Dhahran in Saudi Arabia to connect with a PIA flight to Lahore. The PIA crew was very co-operative and allowed the party sup- 275 TAKING ON THE DICTATOR porters on the flight to festoon the aeroplane with PPP banners, flags and stickers that had been forbidden for nine years. I can’t imagine what the other passengers felt. There were around thirty members of the PPP on the plane along with members of the press and the flight seemed more like a special charter. The mood of celebration among us was infectious, though always tinged with the spectre of danger. During our stopover in Dhahran, the Saudi authorities took me to a special rest house and isolated the others in a waiting room alone. Later I found out that the Pakistani Ambassador had flown in to Dhahran at the same time and the Saudis were concerned with our security. The threats from Pakistan escalated as well. Nahid, Bashir and one other in our party received word in Dhahran that they were on the regime’s list for immediate arrest. There were more entreaties for me not to return as well. I tried to put the danger out of my mind and worked on my speech as we flew on through the dawn towards Lahore. The regime was reportedly stopping busloads of PPP supporters from crossing the borders of Balu-chistan, Sindh and the Frontier. None of us had any idea what would greet us when we reached Pakistan.
was like that of a giant carnival or festival. Mrs Niazi, my husband Salim and I came to Lahore from Islamabad to receive her and none of us had ever seen any-thing like it. Camps were set up all over the city with food and drink. There were food stalls as well along the road to the airport. The whole city was in the hands of the people. Students in Suzuki vans were moving through the streets, singing songs about the Bhuttos, one lovely one in Punjabi: Aaj to ho gai Bhutto, Bhutto - Today, today it’s only Bhutto, Bhutto.’ People kept arriving in cars, in buses, in bullock carts, in trucks, by foot. I saw a whole caravan of buses jammed with people, waving banners: ’This bus is from Badin, this bus is from Sanghar.’ After all the long years of repression and ugliness and depression, there was excitement for the first time. No one slept the whole night. We walked around the city and back and forth to the airport along with everyone else. One old man walked with us for a way, tears in his eyes. Another old lady joined us, crying bitterly at times, then smiling. No one had been able to grieve for Mr Bhutto. There had been no formal mourning period. Now people were finally able to express their grief as well as their joy over Benazii s return. Lahore that night was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.
are the party. The day will come when you will see Mr Bhutto’s name printed freely. Now that day had come and everyone’s emotions were pouring out. Samiya: The authorities were still putting huge iron bars and barbed wire barricades at the airport to keep the crowds back during Benazir’s arrival. Even the airport’s entry and departure routes had been restructured. At 4.00 am we all gathered at a rendezvous point. The administration was allowing only two hundred into the airport and we were given passes. They took us into the airport by a back way. I had a lump in my throat. We were all so happy we didn’t know what was happening to us. Dr Abbasi: But our happiness mingled with fear. We were so afraid for Benazii s security that we all arranged to throng around her and form a human shield. There were so many people, so many, many people gathering in Lahore. Who knew who was among them? TAKING ON THE DICTATOR The pilot’s voice crackled over the public address system in the plane just before 7.00 am. ’We are beginning our descent into Lahore,’ the pilot said. ’We welcome Miss Benazir Bhutto back to Pakistan.’ A flight attendant came to my seat. ’The pilot has just received word from the ground that there are one million people waiting at the airport,’ she said. One million people. I looked out of the window, but could see nothing but the vibrant green fields of Punjab. ’Come up to the cockpit and see for yourself,’ the flight attendant said. I peered out of the front of the plane, but could see nothing in the distance but the approaching runway. There were tiny stick figures all around the runway and on the tops of the airport buildings. As we landed, I saw that they were security forces. The precautions were in fact so tight at the airport that all other flights were prevented from landing. ’Nahid, Bashir, Dara. Stay close to me,’ I told those who had been warned that they would be arrested. It was ironic: my supporters crowded around me for my protection, and I kept them close to me for their protection. ’We’re your security,’ the members of the press said. But it was the crush of people outside the airport who turned out to be our security. The immigration authorities were so anxious to get us away from the airport that they conducted their formalities on the plane, quickly stamping all our passports. Home. I was home. As I stepped onto Pakistani soil, I paused to feel the earth under my feet, to breathe the air of which I was a part. I had flown into Lahore many times. I had spent many happy times here. But it was also the city where my father had been condemned to death. Now I was coming back to challenge his murderer, the General who had commit-ted high treason by overthrowing the Constitution. Samiya! Amina! Dr Abbasi! ’I don’t know how we’re going to get out of here, there are so many people,’ Samiya said in the terminal, adding to the garlands of roses around my neck. ’We’re going by truck,’ Jahangir said, leading me to a typically brightly-painted truck, its hand-wrought tin designs gleaming. I gripped the notes for my speech as I looked at the rickety stair leading to the platform which had been built on the top of the truck for me to ride on. I sometimes had nightmares of a stairway I didn’t want to climb, but had to. Suddenly that very stair was in front of me and hundreds of expectant eyes were waiting to watch me climb it. What could I do? We had agreed in London on this mode of trans-port to take me to the Minar-i-Pakistan, the monument my father had built in Lahore to commemorate the declaration which would lead to Pakistan’s birth. I couldn’t change the plan now. There were a million people waiting outside the gates. I put my foot on the first step and 278 RETURN TO LAHORE took a deep breath. ’Bismallah,’ I said to myself. ’In the name of God, I begin.’ There are moments in life which are not possible to describe. My return to Lahore was one of them. The sea of humanity lining the roads, jammed on balconies and roofs, wedged in trees and on lamp-posts, walking along-side the truck and stretching back across the fields, was more like an ocean. The eight mile drive from the airport to the Minar-i-Pakistan in lqbal Park usually takes fifteen minutes. On the unbelievable day of April 10, 1986, it took us ten hours. The figure of one million people at the airport grew to two million then three million by the time we reached the Minar-i-Pakistan. Hundreds of coloured balloons soared into the sky as the airport gates opened. Rose petals, not tear gas, filled the air, showering onto the truck until they rose above my ankles. Garlands of flowers flew through the air. I saw a girl whose brother had been hanged and threw a garland to her. More garlands were thrown onto the truck, as were hundreds of hand-made dupattas and shawls. I put one dupatta after another on my head and slung others on my shoulder. When we passed former political prisoners I recognised in the throng, I threw flowers and the embroidered cloths to them as well as to the families of those who had been hanged or tortured, and the young and very old women who lined the route. The black, green and red colours of the PPP seemed the only colours in Lahore that day. PPP banners and flags billowed in the dry, hot breeze until they formed an almost continuous canopy. People were wearing red, green and black jackets, dupattas, shalwar khameez, hats. Donkeys and water buffalo had PPP ribbons braided into their manes and tails. The same colours rimmed photographs and posters of my father, my mother, my brothers and me. Jeevay, jeevay, Bhutto Jeevay! Live, Live-Bhutto Live!’ the crowds roared in Punjabi, a sentiment that just three months before would have cost them rigorous imprisonment and lashes. ’Munjhe bhen, thunje bhen, Benazir - My sister, your sister Benazir,’ others called out in Sindhi. There were slogans in Urdu, in Pashtu, in every dialect of every region in Pakistan. ’Benazir, ay gi, inqilab ly gi - Benazir will come, revolution will come,’ our supporters had said before my return. Now they called out loudly: ’Benazir ay hai, inqi1ab ly hai - Benazir has come, revolution has come.’ When I waved, the crowds waved. When I clapped my hands over my head as my father had done, the crowds clapped back, their upraised arms undulat-ing like ripples on a vast field of wheat. There were times when I was in detention in Islamabad in that almost empty house that I would wake up in the morning, hearing the roar of a crowd. I would fight the mist in my mind, trying to identify the crowd. 279 TAKING ON THE DICTATOR Who were they shouting for? And what tone were they shouting in? Were they shouting in anger against Zia? Or were they shouting in joy at seeing the doors of Rawalpindi Jail swing open and my father step out? That was not to be. But I continued to hear the roar while I was in Sukkur Jail, in Karachi Central Prison, in detention at Al-Murtaza and 70 Clifton. I would search my mind to identify the sound, but it always eluded me. As I moved through the tunnel of sound in the streets of Lahore on April 10, I suddenly realised that this was the roar I had heard all those times before. I stood on the top of the truck for all ten hours as we inched our way towards the Minar, past the Prime Minister’s quarters at the Governor’s house where our family occasionally stayed but where after my father’s assassination General Zia reportedly wandered sleepless through the cor-ridors with a lamp like Lady Macbeth. We went past the canopy where the statue of Queen Victoria once stood - the only representation left of her in Pakistan since fundamentalist strictures forbid figurative representa-tions in art. Then past the Zamzama, Kim’s gun immortalised by Rudyard Kipling. I felt lighter and lighter, sure that the martyrs who’d given their lives for democracy were walking happily together through the crowd. There was such an atmosphere of victory, of triumph, of vindication over our trials and suffering. ’Zia ul-Haq, we have not accepted you,’ the crowds were crying out. ’We don’t want your hand-picked assemblies. We don’t want your bogus constitution. We don’t want your dictatorship. Our spirit is greater than all your tear gas, lashing racks and bullets. We want elections.’ Though I was totally exposed on the truck, I felt no danger. Only someone who was willing to be tom apart by the crowd could harm me. There was no threat either from the police or the army. Overwhelmed by the crowds, some of our former enemies stayed behind the locked gates of their barracks, while many others came out to join in the celebration. My greatest concern was my voice, which was hoarse from a recent bout of ’flu. Along the route I kept flushing my throat with Disprin and warm water and drinking a glucose solution which my father’s valet Urs had brought with him from Karachi. The sun was beginning to set at the Minar-i-Pakistan by the time we arrived. There was not an inch of free space on the grounds for the hundreds of thousands who had come with us along the route. We barely made it to the stage ourselves. I had no security guards, as I did later, to move me through the crowds. We also had not yet devised the strategy of driving right up to the stage on the truck so that I only needed to step onto the platform. At the Minar, I dismounted with only four or five friends around me, struggling against the surge of the crowd. The crowd meant no harm, but the excitement of the moment was nearing frenzy. The people surged towards me, pushing and shoving, 280 RETURN TO LAHORE trying to break into the circle around me. I thought we were going to die right there, either suffocated or trampled to death. Many seemed to have lost their senses, including a local party leader who was hurling himself against my battered cordon of friends. I had to give him a hard push to snap him out of it. Somehow we made it to the stage where the President of the Punjab PPP had collapsed in exhaustion. ’Perhaps we should discuss security,’ I said, side-stepping him. What a scene greeted me as I looked out over the grounds of Iqbal Park. Across the way, the red sandstone of the Badshahi Mosque, one of the largest mosques in the world, glowed as if on fire in the last rays of the sun. Looming out of the shadows to the right was the Lahore Fort, the Mogul fortress in whose dungeons our supporters had been tortured and had died. And everywhere, on all sides, were people welcoming me home. ’Some people advised me to leave politics,’ I called out in Urdu. ’They warned that I could meet the fate Yüklə 1,3 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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