Aboard the Democracy Train (6 page)

Benazir’s grandfather – endowed by the British with the title, Sir Shahnawaz Bhutto – had amassed land in three districts of Sindh and Balochistan. To top that, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s farcical land reforms had left the Bhuttos intact as the top landowners in Sindh.

In the absence of land reforms, peasants were born into slavery and their children died repaying their debts. If they were lucky, they fled to the cities to join the ranks of the jobless poor.

Presently, the big feudal lords in the Sindh – only five percent of whom own 22 per cent of the most fertile lands – have entirely shifted their residences from the crumbling villages to the cities. A stroll along Karachi’s Defence Society or Lahore’s Gulberg area reveals their elite mansions, armed guards, Pajero jeeps and satellite dishes. They have left the rural areas of Pakistan in neglect, without water, electricity, sewerage and roads and a deteriorated law and order situation.

In 1988, as Benazir Bhutto began her election campaign, she pledged a radical transformation of the system. The situation was not without irony. As the “Democracy Train” sped across Sindh, Benazir appealed for votes from downtrodden peasants who worked on her family’s ancestral lands. On the other hand,
her privileged background seemed guaranteed to maintain the status quo.

In January 1989, as Benazir started the year as the nation’s first woman prime minister, I flew from Karachi to her party stronghold in Khairpur. Looking between the whirring blades of the helicopter at the dusty town, dotted with palm trees, I sensed the excitement down below.

Indeed, Benazir’s presence was everywhere. Photographs of her head – modestly draped – and wide eyes lined with kohl adorned hand-painted portraits, posters and campaign banners. Although local tradition keeps Sindhi women invisible in the towns, thousands of veiled women had queued at the polls to elect their first woman prime minister.

People in the close-knit community received me warmly, hoping that I would convey the hopes they pinned on Benazir and the PPP candidates she had nominated. The names of the victors were written in bold chalk on cement teahouses while party flags adorned the mud-brick buildings in a show of joyous exuberance.

My welcome as a woman reporter appeared to be a sign of changing times. Apparently guessing that I was a journalist from Karachi, jubilant crowds, waving PPP flags on pick-up trucks, cheered as party workers escorted me to the homes of their leaders.

In silent wonder I walked into the humble, mud-walled
autaq
(annexe) of Pervaiz Ali Shah, the PPP candidate who had defeated Pir Pagara – the entrenched feudal lord and spiritual leader of the district.

With haughty eyes and curling moustache, Pagara looks every bit the part of a Moghul emperor. His empire consists of thousands of armed devotees known as
hurs
, ready to defend him at his beck and call. Pagara is a “king-maker” in Pakistan’s politics and his humiliating defeat at the hands of a
PPP “commoner” like Pervaiz Ali Shah was a dramatic show of “people power.”

In 1988, Benazir’s strategy had been to allocate tickets to lower-middle-class loyalists who had been jailed by Gen. Zia ul Haq. Avoiding the term “revenge,” she had focused on rewarding candidates who had made sacrifices for the party during martial law. In turn, the masses who had suffered under military rule had poured out in their millions to elect Benazir and her party nominees.

So blind was the adulation for Benazir in rural Sindh that we journalists joked that she could have nominated a lamp post on the PPP ticket and got it elected to government.

The mood was even more ecstatic in Benazir Bhutto’s hometown, Larkana. There, the stout, bespectacled PPP lawyer, Deedar Hussein Shah had snatched victory from the quintessential feudal lord of Sindh, Mumtaz Ali Bhutto. Mumtaz was Benazir’s relative and became the chief minister of Sindh under her father Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. And yet, Mumtaz had contested and
lost
his Larkana seat to the PPP candidate Benazir nominated – Deedar Hussain Shah. Adding insult to injury, Deedar Shah had previously served as the manager for Mumtaz’s ancestral lands.

Indeed, all across Sindh, big feudal landlords discovered the bitter taste of being defeated by PPP “commoners,” nominated by Benazir. It was an experience they were not likely to forget.

Years later, as I flew to Larkana to interview the aristocratic Mumtaz Bhutto at his ancestral home, I found he had also not forgiven the PPP “riff raff” for their challenge to the feudal lords.

With his cool demeanor and long moustache, Mumtaz spoke slow, clipped sentences in British English. It established his credentials as a barrister-at-law from Lincoln’s Inn, UK. Well-spoken and comfortable with hosting Western diplomats in his Karachi mansion, Mumtaz was just as at ease in his
sprawling estate as in the otherwise poor and underdeveloped Larkana.

The Larkana feudal had stayed away from Benazir ’s attempts to reorganize the PPP after her father was hanged by the military. Instead, he had watched incredulously as Benazir had worked her way up through the old boy network of entrenched male feudals.

Mumtaz came to receive me at his gates in Larkana after my hosts dropped me off from the airport. We walked back to his magnificent estate. Rows of elderly men touched his feet in reverence all the way back to the house. I felt guilty that grown men prostrated themselves. But the Larkana feudal walked erect, scarcely looking down at the emaciated peasants. This was the traditional welcome for a man who owns land in Larkana, Jacobabad and Shahdadkot and in the adjoining Balochistan province.

Sitting in the shade in Mumtaz Bhutto’s brick courtyard where the afternoon sun gently sizzled, we chatted after I finished interviewing him. An avid reader of
Dawn
, he told me he was familiar with my name. It did not surprise me, knowing that Western-educated feudal politicians and bureaucrats alike read the newspaper for which I wrote. At the same time, he complained that politicians shot into prominence – and I knew he hinted at Benazir – because of the media attention they received.

Perhaps the inordinate attention Benazir had received in the press after her exile overseas had seemed excessive to her uncle. In particular, he seemed irked by how green Benazir was for Pakistan’s seamy politics.

With a sardonic smile, Mumtaz told me that when Benazir had arrived from London to lead the Pakistani nation of over 100 million, her youth and unfamiliarity in getting the top job as prime minister made her seem like “Alice in Wonderland.”

“You know that when Benazir first came to me, she didn’t know anyone. Instead, she asked that I introduce her to people,” Mumtaz told me.

“Did you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied in his non-committal way.

But I knew that, as a political rival, Mumtaz was least likely to introduce his ambitious niece to powerbrokers.

Mumtaz was a man who belonged to another era, another system. His style was in sharp contrast to Benazir’s father, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. Bhutto had used his fiery speeches to empower peasants and the working class, who had, for centuries, cringed before the aristocracy. Apart from being a demagogue, Bhutto had left lasting effects. My visit to Larkana – the ancestral home of the Bhuttos – gave me an insight into the contrasting style of the rival politicians from the best-known political family of Sindh.

We sat in the courtyard where the sounds of chirping birds and the fresh country air made me glad to be out of Karachi city. As the servants brought tea, Mumtaz poked fun at Benazir’s poor knowledge of her mother tongue, Sindhi. It was an issue I could identify with myself: like Benazir, I was born a Sindhi in Karachi. Being primarily educated in Western institutions, my parents had never encouraged me to learn my own language. But Mumtaz was unforgiving of his niece.

“When Benazir comes to Larkana and I hear her speeches in Sindhi blaring out from the loudspeakers, I want to cover my ears,” he laughed sardonically. He saw me smile, in spite of myself.

Mumtaz had reserved his deepest contempt for the commoners who joined the PPP under Benazir. I could see how difficult it had been for him to digest the victory of a PPP candidate of “inferior standing” like Deedar Hussain Shah, who won against him in Larkana.

“You know that fellow [Deedar Shah] used to be my
kumdar
(manager of lands) – who waited outside my office to get my attention,” he told me. “And now he has the nerve to stand against me,” he added in disgust.

That came as news to me. I knew Deedar Shah as one of the best-read parliamentarians in the Sindh Assembly.

We left the ancestral courtyard after Mumtaz offered to take me on a tour of his ancestral lands in Larkana in his Pajero jeep. It was an unusual move for a feudal to drive a vehicle with an unveiled woman, but there were important things on my host’s mind.

As we drove through his constituency, he told me to note the broken roads and a gaping gutter in Naudero, Larkana where a child had fallen a few days ago. He cited them as examples of how his humble PPP rival Deedar Shah had failed to fulfill the needs of the community.

Both Mumtaz Bhutto and his PPP opponent, Deedar Hussein Shah, knew from experience that getting funds from the Punjab was like getting blood out of a stone. Deedar Shah grew hoarse in the Sindh Assembly as he appealed for development funds for interior Sindh. Eventually he quit politics and became a judge.

As a prominent feudal lord, Mumtaz claimed he would have more leverage with the federal government in getting funds for rural Sindh. That, I suspected, was true.

While Benazir’s rise to power signified hope for the downtrodden people of Pakistan, the reactions were totally different in Karachi. By 1988, Karachi was a city deeply divided on ethnic lines.

The Mohajirs who formed the majority in Karachi had not voted for Benazir’s PPP. Instead, they had almost entirely voted for the ethnic party – the MQM.

The whole-scale victory given by the people of interior Sindh to Benazir became the signal for the MQM to mobilize against her rule on grounds of nepotism, corruption and injustice.

For the 1½ years that Benazir was mostly in Islamabad – about a thousand miles north of Karachi – I reported from my southern home-base about the ethnic violence, rapes and murders that burst open like gaping sores. As the ethnic riots rocked the city, Benazir’s fledgling government – which had barely begun to function – was already threatened with collapse.

Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto made brief trips to her newly-constructed Bilawal House residence in Karachi to chair meetings of the low and middle-income PPP men who were newly elected
from interior Sindh. Her party men called her “
Mohtarma
” (esteemed lady) – an aristocratic image she carefully cultivated to offset her youth and femininity.

Faced with formidable problems and without the skills learnt by her father in the male-dominated feudal society, Benazir frantically grappled with the best way to lead her party and the nation.

In her first year, Benazir had abdicated some of her responsibilities to the man she had married the year before – Asif Zardari. It was an arranged marriage, the “price” many felt she had to pay in the male-dominated society.

Asif was a cheerful, energetic man from a business family whose influence grew in proportion to the rise in Benazir ’s political career. His penchant for taking kickbacks from large corporations quickly earned him the nickname of “Mr Ten Per Cent” and gave cannon fodder to Benazir’s ethnic foes and to feudal lords, whose opposition mounted with each passing day.

From the start, Benazir faced an impossible task. Starting from day one, people mobbed the newly elected PPP legislators for employment, plots and permits. Years of deprivation had made everyone needier. In the forefront were
jiyalas
– PPP workers who claimed to have performed major sacrifices for the party and now looked for reward.

As Benazir appointed PPP members to government ministries, the more unscrupulous ones began to fill their pockets. Middlemen close to the PPP government took kickbacks for government contracts and “sold” jobs to those who could afford to pay for them.

In Sindh, the feudal lords, whose patronage system had been temporarily disturbed by the PPP “riff raff,” watched in amusement as the
jiyalas
fought for a share of the pie.

The hardest hitting jibe came from the feudal politician, Pir Pagara, who had suffered the indignity of being defeated by a commoner. Vindicated by the chaos that had resulted from Benazir’s rule, Pagara made comments that were carried by the Sindhi press: “How can those who’re hungry give anything to others?”

In Benazir’s first tenure, I took a trip back to her hometown in Larkana. Mostly, I wanted to find out how her party members coped in interior Sindh. Traveling through the narrow Larkana Road, with thick leafy trees on both sides, I headed to the “Placement Bureau.” This was the office set up by the PPP to help find jobs for the villagers.

Arriving at the party office, I stood quietly by the door and watched. I wanted to take the bureau chief, PPP Secretary General Ahmed Ali Soomro by surprise. He couldn’t have seen me anyway – having disappeared behind swarms of energetic Sindhi youth who pushed job applications in his face.

It was a while before Soomro saw me and straightened up from behind the crowd to welcome me inside. He apologized profusely for the chaos that had prevented him from seeing me.

“Please, don’t even think about it,” I told him.

Indeed, those few minutes in the Placement Bureau had enabled me to witness the tremendous hopes and expectations that the local Sindhis placed in Benazir Bhutto and her party men.

That evening, Soomro and his PPP colleagues came to see me at my hotel in Larkana. After the hot day, we had dinner on the hotel roof where the evening breeze felt welcome. I probed about what ailed the fledgling PPP government.

“Frankly speaking, it’s a hopeless situation,” Soomro admitted somberly. “There aren’t enough jobs and there are too many unemployed people,” the young PPP men conceded.