Benazir

2/20/08

I remember the first time I saw Benazir Bhutto: she was wearing a green and white shalwar kameez, and a white dupatta covered her hair. I remember the spot where our paths crossed: by the 7-11 on JFK Street, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She was easily distinguishable among the jeans and T-shirts that comprised the ordinary garb among the people who usually frequented Harvard Square. Too shy to acknowledge that I recognized her, I continued on my way, thinking only that I had just passed within inches of one of the most famous Muslim women in the world.

It was late April, 2005. Bhutto had returned to Harvard, her alma mater as well as mine, to deliver a speech at Harvard Law School. I believe she may have paid a nostalgic visit to Eliot House, her residence at Harvard as an upperclassman, which is where I also lived at Harvard as an upperclassman. I had actually been on my way back to Eliot House when I spotted her. When I returned to my room, I elatedly told my roommates that I had just seen Benazir Bhutto. Puzzled expressions greeted this declaration. Only one of them—a government and political sciences major—knew who she was. Choruses of “Well, that’s cool,” ensued when my roommates understood Bhutto’s fame and her role in politics, and then the conversation turned to whether Eliot House’s dining hall had offered better food in Bhutto’s day than it did in ours.

The next day, Bhutto was scheduled to lecture on “Pakistan and the War Against Terrorism” at Harvard Law School. I showed up early, determined to get a seat in the lecture hall, as I had been anticipating a huge crowd. The hall was half empty, a stark contrast to when President Musharraf had delivered a speech at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government in September, 2002. That time, I had waited in a line that snaked around the block for four hours with my friends, and unfortunately, the hall was filled before we even got within ten feet of the entrance. Bhutto’s speech did not attract as much attention; she was barely known to many of my undergraduate and graduate friends. I found a seat easily, choosing not to sit closer to her, but somewhere in the middle of the room. I wanted to distance myself from this woman who inspired such conflicting feelings in me. While I admired her for being the first female leader of a Muslim nation, I remained critical of her for not doing enough for ordinary Pakistanis in the way of education, health care, and human rights, and for allowing corruption to mar her government. I awaited her speech with ambivalence.

When Bhutto began to talk, I immediately recognized that she was an accomplished rhetorician. She did not abide by the topic, but her charm and charisma were irrefutable. Instead of discoursing on Pakistan’s pivotal role in the war against terrorism, she went into detail about the accusations that had haunted her time as prime minister. She asserted that her husband had been imprisoned unlawfully, and half the speech was then dedicated to refuting allegations of corruption against her government. Although I was still skeptical that her government was blameless, I had to concede that she knew how to argue her points. Her rhetorical style complimented her image of a sophisticated, astute politician who remained connected to her Pakistani roots. I left that lecture amazed at the persistence of a woman who defied her critics, vigorously defended her husband against corruption charges even in the face of mounting evidence against him, and maintained that she was still the best hope for a country in constant political turmoil. Despite my reservations, she had won me over—just a little bit.

Two and a half years later, Benazir’s death has immortalized her. The Crimson, Harvard University’s daily newspaper, featured several articles about her after her death. When I returned to Harvard after winter break, many of my classmates asked me about my reaction to Bhutto’s death. I answered their questions in a general way, stating only that a democratic election had been thwarted in Pakistan yet again. I did not tell them that the day of her death, I watched the tapes of her last speech and the moments leading up to her death over and over again, numb with disbelief. There was an ineffable quality about her that attracted me and gave me cause to mourn. Perhaps she had been right that spring day in 2005, I thought, and I mourned for a potential hope for democracy and change in Pakistan that had just been extinguished. What I remembered about Benazir Bhutto was not the accusations of her critics, but my chance encounter with a courageous Pakistani woman on the streets of Cambridge.