Benazir Bhutto - SZABIST

As a graduate intern at the Financial Times in the summer of 1987, I was assigned to a lunch where a
man from the Pakistan People’s party (PPP) – her party – asked me if I would like to interview her. Of
course I said yes.
She had just announced her engagement and was sitting serenely in her Kensington flat, surrounded
by lava lamps and bouquets. Although she often appeared cold and imperious, she could also be warm
and girlie, and we struck an instant bond. The resulting interview was my first big article in a national
paper and it would decide my destiny.
At the time, General Zia ul-Haq, her father’s executioner, had been president of Pakistan for a decade.
Zia’s regime had thrived by facilitating America’s efforts to push the Russians out of neighbouring
Afghani-stan, but Benazir was pressing him to hold free multi-party elections.
With all the confidence of my 21 years, I wrote: “There is little doubt that, were fair elections held
tomorrow, she would probably win by a substantial margin. Unfortunately for Ms Bhutto politics in
Pakistan are rarely determined by popularity; but rather by a daunting triumvirate of generals,
businessmen and mullahs with their US sponsors keeping a watchful eye.”
I predicted – wrongly – that “it could be a long time before Ms Bhutto takes her father’s place at the
head of the country”. And I added judgmentally: “If she ever does attain power it is uncertain, given
the vagueness of her policy prescriptions, whether this elegant soft-spoken lady will be able to
deliver.”
Despite my less than friendly verdict, that autumn a large, gold-inscribed invitation to Benazir’s
wedding landed on my mat in a rented room in Walsall. I had moved on from the FT to a traineeship
at Central TV. Our area encompassed the M1 and M6 motorways, where young people were often
killed in drink-driving accidents. There was nothing harder than knocking on the doors of their
families and asking for a photo.
One drizzly December day I drove round and round Spaghetti Junction trying to find the turn-off
for the Birmingham Bullring, where I was assigned to interview two firemen who were trying to
beat the world record for time spent wearing gas masks. It was so cold that the cameras kept
seizing up. By the fifth take even the firemen looked bored.
A few days later, however, I arrived at 70 Clifton Road, the Bhuttos’ Karachi home. Like a huge
Christmas tree, the house was festooned with lights. Inside, preparations and festivities had been under
way all week.
Weddings in Pakistan are a matter of face. Combine that with Benazir’s fanatical perfectionism, and
you have a recipe for high tension. To the dismay of her aunties, she was refusing to accept the
traditional trousseau from the bridegroom’s family.
Instead of the 21 to 51 sets of clothes usually presented to the bride, she had set the limit at only two.
Instead of gold bangles all the way up each arm, she said she would wear glass, explaining: “I am a
leader – I must set an example to my people.” Nor, she said, did she have time for the traditional
week’s purdah. Instead she kept nipping out to the office.
All the same, the aunties told me how pleased they were that Bibi – as they called her – was settling
down.