Songs of Blood and Sword Read online

  The three men drove over to Clifton to pick Nusrat up from her house, a stone’s throw away from where 70 Clifton was being built for the Bhuttos. The only male in her house was her old father, who was nearly blind and not disposed to be of any help with an elopement. Nusrat’s sisters met the groom’s procession with the opposition that their father would have mustered if he had been of sound body. ‘Have you brought the maulvi ?’ asked one of her sisters, referring to the mullah who was to conduct the marriage. The three friends had no idea they were supposed to provide the clergy.

  ‘The closest mosque at that time was just behind the Sindh Club, ten minutes away,’ remembers Iloo, leaning in conspiratorially as we speak about the famous elopement more than fifty years later – it is the first time I’ve heard the story directly and I lean in too, feeling momentarily involved in the hatching and planning of my grandparents’ secret marriage. ‘I picked a fellow up and raced back to Clifton so he could conduct the ceremony, but as we entered the house Nusrat’s sisters said, “He’s Sunni. We want a Shiite maulvi. Send him back”, so I dropped the fellow all the way back to his mosque and asked him if he could direct me to where I might find a Shiite mullah. He opened the car door, got out, and abused me heartily.’ Iloo has always been a religious man, and as he drove around in circles scouting out other possible mosques, he stopped to say his asr or mid-afternoon prayers at a mosque near Bori Bazaar in the middle of the city.

  As he walked out of the mosque having completed his prostra-tions he stopped a maulvi and asked if he was Sunni or Shiite. For the second time in the day, Iloo had a hail of curses flung at him by a member of the clergy. ‘As I was walking out sheepishly after having been yelled at, a gentleman approached me. He had overheard my conversation and said, “Beta, son, you won’t find a Shiite maulvi at a mosque.” So I asked him where I could find one and he told me that I should go to the Imam Bargha, or Shiite mosque. I had no idea where the Imam Bargha was. In those days we didn’t think of ourselves, Sunnis and Shiites, as so separate – what did we know? The gentleman told me it was nearby in Bolton market.’ After crossing Bolton market, Iloo caught sight of a friend on the road and stopped him to ask for help. His friend laughed at him. ‘You’re never going to get a Shiite maulvi, you need to book them days in advance.’ Iloo explained his predicament to his friend, who ended up saving the day. ‘Go to Sindh Madrassah – there are two schools, one preaching the Sunni teachings of Islam and one for the Shiites, you might find someone willing to perform the nikkah there.’

  By now it was dusk, nearing the time for maghreb prayers, and Iloo pulled up at the madrassah just as a maulvi was walking out. ‘I stopped him and asked him to please come with me to Clifton to read a nikkah for your grandfather. The maulvi was reluctant to come with me. “How much will it cost for you to perform the ceremony?” I asked him and he shrugged his shoulders and grumbled that it would cost fifty rupees. I pulled out the hundred-rupee note from my pocket and handed it to him. “There,” I told him, “that’s your advance” and pulled him into the car.’

  After the ceremony was read and the marriage contract signed, Iloo packed the newlyweds into the car and drove them to the Palace Hotel. They were married, finally.

  Two days later Sir Shahnawaz hosted a reception for his son and his new wife, but he was not the least bit pleased about it. Khurshid Begum was even frostier to her new daughter-in-law. A week later, Zulfikar and Nusrat took off to Turkey for their honeymoon. They would stay with his sister Mumtaz, who had married an army man posted by the Bosphorous. In the black-and-white photographs from their honeymoon, the only ones taken marking their union as man and wife, Zulfikar has his coat collar pulled up to his chin and Nusrat is wearing a sari under her overcoat. They looked beautiful, my grandparents, like old-time movie stars.

  In the 1950s, Pakistan, like most other nations, was caught up in the quagmire of the Cold War. Neutrality or non-alignment was not considered an option by the military coterie that even then pulled the strings of Pakistani politics. Impartiality was deemed impractical on the basis that the emergence of an equally powerful third force was unforeseeable in the near future. Pakistan rejected the possibility of bipartisanship and joined forces with the United States in its urgent quest to rid the world of communism.

  Even as a young student, this angered Zulfikar who felt that ‘the central motif of the so called bipartisan policy of the United States was to tie up all the nations outside the Iron Curtain into an intricate net of interlocking alliances which would embroil them all in any attempt by the communist states to spark off a conflagration.’10 It was under this guise that Pakistan was to become a part of SEATO, the supposed South-East Asian counterpart of Europe’s NATO, in 1954. Zulfikar felt it ridiculous for Pakistan to ally itself with this monstrous power, claiming to have common interests, when, ‘while blood flowed in Kashmir, Jeffersonian America kept aloof with remarkable nonchalance, whereas the first shot out of a trigger-happy communist in any theatre of the world can cause such a reaction throughout the non-communist bloc.’11

  The world was being ripped apart by dissension and attempts to disrupt the balance of power. This disarray in world politics meant that ‘in one breath, the leaders of the world preach peace and in the next threaten to obliterate civilization with atom bombs . . . our position’, wrote Zulfikar, speaking of Pakistan, ‘is pathetically unstable’.12 Fifty-odd years years later, Zulfikar’s assessment rings frighteningly true: Pakistan remains in a desperately unsound state.

  The frustration the young Zulfikar felt towards the state of world affairs was matched by his feelings of solidarity towards the Third World. While still studying at Berkeley he insisted that it was necessary for us to ‘halt this moribund pattern of our politics and rearrange our world in a revolutionary way’.13 He felt himself most strongly attached to the fate of fellow Muslim nations. When looking at the state of world affairs at the time, Zulfikar reflected, ‘I am not a devout Muslim, I do not say my prayers regularly; I do not keep all the fasts . . . my interest is soaked in the political, economical, and cultural heritage of Islam.’14 Sindhis, especially, born into a culture rich with Sufi Saints, Hindu lore and tribal ancestry, aren’t known for their observance to orthodox Islam. The Bhuttos were never devoutly religious, unusual for Pakistan’s political elite, but Zulfikar must have been only twenty-one years old when he committed himself to the renewal of his Muslim brethren, saying, ‘I genuinely consider any accomplishments of the Islamic people as a personal feat, just as I consider any failure of the Muslim world as a personal failure.’15 It was a romantic notion, the idea that in order to break the chains of the status quo and to ease the plight of future generations of Asians and Muslims alike, it would be necessary for the people of such diverse blood and myriad heritages to come together as a unified whole, putting aside their cultural, political and linguistic differences. He truly believed that a unity of this kind would ‘give to the world a blueprint of the brotherhood of mankind’.16 Considering the lay of the land in today’s world, Zulfikar’s political desire to see the dispossessed come together to defeat centuries of ruthless exploitation sounds fanciful, but Zulfikar carried this dream with him for many years to come. When he later became Prime Minister of Pakistan, Zulfikar would write long letters to his eldest son, Murtaza, then away at Harvard, detailing in an almost lecture-like way all that was happening in Pakistan and around the globe. In one letter, after discussing the Vietnam War and the tragedy of its people, Zulfikar reminded his son, ‘I am telling you this because you are an Asian. You belong to this part of the world. You have to live here and work for the people of your country. You can never think of leaving your homeland.’17

  The Pakistan Zulfikar returned to after his time abroad was entirely new to him. It was, after all, only a few years old. He had finished Berkeley, carried on at Oxford and then passed the bar at Lincoln’s Inn, where Jinnah himself was schooled in the field of law. Education, Zulfikar always told his children, is the one thing no man
can rob you of. ‘There is no last phase in education, it continues from birth to death, from the time one begins to see and observe and understand till the time one ceases to see, observe and understand.’18

  In 1953, the Bhutto house at 70 Clifton was in its final stages of completion. The gate had two plates: one in a dull gold with the name of Sir Shahnawaz Bhutto and another, directly underneath it in a muted bronze colour, that announced the name and title of the first professional Bhutto: Zulfikar Ali Bhutto: Bar at law. At this time, Zulfikar, married to Nusrat, became a father. Their first child, a daughter, Benazir, born in June 1953, was named for her father’s sister, who died as a young girl. Her mother delivered her in one of Karachi’s Christian hospitals. Begum Mazari, the sister of the renowned Baloch fighter Akbar Bugti and the wife of the Sardar of the Baloch Mazari tribe, remembers visiting Nusrat in the hospital after her first delivery.

  ‘It was hard for her, she had tears in her eyes,’19 Begum Mazari says of the friend she remembers as a lively young woman. All the family had expected a son, and the delivery of a girl was one more reason to resent the woman who the Bhutto family had fought so hard to ostracise. ‘Nusrat said that hardly anyone had called on her to congratulate her on the birth,’ Begum Mazari says, even though Zulfikar doted on his daughter, treating her tenderly and spoiling her rotten. ‘You know,’ she continues, ‘he was a very progressive man. He broke many taboos. In Sindh you only saw males, only the men would be out in public, but Zulfi took Nusrat everywhere with him, even on state trips.’

  Begum Mazari visited Nusrat in the same Christian hospital a year later, in 1954, when Mir Murtaza was born, and noticed a world of difference in the atmosphere in the maternity ward. ‘When Mir was born, her mother-in-law cooked her food and brought it to her in the hospital. She gave her gifts of jewellery and looked after Nusrat in a way she had never done before.’ Not that this is unusual, especially in Pakistan. Even today the birth of a girl means dowry, wedding arrangements, and sadly little else. ‘I remember I asked her, Nusrat what are you doing? I keep coming to the hospital to see you! And she laughed, she was much happier this time, and said what can I do? Zulfi likes children.’ In quick succession, two more children were born. Sanam, a girl, and Shahnawaz, named for his grandfather. Zulfikar and Nusrat’s small family was complete.

  In Pakistan, separating rumours from fact is often a laborious job, especially when it comes to politics. It was at this time, shortly after the birth of his children, that Zulfikar left his practice in law to join active politics. It is said that it was Nusrat, his foreign-born wife, to whom Zulfikar owed his political career. An Iranian friend of Nusrat’s had married Iskandar Mirza, the President of Pakistan. As the government was facing a steady stream of unsettling upheavals, Nusrat mentioned to her friend Naheed Mirza that she might ask her husband to invite Zulfikar to join politics; he was from a good family and had a brilliant young mind lauded in his professional sphere. Mirza, it was known in certain circles, was looking for someone fresh to represent Sindh.

  On 7 October 1958, General Ayub Khan, a dapper blue-eyed military man, took power from President Iskandar Mirza in a quiet and largely uneventful coup d’état. The illegal seizure of power came at a time of immense chaos and political uncertainty within the country and most people seemed indifferent to the General’s takeover; some may have even been relieved. In order to understand the realm of the ridiculous that domestic politics had entered, it may be worth noting that in the decade of the 1950s, Pakistan had had seven different Prime Ministers, each intending to carry out a five-year term by law. What seemed aberrant in the late 1950s has now become a sad trademark of Pakistan’s feckless political landscape.

  As a result of the coup, President Mirza was forced to abrogate the admittedly flimsy constitution and dissolve all assemblies and ministries. President Mirza, who assured the nation that martial law would be lifted within three months (they all do that, it must be force of habit) and that a referendum was soon to take place, justified his actions by blaming political parties for the poor state of affairs. ‘The mentality of political parties has sunk so low,’ he reasoned, ‘that I am unable any longer to believe that elections will improve the present chaotic internal situation.’20 Military dictators and those who passionately enable them are nothing if not trite. In the late 1950s this may have been somewhat of an original rationale, but by Pakistan’s sixtieth anniversary of independence and three dictators later, the ‘elections don’t help anything’ reasoning has become a remarkably familiar refrain. Mirza, none the wiser, was ousted from power by the army twenty days after martial law was instituted.

  It was at this time that Zulfikar was approached and asked to join the new government. Like many Pakistanis undergoing their first coup, Zulfikar’s reservations about the military government were eased by the promise that martial law would soon be lifted. Pakistan was a country still in its political infancy; maybe the military would work to restore order, maybe they would pave the way for an earnest era of democracy. And so it was at the age of thirty that Zulfikar joined the government, serving as the Minister of Fuel, Power and Natural Resources.

  As Zulfikar had entered politics with a clean slate, his presence within the new government was looked upon positively; he was young, spirited and intellectually determined. It was often said that in a government ‘dominated by the strong, central figure of Ayub, Bhutto was reputed to be the one man who stood up for his views, was listened to with respect, and assigned the most delicate tasks despite his young years’.21 In 1960 Zulfikar was given the sensitive task of negotiating an oil agreement with the Soviet Union. Throughout his short time in office, Zulfikar was openly frustrated with the compromising position Pakistan was constantly put in vis-à-vis the major powers and had consistently argued for a turnaround in foreign policy. Pakistan’s relationship with the Soviet Union was difficult at this time, mainly because of Pakistan’s stubborn insistence on standing by the United States, thus allying itself on the other side of the Cold War’s equilibrium. The Soviet Union, in turn, had a thriving relationship with Nehru’s socialist India, supplying it with massive amounts of military aid and economic assistance. Zulfikar’s visit, however, was a success. He returned home with the Soviet promise to fund further oil exploration within Pakistan, credit of 120 million roubles and a deal to supply experienced experts and equipment for the programme. What further endeared Zulfikar to the Soviets was his insistence on travelling around the Soviet Union. He spent a day in Samarkand and spoke to his hosts of the ‘grandeur of Islamic architecture and culture so richly visible it made one feel proud to be a part of its history, race and religion’.22

  Even though Zulfikar’s government duties busied him with commerce, industry and finance, it was Pakistan’s image and position abroad that most concerned him. ‘Our salvation lies in one world . . . in which we shall not only eliminate wars but also offer the promise of a new social and economic order,’23 Zulfikar wrote, fired up against all the injustice he had witnessed, but thus far had not yet suffered. ‘We must have fearless minds, our spirit should never be daunted . . . we can only improve with the improvements of humanity, for we are an inextricable part of it. Let our achievements be for all.’24

  But Pakistan’s achievements, under the directive of General Ayub, were not to be for all. Military dictators in Pakistan tend to cuddle up to any power that promises to protect them and it is no small surprise that the power which most frequently enables militarism in Pakistan is the United States. Under the pretext of modernizing its military, already impressively modern, Pakistan signed a Mutual Defence Agreement with the United States in May 1954. As part of the agreement, Pakistan was ‘encouraged’ to join SEATO, the South-East Asian Treaty Organization, in September 1954 and later CENTO, the Central Treaty Organization, in 1955. The growing power of communist China was the catalyst for the creation of SEATO. Countries like Thailand and the Philippines were eager to band together under SEATO, fearing a Korean War-inspired outbreak in the
ir own countries, but Pakistan, miles away from communist Korea, was hardly at risk. India, Burma and Indonesia refused point blank to be part of SEATO and Ceylon eventually wriggled out of negotiations too. The great alliance was to be made up of three countries: Pakistan, Thailand and the Philippines. CENTO was later introduced as a corollary to protect US interests in the Middle East and again, Pakistan parlayed its strategic importance into access to the American-drafted CENTO pact. CENTO caused a great deal of disruption within the Arab world as it was seen as a ploy to destroy Arab unity. Pakistan, by virtue of being a signatory, became suspect – and not for the last time – in the eyes of Arab states. Pakistan did nothing to improve its PR when it played a subversive role during the Suez crisis and came out on the side of the aggressors on all the aspects of the conflict: the nationalization of the canal itself, Anglo-French collusion with Israel and aggression against Egypt. As a result, Pakistan’s image in the Middle East was pitiful. A Syrian newspaper, Al Badra, wrote that Pakistan, like Israel, was solely a creation of British imperialism.25 No implication could have stung more, especially for Zulfikar, who yearned for Third World unity and was about to join the stage as Pakistan’s Foreign Minister in 1963. Furious at the perception of Pakistan as an unthinking US stooge, he maintained that ‘CENTO is not and was not meant to be an expression of Iranian–Turkish–Pakistani–British–Iraqi community . . . its ineffectiveness has been manifest.’26 There is no doubt that CENTO was extremely detrimental to Pakistan’s relationship with Arab and Middle Eastern Nations, but it was SEATO that cemented the notion that Pakistan acted wholly as an American tool.

  As Foreign Minister, Zulfikar made no secret of his disgust at many of the decisions of the government and isolated himself from the machinations of the state when he spoke out in the National Assembly, pointing out that: