Former Pakistani prime minister Benazir Bhutto, once the
chair of the center-left Pakistan People's Party (PPP), was the first
woman elected to lead a Muslim state. She was assassinated after an
election campaign rally on Dec. 27, 2007, two weeks before the 2008
general election, in which she was a leading opposition candidate. The
charismatic politician and mother of five wrote this essay, "One Day" on
June 17, 1997, which appears in the anthology "The Maternal is
Political."
"One Day"
When I graduated from university in the ’70s, I was
thrilled. My education was over. A life of exams, grades, waiting for
results was part of the past.
I was wrong.
Life is one big exam.
And whether it is an election, a speech, a court decision, or a
domestic matter, I am always wondering whether I am going to pass or
fail, whether I am going to make the grade or not.
Some days are good. Some days are not. As Lady Thatcher once said to
me, “In politics, always expect the unexpected.” I would only add,
In life, always expect the unexpected.
As leader of the opposition in the National Assembly of Pakistan, I have to open the debate on the budget proposal tomorrow.
I get up today and head straight for the big bundle of budget
documents, which the finance minister has placed on the floor of the
National Assembly. I finish the first reading of the budget documents by
lunchtime. I find that the Intelligence Bureau of Pakistan spent
one-third over its allocation.
Was this huge expenditure to rig the general elections held this
February, to fund my opponents, to bribe witnesses into giving false
statements, or to bribe journalists into writing negative stories? These
questions whirl in my mind. Last November, my government was dismissed
by presidential decree on the eve of our signing an agreement with the
International Monetary Fund.
A witchhunt was launched. It still continues. That night of November
4, 1996, my husband was kidnapped by security agents. He was produced 48
hours later after we raised a hue and cry. For eight months, he has
languished in a prison cell in solitary confinement, with temperatures
soaring to 48 degrees Celsius. He has not been indicted in a single case
so far, despite the government’s tall claims that he was “The King of
Corruption.”
Later in the afternoon, my cousin Fakhri comes to our house along
with her three grandchildren. I send them, along with my own three kids,
to have pizza and chocolate cake. They shout with delight. Children are
so easy to please. What happens to us when we become adults?
Mummy, Fakhri, and I have lunch. The cook has made
Karri. It is made with yogurt and gram flour. Mummy says it is delicious, so her cook must have made it.
Mummy has just returned from a religious pilgrimage. She says she
prayed really hard for me and our party workers, and things are going to
get better. Let us hope so.
After lunch, we sip green tea and chat until the sound of shouts and
screams heralds the return of the children. The kids now demand to see a
cartoon.
I do not like my children watching cartoons. But I am feeling guilty.
I have to catch a flight to Islamabad, where the Parliament is based.
So I cave in.
As I come down the stairs to leave for the airport, my seven-year-old
daughter, Bakhtwar, looks up. Casually waving, she says, “Bye, it was
nice seeing you. Come back soon.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “I am your mother. I am stuck to you like that arm of yours for life.”
“But Mama, my arm keeps going away,” she complains.
“But it always comes back,” I reply.
“Yes, it does, it does,” says my eight-year-old son, Bilawal, as he gives me a hug.
On the flight, I see my mother-in-law. We say hello. She says the
regime is still bothering my father-in-law. He is in Lahore, meeting
lawyers in connection with politically motivated allegations made
against him.
I write my speech by hand during the two-hour plane journey from
Karachi to Islamabad. I rush home and into my study to complete the
speech. Once the draft is finished, I call my party leaders to vet the
draft. While they are doing that, I binge on pizza and chocolate cake.
It is four in the morning by the time we finish. We leave the speech for typing, translation, and copying, and call it a day.
From the book "The Maternal is Political," edited by Shari MacDonald Strong. Excerpted by arrangement with Seal Press (www.sealpress.com), a member of the Perseus Books Group. Copyright © 2008. This essay first appeared on slate.com on June 17, 1997.
A note from the editor of "The Maternal is Political":
As the editor of the anthology about motherhood and politics, "The
Maternal Is Political: Women Writers at the Intersection of Motherhood
and Politics
," I’m often asked, “So, how
is the
maternal political?” I usually pause when confronted with this question —
not because I don’t have strong opinions on the subject, but because it
still surprises me that this is a question we ask in our society.
