The only public figure who impressed Lieven during the eight years he spent reporting and researching his book is the police surgeon of Baluchistan, a 58-year-old Pathan grandmother named Shamim Gul. Gul travels around Baluchistan at night without a police escort, exhuming rotting corpses from ditches and examining them in ad hoc morgues. In a province like Baluchistan, where extrajudicial killings are common, the dead are left unreported, their missing corpses warnings to the living. (It was Gul who discovered the bodies of the three girls sentenced to death by tribal jirga in 2008.) That Lieven does not focus more on Pakistanis like Gul, a citizen who manages to survive with a pronounced sense of dignity and justice, suggests that he is interested only in looking at Pakistan as a hard country.
Join us to Seek Justice for Mir Murtaza Bhutto
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Pakistan v. Pakistan: On Anatol Lieven by Fatima Bhutto
Saturday, June 25, 2011
JOINING THE DOTS
Faiza Butt fuses ancient art and modern mores
By Fatima Bhutto
Faiza Butt came of age during Pakistan’s most barbarous period of military dictatorship, when General Zia-ul-Haq’s hyper-fundamentalist junta deemed women, minorities and artists to be threats to the nation. But rather than bow to his newly imposed norms of “decency”, the Lahore National College of Arts and Slade-trained artist decided to make her living fighting back, through what dictators would consider decidedly indecent images. Butt trains her critical eye on subjects as diverse as the global capitalist economy, Afghan jihadis, Eminem, ex-mayor of New York City Rudy Giuliani, homoerotically oiled-to-the-gills pehlwan wrestlers, despots, Guantánamo Bay innocents and John Travolta, to create intricate portraits full of depths and shadows using the purdukht style – the infinitesimal dots of Indian miniatures of centuries past. Now based in Britain, a place she sees as not so dissimilar to Saudi Arabia – “They’re both kingdoms” – Butt draws much of her inspiration and ire from the country of her birth. When, not long ago, it was reported that the new, indigenous branch of the Taliban was targeting Pakistani barbershops to scare men away from shaving off holy-looking facial hair, Butt connected the dots to create a portrait of two turbanned Talib, face to face and lip to lip. It was an attack on the cloned image of the self they were promoting, she explained. Was it a Talib kissing his reflection in the mirror, then, or two bearded men locked in a passionate snog? “It’s strange how Freud associated homosexuality with narcissism,” Butt reflects. “It’s questionable, I suppose.” Another pair of Talib, effeminately handsome with their kohl-lined eyes and burly physiques, hold hands in the middle of a framework of pistols, flags, hairdryers and the cosmos. Faiza Butt makes me proud to be Pakistani. There, I said it.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Father's Day POSTED BY CARL BROMLEY 6:28AM
Part of what captivates about Fatima Bhutto's memoir Songs of Blood and Sword is her portrait of her father, Murtaza Bhutto. Murtaza was the oldest son of the President and formerPrime minister of Pakistan Zulfikar Ali Bhuttoand a formidable political activist in his own right, who, after the execution of his father by General Zia, led the resistance to the Zia's rule from abroad, first in Afghanistan, then in Syria. When he ultimately returned to Pakistan and became a member of parliament, he was a tough critic of the cronyism and corruption of his sister, Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto.Songs of Blood and Sword vividly captures the high politics of both the Bhutto family and the era but it is Fatima's quest to uncover the mystery of her father's life and death that is the heart of her book.
Reading Songs of Blood and Sword one realizes there was more to Murtaza than just a father; he was a best friend to her, a mischievous co-conspirator. One of the riches of this book are small but delightful vignettes where she recalls the diplomacies and negotiations between parent and child. There's one awfully poignant moment when a nine-year-old Fatima rages at him when he dumks her in a hotel swimming pool — this was a prank he seemed to delight in doing — and says that he can never do that to her, ever again. Under protest she relents and says he can only do it again when she is fourteen. She recounts:
Papa's laughter petered out and he surprised me by saying, somewhat softly, "But Fatushki, what if I'm not alive then?:
I burst into floods of tears. Here I was trying to reach a compromise, banning pool dunkings till the reasonable age of fourteen and there was Papa talking about his death. I bawled and bawled. He sat me down on his lap, soaking wet and ruining his silk suit, hugging me and rocking me back and forth. He didn't take it back. He didn't say he was just kidding. He just wiped my eyes.
In between my tears, I shouted at my father. "Fourteen isn't far. Of course you'll be alive. You have to live till I'm a hundred." I wiped my nose on his shoulder. Papa kissed me and continued to rock me. "I hope so" He said.
Murtaza was murdered when Fatima was fourteen, outside her home in Clifton, Karachi, on September 20, 1996, in what was euphemistically called a "police encounter" during his sister's premiership, a murder that Songs and Blood and Sword goes to compelling and convincing length to argue that her aunt Benazir and her Uncle Asif Ali Zardari (now president of Pakistan) were involved in.
On father's day, we publish an except from Songs of Blood and Sword where Fatima recounts the pain and ordeal of having to visit her father in prison, when he was jailed by Benazir. Fatima was eleven.
Visiting Papa in Prison
By Fatima Bhutto
We made the trip to Landhi jail to see Papa once a week. I remember it being midweek, Wednesday or Thursday. It took us forty-five minutes to get to Landhi from our school, which was near Karachi's Jinnah Airport. Our visits began at 4 pm sharp, if we were held up in traffic or for some reason delayed, the time started without us. We couldn't have a minute longer than the forty-five given to us once a week.
During the first few trips, I'd ask, beg, for a few more minutes with Papa. He wouldn't ask. He knew that his warden, Durrani, who was kind and accommodating, would lose his job if it was discovered that he was treating Murtaza Bhutto too well. So I would ask. Could we have one more minute please? The warden would bow his head, unable to grant my request, and shake his face from side to side without looking at me. It wasn't his fault, I knew that, but I had to ask. What damage would an additional sixty seconds do? I remembered, in those minutes, those head shaking minutes, Wadi's [Benazir's] descriptions in her book of how she was torn from her father, from Zulfikar, when he was spending his last days in Rawalpindi Jail. Why didn't she remember that? I used to stay up late at night thinking, why was she punishing us the way she had been punished herself?
It bore away at my heart to have only forty-five minutes a week with my father. Mummy assures me we only had forty minutes a week with Papa, I don't remember. Five minutes extra seems generous to me now, three hundred glorious seconds, so I add them on. We couldn't speak on the telephone there were no mobile phones around then, and even if there had been, Papa would not have been allowed to keep one. I had grown up with my father being my sole property until the age of seven, I couldn't handle not sharing my day with him, not having him nearby to listen to jokes or check my homework. It was too much for the eleven-year-old me to handle.
So I wrote Papa a letter on my adolescent stationery, the kind printed on day-glo paper and covered with unicorns and rainbows. "For Papa: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY" I wrote on the envelope. I spent two pages wailing and moaning. It wasn't fair that Mummy got to see him in court when I was at school, I whinged. I offered, quite creatively, to miss school on the days when Papa had court appearances or Sindh Assembly meetings, which always met in the mornings and during the week. He wrote back and marked his own plain white envelope: "To Papy from Papa". The top right hand corner had PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL underlined in all capitals and on the bottom left FOR YOUR EYES ONLY, also underlined.
"Dear Fatima (frustrated) Bhutto," he wrote, instantly making me laugh. My little darling, I read your letter and sympathize with your complaint. You have every right to see me and be with me as much as possible. And you know that nothing gives me greater pleasure than to see you, be next to you and to hold you in my arms. But, because I love you so much I want to make sure that you get your full education. You are a brilliant child and will one day become famous in your own right. But that won't be possible without a complete education. Grandpapa used to say that you can take everything away from a person homes, money, jewelry but you cannot take away what is in the mind. That is the safest treasure. If my court meets on Saturday then I would be more than happy if you came. When I am free from this jail where Wadi has put me then we will again be virtually inseparable. Until then, and forever, I love you and adore you more than you can imagine. Love Papa. P.S Papy, you know when you were much younger you already had a natural talent for poetry. I still have in Damascus one lovely (and funny) poem you wrote about Mummy about 2 or 3 years ago. And the poem you read me recently (during your last exclusive visit) was beautiful. Here is a small one on Wadi and Slippery Joe [Asif Zadari]:
Inky, Pinky, Ponky
Her husband is a donkey
Both loot the country
Her husband is a monkey
Inky, Pinky, Ponky"
From then on, buoyed by my father's letter and his efforts to make me laugh and look at the bright side of our strange life, I reconciled myself to counting the minutes until Papa was released from jail, but resolved to make the most of our miserly time together.
Soon, the jail visits became a normal part of our bizarre lives. We would always arrive full of jitters and sit in the empty cement room, which was unpainted and grim but at least cool in Karachi's repressive heat and open the tiffin boxes we'd packed with food to share with Papa. Mummy and Zulfi both ate earlier in the day, small meals so they'd have room for another later, but I'd starve in school so I could have lunch with Papa at 4 pm.
We sat on wooden chairs that would have seemed uncomfortable if we weren't so thrilled to be there and put the food and plates out on the rectangular table covered with a gingham plastic tablecloth, waiting anxiously to see Papa. Zulfi and I would stand at the window until we could make out Papa being escorted across the dusty prison yard at which point we'd bolt out of the room to run to him. The warden would always smile when he saw us and would pat Zulfi's head affectionately.
Zulfi would often sit on Papa's lap during our visits and would get his father's undivided attention whenever he spoke; he was going to be four years old and was already a chatty and clever young boy. Sometimes Papa would ask us to bring Kashmiri tea. He never drank tea or coffee, but he liked Kashmiri chai, a strange drink of coagulated pink tea, flavoured with spices and pistachios. I never cared for it much then, but I always had a cup. Now I can't drink it. It reminds me too much of those forty-five minutes.
Source: http://www.nationinstitute.org/blog/nationbooks/2239/father's_day/
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
An Hour With Fatima Bhutto
Fatima Bhutto w/ Treasa Dunworth
Auckland Writers & Readers Festival | May 14
THE NAMES MARCH DOWN the book’s cover in bold white print: “Granddaughter to Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, executed 1979. Niece to Shahnawaz Bhutto, murdered 1985. Daughter of Mir Murtaza Bhutto, assassinated 1996. Niece to Benazir Bhutto, assassinated 2007.”
But when Fatima Bhutto took the stage at the Auckland Writers & Readers Festival, casual in jeans and a loose white blouse, she seemed determined to resist that introduction. “It’s not on my business card, actually, who I’m related to,” she joked. “You could just say Writer.”
It’s a fitting contrast. Fatima’s memoir Songs of Blood and Sword is a political history of the Bhutto dynasty in Pakistan, but it is also an expression of grief and an act of political defiance. In promoting the book, she is attempting to tear down the myths and deceptions that have defined her family for the last four decades.
The book recounts the history of the Bhuttos’ rise to power, summarising the wars with India over Kashmir, the development of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons programme, the election of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto as prime minister, the military coup by General Zia ul-Haq and the aftermath of Zulfikar’s execution.
Family documents and interviews with political colleagues shine new light on the power struggles between Zulfikar’s children after his death, as Murtaza and Shahnawaz plotted armed resistance against General Zia from Afghanistan and Benazir declared herself the political heir to the Bhutto legacy. Fatima doesn’t hesitate to accuse Benazir and her widower President Zardari of orchestrating Murtaza’s assassination, which she remembers in gut-wrenching detail in the opening and closing chapters.
At the same time, Fatima retraces her journey to gather up the scattered memories of her father’s life. The book chronicles the four years she spent studying old diaries and newspaper clippings, writing letters, collecting photographs, and travelling through Pakistan, Europe and America to speak with old friends and lovers. Writing Murtaza’s story allowed her to reconnect with the father she lost and discover the idealistic young man he once was.
“Bedtime stories were also about exile; they were also about dictatorships. I knew words like ‘junta’ in the first grade.”
At the festival, Fatima talked with Treasa Dunworth about her memories of Murtaza when they were living in Damascus. “He was a wonderful parent because it wasn’t just fun and games,” she said. “He also taught me about where I was and what had happened to Pakistan. Bedtime stories were also about exile; they were also about dictatorships. I knew words like ‘junta’ in the first grade, and I thought other children knew them but they didn’t.”
Growing up, her political awareness was heavily influenced by the populist ideals of her grandfather Zulfikar. “He was a part of the great promise for the country,” she said, acknowledging that he strayed from many of those ideals when he became prime minister. (Treasa suggested a parallel with President Obama, drawing a short laugh from Fatima.)
“The Bhuttos started politically as being very leftist and very socialist, about endogenous economic development and bilateral foreign relations, all these things that make young nations proud. And then somewhere along the line they went the other way and became sort of corporate and almost right-wing about where money went and how it was used, if in fact it was ever used.”
Her opinions of her family and of Pakistan have only been reinforced by her liberal education and the geopolitical events of the last decade. “I was in my second year of university in New York when 9/11 happened, and I was about to start work on my Master’s dissertation in London when 7/7 happened,” she remarked. “It’s amazing they let me through airports.”
Though she seems to rule out a career as a politician, Fatima is an outspoken critic of President Zardari and his exploitation of the Bhutto name. She explained that this one of the reasons she wrote such a revealing book. “We’re still living in their shadows in Pakistan; we still live based on how people think of them. The last elections that happened, I did a lot of door-to-door work. This woman said to me, ‘I’m voting for Benazir.’ And I said, ‘But she’s gone, she’s not here anymore.’ She said ‘Yes, you’re right, but I always voted for Bhutto.’ I said ‘Why?’ and she said ‘I don’t know. I just always did.’”
Fatima is also relentless in her censure of the United States for their interference in Pakistani politics since the Cold War, whether through defence agreements like SEATO and CENTO or developmental aid packages like the Kerry-Lugar Act of 2009, which provides $7.5 billion to Pakistan over five years.
“The list of conditions of what Pakistan has to do to get this money is humiliating to the extreme,” she said. “Richard Holbrooke, when he was still with us, used to come to Pakistan every three to six weeks just to check in on us and make sure we were doing what we were supposed to be doing. When the Kerry-Lugar bill started to become public, Pakistanis were very upset: ‘How can you impose these conditions on us to give us money? We don’t want it.’ He said, ‘Those who speak against this bill are against democracy.’ It sounded so… Bushian, if that can be a word.”
“Richard Holbrooke said, ‘Those who speak against this bill are against democracy.’ It sounded so… Bushian, if that can be a word.”
Less than two weeks after Osama bin Laden was killed in Abbottabad, the discussion seemed especially relevant. During the Q&A session, Fatima pointed out that the mainstream press were largely ignoring the fact that America is allowed to launch kill and capture operations on Pakistani soil whenever it likes. “Instead of talking about that,” she said, “we can’t turn around for stories of what Osama kept in his bedside table and what kind of videos he watched online and how many cricket balls were lost over the wall of his compound.”
It’s the latest in a long list of conflicting narratives that she grapples with in her political writing. There is the corrupt, paranoid government from the recent headlines of the War on Terror; and then there is Fatima’s Pakistan, a young nation fighting for true democracy. There is Benazir Bhutto the tragic icon, honoured and mourned as the first woman elected to lead a Muslim country; and then there is the power-hungry Benazir who colluded with Western powers and wore a hijab to curry favour with religious extremists.
The tension between the different roles Fatima plays—family member, witness, activist, journalist, historian—is the most compelling thing about Songs of Blood and Sword. Her powerful storytelling can make her life seem like a cross between a legend and a political thriller, but she leaves no illusions about the violence that tore her family apart. It gives her a perspective that can be challenged but must be considered.
Source: http://lumiere.net.nz/index.php/an-hour-with-fatima-bhutto/
Saturday, June 4, 2011
The Diary: Fatima Bhutto
. . .
Travelling so soon after Osama bin Laden’s killing in Pakistan means that I am asked on an hourly basis – by airport officials, taxi drivers, and complete strangers – just what Pakistan knew about the world’s (formerly) most wanted man’s decision to choose our country for his retirement. As a Pakistani, they suggest, I must have known something, surely? No, I counter wearily, we were not all sent a memo. We are not all bin Laden aficionados. Some of us are more concerned with the unrecorded number of civilian deaths in Pakistan from unmanned US drone strikes than with the conspiracy-laden killing of one man.
Pakistan is at present pleading ignorance – the military acknowledged intelligence shortcomings regarding bin Laden and in a statement put out in the week after the killing reminded everyone that it was their unparalleled “cooperation” that has led to more al-Qaeda captures in Pakistan than any other country – which sounds like an incriminating thing to be bragging about. Meanwhile, apart from an article in the Washington Post (unsurprisingly, a paper which doesn’t have many subscribers in Pakistan), president Asif Ali Zardari has been quiet on the subject.
Writing in the US magazine The Nation, Jeremy Scahill mentioned a so-called “hot pursuit” agreement signed between Pakistan’s former president Pervez Musharraf and General Stanley McChrystal, American’s former commander in Afganistan, which allows US Special Operations Forces to conduct targeted assassinations and capture operations on Pakistani soil with the stipulation that Pakistan reserves the right to deny that they opened up their country to allow the Americans to do so. A sort of hear no evil, see no evil policy, if you will. This seems to me an issue worth focusing on, though unsurprisingly no one appears that keen. Though Pakistan has denied such an agreement exists it might make some sense of the government’s Mr Magoo-like response to bin Laden’s killing and also the fact that a month on, America – purportedly very angry that Obama was found holed up in Abbottabad – has yet to issue sanctions against Pakistan, freeze assets or cut aid (not even a dollar so far) and why President Obama and Hillary Clinton continue to issue reassuring statements about the “important” relationship between the two countries.
. . .
Enveloped by a cloud of jet lag, I press on to the Sydney Writers’ Festival, where the organisers have asked me to speak about “Pakistan: Nation on the verge of a Nervous Breakdown”. It is, I argue, a universal condition. Which country isn’t having a nervous breakdown? France, for example, deserves a special award for having a president who takes advice on Libya from Bernard-Henri Lévy.
It is a great honour to be asked to deliver an opening address but I really came to Sydney because the festival people told me AA Gill would be here, too. I’m the self-appointed number one fan of his travel writing. As well as Gill, I meet chef and writer Anthony Bourdain, Booker prize-winning novelist Howard Jacobson, biographer Carolyn Burke, and Izzeldin Abuelaish, the Gazan doctor who lost three of his daughters in an Israeli attack in 2009 and now works to promote peace. The opportunity to meet such wonderful and interesting people reminds me, through the jet lag, why I love literary festivals.
. . .
At a panel about 9/11 – I am there as the Pakistani terror expert, obviously – the audience erupts with the resounding voices of “truthers”, those excitable types who believe that the war on terror, the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan and everything else that shapes politics today was cooked up with the help of fake film footage. A granny wearing a delightful salmon cardigan and neatly ironed pink trousers informs us that a “Hollywood director who is a close personal friend” of hers had been hired to direct Osama bin Laden’s videos, while a gentleman wearing tracksuit bottoms – who becomes something of a cult figure during the festival by disrupting almost every talk – films himself on his camera phone while screaming “9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB!” It takes a petite festival volunteer five minutes to wrest a microphone from him.
The highlight of the trip (aside from AA Gill, of course) is a panel I am on with Ingrid Betancourt, the former Colombian presidential candidate who spent six years as a hostage of the guerrilla organisation Farc – and the writer Aminatta Forna, whose politician father was executed in Sierra Leone. These are two incredible women whose countries mirror mine in the sadness of their modern histories, and whose experiences are profoundly inspiring.
r my environmentally conscious brother, but decide against.I have come to New Zealand to take part in the Auckland Writers & Readers Festival. Seven authors have been asked to talk unscripted for seven minutes on anything to do with “the alphabet”. I speak about illiteracy in Pakistan and an Afghan refugee school on the outskirts of Karachi. A friend and I have raised some money to buy second-hand computers for the children. Several people from the audience ask how they might get in touch with the school – unsurprising, as I found New Zealanders to be among the warmest people in the world.