My Experience: Benezir Bhutto's Assassination

Like most of my classmates, politics had never held much interest in my life. The most anyone of us had done was to wear black armbands to protest against the state of emergency imposed by President Musharraf in early November, which suspended the constitution and snatched away our basic human rights. It wasn't as if I was unaware of what was going on - I would read about currents affairs and topics of national importance in the newspaper, and participated in the odd discussion on politics in class - but I always lacked the desire to get too involved. Even during the heated debates on democracy vs. military dictatorship, there was always a sense of separation; as if these events didn't affect me personally. My friend offered: "the generation today has witnessed both military dictatorship and democracy, and is equally disappointed with both", as a reason for the prevailing death of political activism amongst students. You can't fight for some thing you have no interest in.

Often the reports on CNN and BBC would come as a complete shock to me. Nowhere around me could I see the abundant terrorists who were supposedly disrupting our daily lives. Even the Emergency condition did little to hamper my daily routine. I would go to school, hang out with my friends and see my family on weekends. I never felt the "widespread fear and terror" or "dangerous political instability" that was frequently reported. I didn't feel any less secure walking in the streets of Karachi than I did travelling alone when I lived in England.

However, my opinion drastically changed when I experienced the scariest night of my life: 27^th December 2007, the day prominent opposition leader Benezir Bhutto, chairperson of the Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP), was assassinated. I gained first hand experience of the terror and panic that was said to be prevalent throughout the country. Consequently, my feelings of disassociation and apathy towards politics soon evaporated.

My cousins and I were out shopping at Tariq Road, one of the busiest shopping streets in Karachi, for our cousin's wedding. All seven of us were too engrossed in selecting the perfect matching jewellery to go with our wedding clothes to pay attention to the conversations around us. I was only able to catch snippets of the exchanges between tense looking shopkeepers, some thing about a "bombing" and "she's dead". Just as I was going to ask what was going on, a man burst into the shop. He ordered everyone to leave and the sales staff to close.

We reluctantly stumbled out onto the main street. Outside, there was total chaos.

Shopkeepers were hurriedly closing their shops. Shoppers were piling onto the street and people were running in all directions. The screams of women and the horns of cars were deafening. I tried to flag down a taxi, but not one stopped.

I repeatedly tried to call my Dad but a passer-by informed me that all mobile networks had been switched off. I had no idea what was happening or what to do. We were literally stranded on one of the busiest streets in Karachi, unable to contact anyone, with no means to get home and darkness quickly approaching. We held on to each other. Then we ran.

I told my cousins we should go to Aga Khan University Hospital (AKU), located nearby. It was where my Dad worked and where one of my cousins studied. If the prevailing situation worsened, we had the option of spending the night in my cousin's hostel room.

My oldest cousin led the way as we threaded through the crushing throb of people and cars heading in all directions. Through people's shouting we learnt that Benezir Bhutto had been murdered. However, we had no idea when this had taken place or where, and neither did the people around us. Therefore, at Tariq Road when everyone finally began to run in one direction, fear of the unknown was by far the biggest cause of the general fright and panic. I could only assume a bomb was going to explode or firing would take place at any second. In all this commotion, a man tried to steal my purse, but I managed to grab it back before hurrying to join my cousins. I started to recite verses from the Qur'an I had known my whole life but could only half remember because of fear.

The scariest thing was that we didn't know the exact way to Aga Khan University, just its general direction. Most of the shoppers who were also fleeing to their homes were often reluctant to stop and answer the queries of a large group of girls who were probably doomed to kidnapping anyway. With every turning, I willed Aga Khan Hospital to be around the corner.

Crossing the main roads was an ordeal in itself. Cars were swerving in every direction in an attempt to reach home faster. We were convinced that if we weren't killed due to the violent clashes going on, we would surely be run over. During traffic jams, cars stood bumper to bumper, making it almost impossible to cross the street. Consequently, we began walking in the side streets which took us away from the traffic but which also doubled our journey. We soldiered on in complete darkness, walking on half made sidewalks, sometimes in the gutter, scrambling over rocks and open ditches that were in our way. Several times I lost my footing. Many of roads around the city had been dug up in an effort by the City Council to replace old water pipes that ran underground. A tall woman walking a few feet in front of me fell into a steep ditch, and only her head could be seen. I desperately wanted to help her but was separated from her by a flood of people. With her screams still ringing in my ear, my oldest cousin grabbed my hand and ordered me to run. A man behind her had stolen another man's motorcycle and belongings.

We reached Stadium Road where Aga Khan University was located after walking for well over an hour. I was suddenly overcome with feelings of relief and gratitude, reassured that we had almost reached safety. However, this relieved tension was short-lived. As we neared Aga Khan University's main wall, a swarm of men on motorcycles and on foot came up behind us on the pavement, chanting slogans we were too tense to comprehend. They started surrounding us, coming between us, trying to break up our group. As the throng of men became too large and crushing for us to even see each other, we desperately clutched each other's hands and scarves. We were terrified of losing each other, terrified of being separated, terrified of having to face this ordeal alone.

We jumped over the hedge separating the AKU exterior wall and the pavement, in an attempt to escape the menacing group of miscreants. To my dismay, Aga Khan University's side gate was locked and guarded by several police officers, and themain gate was too crowded for us to even hope to enter through. I gave my Father's reference to the guard at the side gate and, to my utter relief, we were the only few to be allowed to enter.

After crossing the vast hospital grounds several times, I finally located my Dad. He took us up to his office where we sat for around two hours and compared bruises. My Dad's friends, who also worked at the hospital, kept us updated with horrific stories of what was happening just over the hospital's main wall. We were strictly advised to stay at AKU as the situation outside was deteriorating by the second. One of my father's co-workers had tried to drive home, only to turn back because an enraged mob had attacked and hurled stones at his car. Later on, a truck carrying chanting angry people tried to break into Aga Khan University Hospital. As the security personnel impeded them, they opened fire and began shooting at Aga Khan University Hospital's main entrance gate.

It was around midnight when we finally crept out of the hospital. Most of the violence had subsided as my father drove us to my Great-Uncle's house which was a short distance away. We spent the rest of the night watching the local news channels and discussing the "what ifs" and the "buts" of our ordeal. We were too exhausted and over come with emotion to sleep for the few hours we had to rest before we moved on. My father would wake us before sunrise so that we could attempt to reach home during the safest part of the day.

I discovered that Benezir Bhutto had actually been assassinated in Rawalpindi in northern Pakistan, 1567 miles away from Karachi. Rather than feeling relief that such a tragedy had taken place so far away from home, I was outraged. Pakistan Peoples Party's workers were clearly grief-stricken but a significant portion of frenetic supporters had ensured their rage and misery would be felt through out the country. No doubt, opportunistic criminals had high jacked their protest to an ugliest possible scenario. In the process, they had burnt one thousand cars and killed around twelve people in Karachi alone. Dozens of others had been wounded and several hundred more, such as myself, had been subjected to fear and panic.

This experience taught me that everything is interconnected. Only through a stable political environment can the citizens of Pakistan hope to achieve peace and security, whether we choose to see it or not. This incident has made me so much more determined to take an interest in politics, to fight and make a difference. I realise now that political activism is not just supporting a political party, government structure or environmental agenda. We need to also demand that our fundamental rights be met, most importantly the right to security and to be able to live without fear. Accepting moral and social injustice as a part of life is just not acceptable to me any more and being mere bystanders while the country is fractured is no more an option.

I am willing to fight for what I believe in. Unlike most teenagers today, if I don't succeed, at least I can say I tried.