The one
Courtesy:- Mehr Tarar
Benazir Bhutto cannot be copied. Period. The biggest female politician of Pakistan to date, and in all honesty, what one can deduce looking at the present and the future generations of female politicians here. Let’s just say it’s safe to assume she was the first and the last one
She is the one to be blamed. She was one of a kind. Born into an extraordinary family, her fairytale childhood was one all little girls dream of having and only a few lucky ones get. Loved, doted on, encouraged, valued and treated like an asset, she got the best of both worlds, both at home and outside. At a time when females were considered inferior beings, she was being tutored, coached and educated befitting an heir apparent to a royal legacy. Despite not being the only child, she was treated like one, especially by her father. When most of the girls around her were getting routine education and being married off at a young age, she was sent to study in some of the best institutions in the world. Her whole life mapped out with clarity, she knew she was destined to do something out of the ordinary. As happens in the stories of all extraordinary families, however, fate had other plans for her. Things happened. Huge, huge things. And everything somersaulted into an unknown mass of confusion, uncertainty and agony. Her life zigzagged. She was pushed and penalised, she suffered and wept, she was tested and targeted. Yet she did not waver. She believed in what her father stood for, and no menacing general or confinement could curtail her burning ambition to reclaim what was snatched from her. She did not let go. One day she reached where even her own family could not have visualised. Full circle. Her father’s destiny intertwined with hers. That day she was the real daughter of her father, and as she took the oath as the youngest prime minister in the history of the country, he must have been looking down at her from wherever he was, and smiled triumphantly. He had been properly avenged. The daughter was home. She had made history. Benazir Bhutto, daughter of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto. Two prime ministers in one family. This is as good as it gets. And then the curtain falls.
Benazir Bhutto cannot be copied. Period. Good or not so good, she is irreplaceable. The biggest female politician of Pakistan to date, and in all honesty, what one can deduce looking at the present and the future generations of female politicians here. Let’s just say it’s safe to assume she was the first and the last one. The ones who want to be like her and cannot be like her forget one very simple fact: Bhutto became who she did because of the life she had and that without that life, she would not have amounted to that much if she did not have whom she did as her father. The older Bhutto was executed and the younger Bhutto, because of the unusual circumstances her family got entangled in, inherited the party, which traditionally would have gone to one of her brothers. She shone like a star for a while, but then like all good things, it all fizzled out into a series of wrong moves. The extraordinary woman got the best position in the country twice, but all she left both times was a less than glorious legacy. Now imagine all those other women who idolise her; who want to walk in her footsteps, and sometimes even manage to walk a mile or two; who dress like her; and who dream, with stars in their eyes, that maybe one day, some day, they would reach the top too. Well, top of something, if not the ladder of political success. This is where the games begin.
For a more objective, detached, and unbiased discussion, let’s just say Benazir Bhutto is not the role model: All these women politicians want is a recognizable and substantial role in the cranky, rattling, unproductive model of something called politics. There are some who attain tremendous levels of power, but under a careful scrutiny, and some not even very imaginative testing, the patinas of greatness start to crumble into ordinariness. The Cinderellas of our politics switch roles so cleverly, so swiftly that before you can say hello fairy godmother, they go from Q to Z.
One of them switches parties and ends up the belle of the ball, accessorised in her hip Cavalli sunglasses and gorgeous Birkins. Not belittling her achievements, something’s amiss here. Internationally, she presents all that is good about Pakistan — pretty, well-dressed, articulate, poised, dignified and sophisticated. Exuding restrained charm and grace, she handles the heavy and the questionable without getting a crease in her pashmina shawls. The country that is on the hate-list of many, and whose foreign policy is more convoluted and maddening than a Rushdie novel-meets-Fellini-movie any given day, has her to present its case: Hats off to her for accepting this most visible position and for not taking any substantial position on any important issue. Time will be the judge of how the petite woman shouldered the weight of all that is wrong with Pakistan in the international amphitheatre.
Then there is the minister of...wait, what was it...um...er...hmmm...oh well, forget it. Now she is everything that is wrong with the funny business of our politics. No qualification for the post except the right names on her speed dial. No justification for the position except for the frequency of insults she hurled on the other women on TV shows. No explanation for the fury she unleashes on the smaller people around her except for the rhetoric she spouts and the tears she sheds. The mistress of all that is written and all that is spoken in media, she has perfected the art of mis-information. Kudos to her for beating everyone to it.
A big hurrah for the one from Karachi. She speaks for the government and what an orator she is. Fearless, reckless, clueless. If looks could kill, all the TV studios would have turned into scenes from a WWI movie. Shrivel the other person with a deadly glare, twist his or her words into a loud, brazen mumbo-jumbo of unadulterated gibberish, and take the questions, crumple them into nothing and hurl them back on the ones who dared ask. The government has not much to say for its oh so splendid reign, and who better than the fiery, venom-spewing, no holds barred, soap queen to utter so much of nothing that it becomes black noise.
The first lady of the Parliament is the antithesis of the two Xena clones of our primetime politics. Not a woman of many words, she silences the rowdy juveniles of the noble house for five seconds and then sighs into silence herself. Married to the wild rebel from Sindh, she rolls her eyes, reining in her exasperation at him and her desire to tell her leaders to go to hell. That’s her — unruffled, politically correct, and a lady, with all letters in caps.
The two pretty ones. They make politics look cool and attractive for the next in line. They must be doing lots of good things somewhere in the province of Bhutto, but three guesses for what gets them the loudest cheer. One woman believes speaking English, looking immaculate with not a lip-contour out of place, and belittling the less educated members of her assembly makes her the true personification of the woman of today...good for her. The other one wants to win the award for the best-dressed woman on TV, while she defends her party’s shabby policies. A big wow for her too.
All of them represent the party of Bhutto. Zulfiqar and Benazir. The stars. Some of them despite the labels conduct their duties solemnly, staying away from the unnecessary microphones and intrusive cameras. And some of them live for the few minutes in the spotlight. Call them anything, they are the face of a party with the majority and the majority in a crowd of women who do not matter and will not...ever. The younger Bhutto would have had a lot to say about them, but then that’s just what I think...
Benazir Bhutto cannot be copied. Period. The biggest female politician of Pakistan to date, and in all honesty, what one can deduce looking at the present and the future generations of female politicians here. Let’s just say it’s safe to assume she was the first and the last one
She is the one to be blamed. She was one of a kind. Born into an extraordinary family, her fairytale childhood was one all little girls dream of having and only a few lucky ones get. Loved, doted on, encouraged, valued and treated like an asset, she got the best of both worlds, both at home and outside. At a time when females were considered inferior beings, she was being tutored, coached and educated befitting an heir apparent to a royal legacy. Despite not being the only child, she was treated like one, especially by her father. When most of the girls around her were getting routine education and being married off at a young age, she was sent to study in some of the best institutions in the world. Her whole life mapped out with clarity, she knew she was destined to do something out of the ordinary. As happens in the stories of all extraordinary families, however, fate had other plans for her. Things happened. Huge, huge things. And everything somersaulted into an unknown mass of confusion, uncertainty and agony. Her life zigzagged. She was pushed and penalised, she suffered and wept, she was tested and targeted. Yet she did not waver. She believed in what her father stood for, and no menacing general or confinement could curtail her burning ambition to reclaim what was snatched from her. She did not let go. One day she reached where even her own family could not have visualised. Full circle. Her father’s destiny intertwined with hers. That day she was the real daughter of her father, and as she took the oath as the youngest prime minister in the history of the country, he must have been looking down at her from wherever he was, and smiled triumphantly. He had been properly avenged. The daughter was home. She had made history. Benazir Bhutto, daughter of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto. Two prime ministers in one family. This is as good as it gets. And then the curtain falls.
Benazir Bhutto cannot be copied. Period. Good or not so good, she is irreplaceable. The biggest female politician of Pakistan to date, and in all honesty, what one can deduce looking at the present and the future generations of female politicians here. Let’s just say it’s safe to assume she was the first and the last one. The ones who want to be like her and cannot be like her forget one very simple fact: Bhutto became who she did because of the life she had and that without that life, she would not have amounted to that much if she did not have whom she did as her father. The older Bhutto was executed and the younger Bhutto, because of the unusual circumstances her family got entangled in, inherited the party, which traditionally would have gone to one of her brothers. She shone like a star for a while, but then like all good things, it all fizzled out into a series of wrong moves. The extraordinary woman got the best position in the country twice, but all she left both times was a less than glorious legacy. Now imagine all those other women who idolise her; who want to walk in her footsteps, and sometimes even manage to walk a mile or two; who dress like her; and who dream, with stars in their eyes, that maybe one day, some day, they would reach the top too. Well, top of something, if not the ladder of political success. This is where the games begin.
For a more objective, detached, and unbiased discussion, let’s just say Benazir Bhutto is not the role model: All these women politicians want is a recognizable and substantial role in the cranky, rattling, unproductive model of something called politics. There are some who attain tremendous levels of power, but under a careful scrutiny, and some not even very imaginative testing, the patinas of greatness start to crumble into ordinariness. The Cinderellas of our politics switch roles so cleverly, so swiftly that before you can say hello fairy godmother, they go from Q to Z.
One of them switches parties and ends up the belle of the ball, accessorised in her hip Cavalli sunglasses and gorgeous Birkins. Not belittling her achievements, something’s amiss here. Internationally, she presents all that is good about Pakistan — pretty, well-dressed, articulate, poised, dignified and sophisticated. Exuding restrained charm and grace, she handles the heavy and the questionable without getting a crease in her pashmina shawls. The country that is on the hate-list of many, and whose foreign policy is more convoluted and maddening than a Rushdie novel-meets-Fellini-movie any given day, has her to present its case: Hats off to her for accepting this most visible position and for not taking any substantial position on any important issue. Time will be the judge of how the petite woman shouldered the weight of all that is wrong with Pakistan in the international amphitheatre.
Then there is the minister of...wait, what was it...um...er...hmmm...oh well, forget it. Now she is everything that is wrong with the funny business of our politics. No qualification for the post except the right names on her speed dial. No justification for the position except for the frequency of insults she hurled on the other women on TV shows. No explanation for the fury she unleashes on the smaller people around her except for the rhetoric she spouts and the tears she sheds. The mistress of all that is written and all that is spoken in media, she has perfected the art of mis-information. Kudos to her for beating everyone to it.
A big hurrah for the one from Karachi. She speaks for the government and what an orator she is. Fearless, reckless, clueless. If looks could kill, all the TV studios would have turned into scenes from a WWI movie. Shrivel the other person with a deadly glare, twist his or her words into a loud, brazen mumbo-jumbo of unadulterated gibberish, and take the questions, crumple them into nothing and hurl them back on the ones who dared ask. The government has not much to say for its oh so splendid reign, and who better than the fiery, venom-spewing, no holds barred, soap queen to utter so much of nothing that it becomes black noise.
The first lady of the Parliament is the antithesis of the two Xena clones of our primetime politics. Not a woman of many words, she silences the rowdy juveniles of the noble house for five seconds and then sighs into silence herself. Married to the wild rebel from Sindh, she rolls her eyes, reining in her exasperation at him and her desire to tell her leaders to go to hell. That’s her — unruffled, politically correct, and a lady, with all letters in caps.
The two pretty ones. They make politics look cool and attractive for the next in line. They must be doing lots of good things somewhere in the province of Bhutto, but three guesses for what gets them the loudest cheer. One woman believes speaking English, looking immaculate with not a lip-contour out of place, and belittling the less educated members of her assembly makes her the true personification of the woman of today...good for her. The other one wants to win the award for the best-dressed woman on TV, while she defends her party’s shabby policies. A big wow for her too.
All of them represent the party of Bhutto. Zulfiqar and Benazir. The stars. Some of them despite the labels conduct their duties solemnly, staying away from the unnecessary microphones and intrusive cameras. And some of them live for the few minutes in the spotlight. Call them anything, they are the face of a party with the majority and the majority in a crowd of women who do not matter and will not...ever. The younger Bhutto would have had a lot to say about them, but then that’s just what I think...
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