Songs Of Blood And Sword: A Daughter'S Memoir (5 page)

As Papa walked towards the car he spotted Yar Mohammad and Sajjad. He walked over to them, visibly upset. ‘I told you both not to come with us today.’ The threats against the two men were serious. They were very close to my father and he depended on them greatly. ‘How can we leave you now?’ Yar Mohammad asked. ‘If things are as dangerous as you believe them to be,’ continued Sajjad, ‘then our place is not at home, but by your side.’ They would not be dissuaded. Papa called the other guards forward, there were seven men that day. ‘If the police try to arrest us on the way to the
jalsa
, surrender peacefully. Don’t try to protect me, I’ll be fine. Let them produce the warrants and we’ll go with them.’ The men nodded, they understood.

Four cars set off from 70 Clifton that Friday. Papa sat in the passenger seat of a blue Land Cruiser belonging to Ashiq Jatoi, who was driving the car. Yar Mohammad sat in the back, behind Papa, along with Asif Jatoi, Ashiq’s family driver, and Asghar, a bearer from our house who often joined my father on his trips. Ahead of them was a red double-cabin pick-up truck carrying six people. Mahmood, Qaisar, Sattar Rajpar, Rahim Brohi – my father’s guards – and two others. A small white Alto car, matchbox shaped and compact, drove alongside Papa’s. It was carrying three people, two men who came along that day for the
jalsa
, and Sajjad. It was at Sajjad’s request that the Alto drove next to my father’s car, so it could act as a buffer in case anything happened. The last car was a white Pajero jeep belonging to a gentleman who had also decided to tag along to the public meeting; he was not a political worker but a well-wisher of sorts.
Wajahat Jokio, the last of my father’s seven guards, sat with the Pajero owner and another passenger.

The drive to Surjani Town, a suburb outside Karachi, is a long one, more than an hour in Karachi’s traffic. But it’s an opportunity to pass through most of our hectic city, caught unawares on a weekend afternoon. Papa’s small convoy drove towards Surjani Town on the road that leads towards Las Bela in Balochistan. Passing Clifton, they travelled north past the monument of the three swords, or
teen talwar
, emblazoned with the motto ‘Unity, Faith, Discipline’ on each of the large white marble swords pointing skywards. They would have driven through Saddar and its various markets – Zainab market where women’s clothing and children’s romper suits hang on wires outside storefronts, towards Gentila Men’s Tailors near the cooperative market and close to Karachi’s central post office, past the electronics market full of buzzing mobile phones and gadgets sold at half price. My father’s last journey was almost a beautiful one. He drove by Quaid-e-Azam Jinnah’s
mazaar
, or tomb, past the young hawkers preying on children and tourists with their cages containing small orange-beaked birds for sale. Further north, their convoy, having now grown to around thirty-five cars, sailed past Guru Mandar, an area named for an old Hindu temple but now known for its cluttered bus terminals, ferrying passengers in and out of the city.

It must have been nearly 6 p.m. by the time my father’s car passed the gaudy marriage halls that mark the beginning of Surjani Town, whose boundary begins at a small police
chowki
or kiosk at a dusty roundabout. Circling inwards towards the small suburb, one leaves behind the big city’s flyovers and huge concrete bridges. There are no more fast food outlets or large cars parked outside fruit stalls and shopping malls. No, there’s none of that in Surjani Town.

It’s a town marked only by weedy shrubs growing on the sides of the road, festooned with plastic bags that get punctured and caught as they float by. Papa was travelling to Youseff Goth, a small
Katchi Abadi
or slum within Surjani Town limits. He would be speaking to the poorest inhabitants of the area. Many party workers tried to dissuade Papa from even going to Surjani Town. ‘He’d had a very large
meeting in Lyari in August,’
²
Malik Sarwar Bagh remembers, speaking with such resignation that it is almost difficult to make out the words. ‘Everyone told Mir Sahib, don’t do the Surjani Town
jalsa
– you had such a reception in Lyari! Just like your father’s! Why bother with a small place like Surjani?’ But Papa refused to cancel. He had given his word to Maqbool Channa, a dedicated supporter from Youseff Goth. Bashir Daood, another party worker who had come from nearby Goli Mar, remembers my father insisting that the plan to visit Surjani Town and open a party office for religious minorities in the community was set in stone. He would not cancel.

A huge crowd of about 2,000 people had gathered on a large stretch of land bordered on two sides by arbitrary manmade ditches full of sewage and rubbish. Papa got out of the car and saw that the police had come out in force too. They had parked their battered cars on the outskirts of the neighbourhood. The police, Qaisar and Mahmood remember, had close to thirty mobile units along with several large trucks commonly used to transport prisoners. There were close to a thousand officers in Surjani Town that September evening and they were visible everywhere. They stood behind the makeshift stage erected for the
jalsa
on the edges of the crowd, with their arms folded and their walkie-talkies beeping with static. But they did nothing. The police just stood by and watched, trying to intimidate the thousands who had come out to see my father.

Papa first walked with a Christian party worker, Yousef Gill, to the new PPP (SB) office for minorities that Gill had opened in the slum. Papa and Gill talked as they walked, followed by enthusiastic supporters chanting slogans. ‘
Aiya, Aiya, Bhutto Aiya
,’ they shouted. ‘He’s come, he’s come. Bhutto has come.’ ‘
Mazdoor ka leader
, Murtaza!’ ‘The leader of the workers, Murtaza!’ ‘
Hari ka leader
, Murtaza!
Gharib ka leader
, Murtaza!’ ‘The leader of the peasants, of the poor, Murtaza!’ After opening the office by cutting a ribbon and taking a brief tour of the one-roomed office, Papa hoisted a party flag on a grey metal post outside before moving on. As Papa walked over to the stage, which faced east and was made of wood, he stopped. The
azan
was sounding, it was time for the evening prayers and the sun was
beginning to set. It wasn’t the call of the
muezzin
that stopped Papa though, it was the light of dusk. He called Siddiqe, a jolly fellow who worked as the party photographer, and asked him to take a picture of the horizon. It was beautiful and he wanted to remember it, Papa said, as he moved towards the crowds of people waiting for him.

He climbed slowly onto the stage, waving at the people gathered before him. As he moved towards the sofa that had been placed at the centre of the stage, a group of women approached him with rose and jasmine garlands. Papa bowed his head and received the ladies, two at a time, as the garlands were placed on his neck. Behind him Ashiq Jatoi, who had only recently been elected as the Sindh president of the party, was shaking hands with several workers who came to offer him their congratulations.

Papa was still standing, meeting a new group of women who had come forward to introduce themselves and their children. One of them carried a young girl dressed in shiny blue-and-silver fabric with two pointy pigtails tied tightly on the top of her head, and after being lifted up to place a garland around my father’s neck she presented him with a bouquet of roses. The bouquet was sheathed in plastic and folded into a diamond shape. It was trimmed with red ribbons and had small staples holding it together. When my father and Ashiq Jatoi sat down, guarded by Yar Mohammad, who was dressed in black and standing behind them, the bouquet rested on the sofa between Papa and Ashiq.

Malik Sarwar Bagh, the president of the Karachi division, spoke first. He called for a protest vigil at the Karachi Press Club the following day, Sunday, 21 September. Ashiq Jatoi rose next. He too was wearing a dark black
shalwar kameez
with garlands resting on his neck and shoulders. He introduced himself and said a prayer of thanks: ‘
Bismillah arahman uraheem.
’ ‘We thank God, the kind and the merciful.’ It was the third time that he had come to Youseff Goth to speak to its people and he thanked them for their reception. He too raised Ali Sonara’s illegal arrest. ‘He has been taken and we still do not know in whose hands his life rests,’ Ashiq said, speaking forcefully. He continued, speaking in a strong, steady voice, ‘Not Nawaz nor Benazir will rule
the people of Pakistan,’ he said, gesturing at the crowd. Ashiq had also worked with Benazir during the MRD era of the 1980s and was eventually jailed by General Zia ul Haq. By the time her first government came to power, Ashiq no longer believed in Benazir’s promises of true people’s power and left the party. ‘The people will rule, they must rule themselves, once and for all.’ He was a gentle man.
Ashiq
, his name, means the one who loves, a lover. His normal demeanour was temperate and kind. He had a light and powerful spirit that didn’t need to resort to volume and theatricality. But as he spoke, Ashiq changed into something larger than himself. He clenched his hand into a fist and raised it above his head. ‘Our symbol is the
mokka
, the fist, and we will show those two that the strength of this
mokka
comes from the people – from Balochistan, Punjab, the Frontier, and Sindh. You are our strength and together we will return Pakistan to its rightful leaders – the people.’

The last speaker of the evening would be my father. As he walked the short distance to the podium, the crowd swelled and began to raise their
naras
or slogans. ‘
Zinda hai Bhutto
!’ they cried. ‘Bhutto is alive.’ ‘
Jab tak suraj chand rahaiga, Bhutto tera waris rahaiga
’ and the more romantically emotional, ‘As long as the shadow of the moon exists, Bhutto, your heir remains.’ They threw rose petals at the stage and clapped their hands loudly in welcome. Papa walked towards the podium, which was draped in an
ajrak
, traditional Sindhi fabric, printed in natural dyes of maroon, white and black. As he walked Papa ran his fingers through his hair freeing the stray deep pink rose petals that had been caught there. He removed the necklace of garlands from around his neck and placed it on one side of the podium, only to be instantly garlanded in four more threads of jasmine. Papa adjusted the two old metal microphones to his height. They didn’t extend as far as they should and so he leaned into them.

He began with a thanks. ‘In spite of the pressure of this administration, the gathering of all of you in Youseff Goth is a referendum of our dissent. It is a referendum in support of Ali Sonara and his fellow workers and against the violence of this regime. The people of Youseff Goth are not afraid. Today you are with us, and we are not
scared, despite the government’s actions.’ At this the crowd roared and my father’s voice was drowned out for a minute. He patted the air with both his hands. ‘
Baat sonao
’, ‘Listen,’ he said.

‘In history, whoever fights the corruption of the state, whoever raises his voice against forced unemployment and abuses of power, whoever fights
awam ki huqooq ki jang
, the war to defend the peoples rights, they call them terrorists. But today in Pakistan, it is the state that is drinking the blood of its citizens. The government People’s Party is not your party. It is
kamzor
, weak,
begharat
, without decency or dignity. This is your party, we are the party of
quaid-e-awam
, the leader of the people, Shaheed Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s party, so don’t try to frighten us.’ Papa shook his hand forcefully in the air.

His voice now growing hoarse, Papa turned to Wajid Durrani and Shoaib Suddle, addressing them directly in his speech. ‘We aren’t afraid of your CIA centres and we aren’t afraid of your police. We aren’t afraid of your Chief Minister, Abdullah Shah.’ At this Papa grew angry. ‘Abdullah Shah,
sonao
, listen. It is not possible for dogs to fight with lions. Your corrupt and criminal police force has been filling the papers for the last week with political statements, statements that are not their right, as protectors of the people with a neutral mandate, to make. They have put armoured vehicles around my house for the last several days and they have been threatening to arrest me. “We’re waiting permission to arrest Mir Murtaza Bhutto,” they say arrogantly. “We’re only waiting because he is an MPA and the approval has to come from
high above
.”
Auw!
Come!
Begharatoon
, you indecent men, I’m not afraid of your corrupt police.’

Once more Sonara’s arrest was raised. It was perhaps the most pressing issue at the
jalsa
, more so than the current atmosphere of danger imminently focused on my father. ‘Remember,’ Papa continued, shaking with the force of his words, ‘we are a political party. This injustice, this political violence against our workers, will not stand. We will go to the people, we will fight politically, and we will not be silent –
Dham damadam Must Qalandar
,’ he repeated, quoting Sufi poetry.

The
naras
picked up again as Papa, his brow furrowed throughout
his speech, smiled as he walked off the rickety stage. Maqbool Channa, the organizer of the
jalsa
in Surjani Town, had invited Papa for a cup of tea in his home. Malik Sarwar Bagh begged leave, he had to go and prepare for the Press Club the next day. ‘I wish I had known,’ Malik Sarwar Bagh tells me twelve years later. ‘I wish I had known what was coming, I wouldn’t have left your father then.’

Back home at 70 Clifton the day had passed painfully.