Z A Bhutto hanged. Buried in Naudero. April 4, 1979. One plain headline in the Pakistan Times. A politician executed. And the fate of Pakistan changed forever. There was an overwhelming silence all over; the mourning was numbingly expected, yet people’s tears were of true sorrow, genuine pain. There was also the lowering of eyes, wringing of hands, shaking of heads. How did this happen? Why had there been no miracle? What stopped the common man from surrounding their leader’s prison to heroically break him out? How did they let him die…just like that? Bhutto was not just a politician, he was the beloved of millions. Hero-worshipped, idolised to the level of a demi-god. He promised them ‘roti, kapra aur makaan’ (food, clothing and shelter) — they gave him their hearts. He spoke and they felt alive. He promised and they steadied themselves for a better tomorrow. He seduced them with a warmth and empathy unheard of and they were putty in his hands. Then one day it all changed. Despite being the most powerful politician the country had ever had, and notwithstanding his tremendous appeal to the masses, he became the victim of a military coup. The unassuming middle-parted hairstyle General snuck like a thief past midnight one inky night into the darkest chapter of our history — the rest as we know was the Pakistan that was damned to cower into a corner from where it has not emerged…to date. Welcome to the politics of Pakistan. An Islamic Republic. Where parliament is supreme. Where the elected few hold the destinies of millions in their sweaty hands. Where very important decisions are taken within the confines of hallowed buildings where nothing is sacred, where everything is whimsical. You are born into a certain family and it assures your entry into the corridors of power. You have an unlimited supply of funds — their origin is of no concern to anyone — and you can buy yourself a very cushy seat in this amphitheatre of actors and jesters. You latch yourself to some self-proclaimed big shot politico and one day you are rewarded with a ticket ensuring you the long-term membership of the honourable House. No need to go through some basic training of the system. No rules preventing you from simply skipping the necessary steps. No guidebooks to show you the right way. You just decide one day you want to be a politician and wham you are one — provided you fit certain criteria. And then there is no limit to what you do and can do. Lie, cheat, corrupt, steal — do whatever you think is necessary to clumsily pave your way into the labyrinth of politics. Once you are in, the ugly truths of your journey are whitewashed into nothing. You have license: to lie more; to cheat more; to corrupt more; and to steal more. The voter watches first in anticipation, then with increasing frustration; yet nothing changes for him despite his constant whimpering. The elected does not look the other way; to him the man is simply invisible, totally indispensable. Life goes on…for a while. One’s life worsens and the other keeps on amassing tokens of his success in the field of ‘logon ki khidmat’ (serving humanity). The next election rolls round and the voter becomes the face to seek, the hand to shake, the heart to win. Tragically, ironically, the same politician wins over the same voter promising him the same gifts to come. Déjà vu — the trusting heart of a weather-beaten, poverty-stricken, barely surviving man believes, lives for things — easily promised but never given. While the lower middle class man takes his second-hand Honda CD 70 for the nth time to the inefficient mechanic, the elected is busy choosing the colour for his BMW 745 being imported from Germany. This is the world where both of them exist side by side with such a high wall dividing them that no amount of anything could ever bulldoze it down. Once the elected gets the position he had his eyes on, a new game begins. If he is fortunate to have been part of the party that wins a majority or manages to form a government with other likeminded parties, he is in for a very joyous ride. The protocol becomes better; the parking space is validated for life. The funds allocated to him for the betterment of his constituents are pocketed greedily and not even discreetly. A smidgen of it is given to the ones it was meant for, but the rest of it is used to buy a bigger plot, get a fancier house, import a grander car, and plan a longer holiday. As the voters wait for their hospitals to be constructed, their rundown schools refurbished and staffed properly, their sewers covered, their water cleaned, their roads widened, their children schooled and then employed, their pensions secured, and their legal rights taken care of, the elected few shake and nod their heads, and reinforcing their promises scramble back to their very shaky positions — deluded and smug. The Opposition, in the meantime, yells and screams, and despite going hoarse-voiced persists stubbornly to not let the side in power to even breathe in peace. There is an agitated restlessness and there is an increasing frustration. When the hell is it my turn to be in power? When the hell would I get a chance to lay my hands on the millions allocated only to the lucky few instead of pocketing just some measly few hundred thousands authorised to me? When would I be the one riding with the chief minister in his tinted Mercedes or be the lucky one nodding my head as I welcome the prime minister at my son’s valima? When? Let’s not wait for the other side to finish its term, let’s just start stamping my feet like a stubborn, petulant kid, and keep hollering for the big bad bully to let me replace him. I want the better seat, a bigger budget, the headlines in the dailies, my face on every TV channel. I want it all and want it now. The ones in power, instead of strengthening their positions by working for the people for the country, waste their voices and funds on maligning the other side. The Opposition is treated with open animosity and increasing suspicion. The two sides become Cain and Abel; one of them has to be killed for the other to live. No one thinks it would be wise to just co-exist amicably, criticise constructively and oppose civilly. If in one rally the president becomes a stand-up comedian jeering the major rival, then soon there would be another massive gathering of the rival’s party with the chief speaker promising to hang the president. If on one side a villainous looking leader instigates his followers into hostile opposition, through his demonic yet comical telephonic orations, there would be another one lulling the innocent listeners into following him because his is the path of the righteous. The ministers turn on their leaders, and start to blab. Whoever gets the maximum amount of airtime becomes the hero of the day. Novices are given the most important positions based on their personal interaction with the men in power. The unenlightened and the unrefined become the voice of the government. The louder, the brasher, the ruder you are, there is every chance you would be considered your party’s biggest loyalist. The families of the privileged few become a league of their own. Their normal lives become over the top extravaganzas propped up by huge amounts of the public exchequer, and despite pointed fingers at their ill-gotten gains, they prosper. Some of them are caught and questioned, yet nothing is ever recovered from them. And the politics goes on. Then there is the latest scandal. Some overzealous player becomes way too big for his Italian loafers, and sends the system into a tizzy. The president has nothing to say. The prime minister mumbles excuses and justifications on the president’s behalf. The ministers babble incoherently. And the Opposition smiles like a cat in a cream factory. The country’s integrity be damned. The voters’ emotions be damned. The truth be damned. Let’s get ready to crucify one another. No need for a hearing. Let’s hand out the punishment. And if nothing else works there is always another general in the wings, ready to rule. And destroy the system. And it would be just another day for the already damned country called Pakistan. The writer can be reached at mehrt2000@gmail.com