Songs of Blood and Sword

by Fatima Bhutto

  The signing of the eleventh-hour Simla treaty was a diplomatic miracle. Neither Pakistan nor India lost ground and neither vanquished the other. No vital concessions were made, a feat between two aggressive and territorially proud countries; calm between India and Pakistan was once again a promised possibility. A new ceasefire line in Kashmir was agreed upon, trade, communications and flights were resumed between Pakistan and India and cultural exchanges were no longer blocked. The prisoners of war were not yet to be released, but it was the success at Simla that ensured they would be – 90,000 Pakistani soldiers would soon return home. People say that the agreement between the two leaders was so sudden and unexpected that Zulfikar didn’t even have a pen on him when the treaty was passed to him to sign.

  Upon returning home, Zulfikar told the crowd that met him at Rawalpindi airport that the success at Simla belonged to the Indian and Pakistani people who had struggled through three wars to reach this momentous peace. Twelve days later, the National Assembly approved the Simla agreement. A large oil portrait of the signing of the Simla peace hangs in what was Zulfikar’s office in 71 Clifton; he must have hung it himself. For so long as I can remember, it has always been the centrepiece of my grandfather’s book-laden office.

  Zulfikar’s foreign policy triumphs continued as his time in office progressed. In February 1974, Pakistan played host to the Organization of Islamic Countries’ second ever summit. The city of Lahore was spruced up and its roads cleaned – citizens were told that they were to welcome their guests, the heads of thirty-eight Islamic states, even offering them their homes. Hotels and government guest houses were not sufficient to handle the number of dignitaries and functionaries coming so Zulfikar called upon the people of Lahore to open their houses and they did so with the knowledge that they were for once included in the solidarity movement of people across the Islamic umma. Sadat of Egypt, Boumedienne of Algeria, Gadaffi – who had a stadium named for him in the Mughal city – of Libya, Hafez al Assad of Syria, King Faisal of Saudi Arabia, whose country helped with the preparations, and Yasser Arafat, head of the PLO, all attended. While the Shah of Iran did not deign to make an appearance, Idi Amin did – uninvited and with a substantial familial entourage.

  Zulfikar roused his guests and heralded the success of the OIC summit by declaring that ‘We, the people of Pakistan, shall give our blood for the cause of Islam . . . Whenever the occasion arises the Islamic world will never find us wanting in any future conflict.’8 The architect of Pakistan’s solidarity movement with the Muslim world would have had a coronary had he lived to see the day when Pakistan entered a war on two Muslim neighbours, Afghanistan and Iraq, at the behest of the United States, no less, and meekly opened the frontiers of its borders and skies so that a foreign army’s planes could bomb undisturbed. He would have been all the more disgusted to know that the party he founded sits at the helm of such spineless collaboration.

  Zulfikar had made good on his pre-election promises to strive towards closer bonds with Third World nations and fight for Pakistan’s sovereignty; since becoming head of state Zulfikar had withdrawn his country from the British Commonwealth and removed Pakistan from SEATO, the South East Asia Treaty Organization sponsored by the United States. He fostered close ties with Middle Eastern and African countries, the culmination of which was seen at the OIC summit where Colonel Gadaffi called Pakistan ‘the citadel of Islam in Asia’ and promised his country’s resources to Pakistan whenever it required Libya’s friendship and aid.9

  I found myself in a bizarre scene, thirty-five years later, when, travelling across Europe researching this book, I found myself at the dinner table of one of Colonel Gadaffi’s son’s. I knew who he was, but I don’t think he had figured out who I was, genetically speaking. I leaned across the table and introduced myself, received a polite nod as we exchanged pleasantries in Arabic and then proceeded, in rapid fire, to tell him about the OIC summit (I had just finished my notes on what would be this chapter), concluding with the stadium, a place that has a unique history in many Pakistani imaginations. Poor Mr Gadaffi listened politely and when I ran out of breath, we moved on. Discussing Pakistan’s current President Zardari and a new bill he has signed punishing with imprisonment any one found guilty of ‘character assassinating’ his person or his past, Mr Gadaffi asked about Pakistan’s tenuous future. I tried to reassure him that things would change one day, they always do. He smiled broadly and recalled some of his father’s and elder brother’s visits to the once glorious country.

  The OIC summit itself was a success and concluded by forming the Islamic Solidarity Fund and setting the foundations for the Islamic Commission on Economic, Cultural and Social Affairs. Pakistan also used the summit as an occasion to announce formally its recognition of Bangladesh and in return Bangladesh withdrew criminal charges against some 200 Pakistani soldiers in its custody.

  The OIC summit brought Zulfikar closer to those leaders in Asia who were natural allies: Muslim states coming out of recent liberation movements since the fall of colonialism in the post-war world. He spoke frequently to several of the heads of states, Saudi Arabia’s King Faisal and Sheikh Zayed of the United Arab Emirates among them, with regard to future summits and a proposed Treaty of Non-Aggression among Muslim countries.10 Besides détente with India, Zulfikar had moved Pakistan closer to China, continued the country’s relationship with America, now on more equal terms, and fostered stronger ties with neighbouring countries like Iran and Afghanistan.

  Besides a radically altered foreign policy, for which Zulfikar will always be recognized in Pakistan, he made brave moves towards change in two other significant spheres – the formation of the country’s new and first democratically proposed constitution and in the field of feudal land reform.

  The 1973 constitution came into law in August and built upon the foundations of the country’s previous constitutional charters with several important and far-reaching additions and amendments. First, the constitution put the structures in place for a bicameral legislature, giving the senate equal representation in the provinces by calling for its members to be indirectly elected by the provincial assemblies and having the national assembly given power by direct vote.11 The problem of provincial autonomy was remedied, at least in part, by these directives, which decentralized what had always been an enormously centralized state. A Council of Common Interests was set up to regulate policies covering the fields of oil and gas, industries, water and power, which also contributed to the more balanced governing of Pakistan’s most valuable resources.

  Under the new constitution, Zulfikar assumed the post of Prime Minister, changing the mode of government to prime ministerial as opposed to presidential.12 As for the army, the constitution had previously contained – and would again later contain – the necessary strings to allow for acts of emergency to be called for under the dubious ‘doctrine of necessity’. If the army deemed it necessary to take over, the constitution of Pakistan always granted it the excuse to do so. Under the new constitution, however, the federal government was empowered with ‘control and command’ over the armed forces.13 The soldiers in service were required to ‘uphold the constitution’ and avoid ‘any political activity whatsoever’.14 The new constitution chafed the army, which was not amused at being singled out for a reduction in its power. Eventually the Prime Minister would feel the same way too and he would seek to amend the constitution to lessen the restrictions on his power. Though it was, at the time of its drafting, a far-sighted document – the constitution, by virtue of a clause that obstructed the passing of any laws contrary to Islam, negated the notion of ever bringing Sharia law into a federal position at any time in the future – it was lacking largely in its treatment of the Ahmedi sect of Muslims, keeping this community’s second-class-citizen status and refusing to acknowledge them as Muslims.

  At least initially, though, the army were not the only ones who suffered at the hands of the new people’s government. As part of his political campaigning Zulfikar had promi
sed that his government would seek to amend the injustices of feudalism. It’s worth noting that Zulfikar’s family was one of the foremost feudal families in the country. There’s a story, popularly recounted, of a census taken during the Raj when a British officer instructed a subordinate to tally up the various holdings of Sindh’s elite. ‘Call me when you’ve finished detailing the Bhutto land,’ the officer was said to have instructed. Several days later, he had not heard from his colleague and returned to ask why he had not reported back. ‘I’m still working on the Bhutto lands,’ was the subordinate’s reply.

  At its inception the PPP was made up largely of writers, intellectuals, union leaders and other progressive elements of Pakistani society. Feudalism was an ill that was universally recognized within the party apparatus and a vow was made to amend the inequities of Pakistan’s landed elite. Zulfikar held true to the promise of land reforms. The government instituted a ceiling of 250 acres of irrigated land and 300 acres of unirrigated land, making the reforms the most radical in Pakistan at the time. Zulfikar lost much of his family’s land in the reforms, slicing away his children’s inheritance.

  But there were still problems that plagued the reforms, mainly that land was transferred in name only: large landowners managed to hold the bulk of their titles through changing the names on the deeds to those of powerless peasants and contractors while still raking in the cash themselves. Many landowners also attempted to sidestep the reforms by donating their time and services generously to the PPP, hoping closeness to the chairman would exempt them from having to surrender their land. Zulfikar acknowledged that the reforms had further to go and formulated stricter ceilings, 100 acres for irrigated land and 200 for unirrigated land, to be put into place during the second stage of land reforms, but they were too late. He would not have the time to implement them.

  It was not only the landed gentry who saw their fortunes placed in jeopardy; the country’s industrialists felt the brunt of Zulfikar’s socialist policies early on in his government, when the regime introduced nationalization. Initially, only thirty substantial firms were nationalized – with more to follow – as the government saw the programme as vital in tackling Pakistan’s economic inequality and endemic poverty. Though nationalization seems to antagonize most serious capitalists the world over, those affected in Pakistan never ceased to blame Zulfikar for their economic castration. When my brother Zulfi, named for his grandfather, was in third grade – starting at a new private school in Karachi – he had a fight with another child in the playground. The child explained himself to Zulfi: ‘We can’t be friends,’ he insisted. ‘Your grandfather took away my grandfather’s bank.’ It wasn’t only the bankers’ relatives either. We heard similar tales of woe from the grandchildren of shipping magnates, insurance company founders, steel mill owners and various other beleagured captains of industry. Nationalization wasn’t personal – it was a matter of national policy. Unfortunately, in Pakistan, politics is nothing if not personal – it seems to be the country’s one constant. But rather than engage in the pros or cons of nationalization, it suffices to say that in a country where twenty-one men controlled the nation’s economy, nationalization was the only available means to redistribute wealth. The move might not have been permanent, but only a short-term remedy on the way to a mixed economy. But, again, Zulfikar was not to have the time to test out his economic theories.

  While it is fair to say that Zulfikar’s time in office remains memorable owing to his advances in social programmes and foreign policy, it is important to recognize that it was hindered by many setbacks and mistakes made by the Prime Minister himself. He was a polarizing figure; you either loved Zulfikar or hated him. Without looking at the problems of his regime, there is no way to understand the manner in which violence and power attached themselves to the Bhutto family. And there is no larger problem than the role Zulfikar played in Balochistan.

  Balochistan is a province blighted by Pakistan. The origins of the Baloch people, tribal in their formation and groupings, are said to be Semitic or Iranian, depending largely on whom you ask. Those who identify linguistically with the Aryans across the border claim a Persian heritage, those others who speak Balochi or one of the other regional languages claim that they abandoned their lives as shepherds in Syria sometime during the first millennium and travelled nomadically across the landscape of Central Asia before settling in the Baloch province.

  By the time of the Raj, Balochistan had been part of the Mughal, Persian and Afghan kingdoms and had added culturally, linguistically and ethnically to its population. By the nineteenth century, the province was divided into four princely states, the majority of which were brought under the suzerainty of the British Raj. Wars and imperial struggles further unified the larger area that is now Balochistan, a province rich in mineral resources, namely gas, but whose population is poor.

  As the subcontinent began to break apart, two states were asked where they wanted to go: Balochistan and Nepal. As the Baloch remember it, the people of the province voted to be independent – like Nepal, they didn’t choose to belong to either Pakistan or India. The centres of Baloch authority unanimously rejected the idea of joining Pakistan and declared their independence. However, they were ruled by princes, who were easily bribed. The Pakistani Army was sent in and forced Prince Mir Ahmed Yar Khan of Kalat to change his tune; the Khan of Kalat signed an agreement revoking Baloch claims to independence and brought his people into Pakistan. His brother, on the other hand, refused to bow to Pakistani pressure and was later killed in his quest for Baloch national sovereignty.

  The mode of operations had been set. The second conflict between the province and the state of Pakistan took place a mere ten years later in response to General Ayub’s One Unit centralization policy. Balochistan was not going to go quietly into Pakistan’s fold. The third struggle – they were averaging one per decade – happened in the early 1960s as the Pakistani Army began to build garrisons for its troops in Balochistan. Militants, insurgents belonging to various tribes, took up arms and attacked the state’s army. General Yahya quelled the violence by erasing the One Unit structure and signed a ceasefire with the various warring factions. But the Baloch, formally and forcefully brought into Pakistan, were not held peacefully for long.

  ‘Pakistan is a colony,’15 Khair Bux Marri, the head of the Marri tribe, insisted to me when I went to speak with him at his Karachi home. I was met at the gate by burly men with large shalwars and Kalashnikovs hanging from their shoulders. The Bhuttos are not particular favourites of Sardar Marri, but the elder tribesman met my request for an interview graciously, received me courteously and offered me orange juice as we spoke.

  ‘Very few countries are independent,’ he continued, ‘but Pakistan has been an imperial colony from the British to the Americans now. How can a colony have an independent attitude? Pakistan accepts the dominant position of imperialism. They chose to call this country Pakistan, land of the pure, because they believed the Koran is here, as if all other nations are pagan. To call it Pakistan is a grave mistake. It is na-pakistan, land of the impure.’ I asked Marri how it was that the Baloch found themselves perpetually pitted against the state. ‘There’s a saying in Balochi,’ he explained, speaking so quietly I had to keep edging closer towards him, this tribal chieftan who famously loathed my family, so that I might hear him. ‘A man comes into a railway compartment and he sits in a corner as if he is there out of other people’s generosity. You can tell him to move back in the carriage until he has nowhere else to go. But when pushed to the wall, he will draw his dagger. At that point, he’ll either kill you or he’ll die.’

  In 1972, the Baloch found themselves pushed against the wall once more. They had voted alongside the Awami League and were further isolated when East Pakistan broke away from the union. Members from a range of political parties in the province grouped together to form the National Awami or People’s Party, NAP, and pitted themselves as a bloc against Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s government. Various Baloc
h leaders demanded more representation in the federal government and began to formulate a secessionist plan of their own. The following year a large consignment of arms was found at the Iraqi embassy in Islamabad. The weapons, police alleged, were en route to the Marris of Balochistan. Zulfikar reacted quickly; he called the actions of the Marri insurgents treasonous and dismissed the provincial Baloch government.

  The issue behind closed doors was admittedly larger; there was pressure from the Shah of Iran, who believed that the ethnic Baloch on his side of the border were arming themselves against Pahlavi rule. Worried at the prospect of an armed revolt, the Shah asked Pakistan to intervene. The army was sent into Balochistan once more. Zulfikar was not the first premier to take excessive measures against the Baloch, but he shouldn’t have acted in conformity with his predecessors, all insecurely prone to excessive violence against the Baloch people. Khair Bux Marri, the same man who served me orange juice, put together the Baloch People’s Liberation Front, BPLF, and began a guerrilla war against Zulfikar’s government and his troops. Estimates, shrouded as they are, put Pakistani losses at around 3,000 with close to 10,000 Baloch separatists killed.

  I asked Sardar Marri about the operation carried out in the 1970s. He demurred. ‘You are his granddaughter, it wouldn’t be proper,’ he said politely. I was surprised by Marri’s formality with me. I assured him that I was there to listen to him, to hear whatever he had to say. ‘I have within me great fire against the PPP,’ he cautioned. I insisted that I would not take anything he had to say personally. I am not my grandfather’s keeper, I said with a laugh, please speak freely. He shrugged.I had asked for it. ‘Bhutto was no different from Hitler,’ Sardar Marri began. ‘Before the operation he initiated, death only touched certain areas of the province. Then it affected all of Balochistan. The violence was expanded. Before our resistance had been traditional, tribal. Then it became more nationalistic.’