The Bhutto I knew was no hero

David Warren

The Ottawa Citizen

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

The queen is dead, long live the king. This is the message from Pakistan’s “People’s Party,” founded 40 years ago by Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto as the machine to advance his own political career. At his death by judicial murder, the machine was inherited by his daughter — with competition from his sons until both had died mysteriously. And at Benazir Bhutto’s death, it is now inherited by her 19-year-old son, Bilawal, under the guardianship of his corrupt father. The many prize idiots in the western media who presented Ms. Bhutto as a beacon of democracy are now perhaps beginning to grasp what path she was lighting.
The creed of the PPP — “Islam is our faith, democracy is our politics, socialism is our economy, all power to the people” — consists of three calculated lies followed by a howler. A more honest creed might be, “Government of the Bhutto, by the Bhutto, and for the Bhutto.”

By the accident of holiday schedules, I was relieved of the burden of writing about the assassination for the next day. Happily (a relative term), because, as we say in Latin, De mortuis, nihil nisi bonum. Of the dead, speak nothing but good. But now, a few days have passed.
Those who thought Ms. Bhutto was the agent of democracy and progress, because she was young and a woman and told them in fluent English exactly what they wanted to hear, should know that she, like every other woman who has risen to power in the region, including a prime minister of India, two in Bangladesh, and now two in Sri Lanka — inherited dynasties founded by powerful men. The (murderous) “Good Queen Bess” did not rise to the throne in 1558 on a wave of democracy and feminism in late mediaeval England. She rose as the daughter of the (murderous) Henry VIII. It is the failure to grasp such simple facts that makes so much western journalism ridiculous.
I have been reading much rubbish in celebration of Ms. Bhutto’s life. A number of my fellow pundits have further provided personal memoirs: it seems dozens of them were her next door neighbour when she was studying at Harvard or Oxford or both.
She was my exact contemporary, and I met her as a child in Pakistan, so let me jump on this bandwagon. I remember her at age eight, arriving in a Mercedes-Benz with daddy’s driver, and whisking me off for a ride in the private airplane of then-president Ayub Khan (Bhutto phre was the rising star in his cabinet). This girl was the most spoiled brat I ever met.
I met her again in London, when she was studying at Oxford. She was the same, only now the 22-year-old version, and too gorgeous for anybody’s good. One of my memories is a glimpse inside a two-door fridge: one door entirely filled with packages of chocolate rum balls from Harrod’s. Benazir was crashing, in West Kensington, with another girl I knew in passing — the daughter of a former prime minister of Iraq. They were having a party. It would be hard to imagine two girls, of any cultural background, so glibly hedonistic.
After her father’s “martyrdom” Bhutto became, from all reports, much more serious. But I think, also, twisted — and easily twisted, as the spoiled too easily become when they are confronted with tragedy. She became pure politician. Think of it: she submitted to an arranged marriage, because she needed a husband to campaign for office. Stood by him in power only because there was no other political option when he proved even greedier than she was.
Twisted, in a nearly schizoid way. For she was entirely westernized, but also Pakistani. She thought in English, her Urdu was awkward; her “native” Sindhi inadequate even for giving directions to servants. Part of her political trick, in Pakistan itself, was that she sounded uneducated in Urdu. This is as close as she got to being “a woman of the people.”
Brave, unquestionably brave. Which I would qualify by adding it was one facet of a willfulness not otherwise attractive. She was irresponsible to make her assassin’s job so easy, by campaigning in plain-air after what had happened in Karachi; wrong to lure so many to their own deaths around her.
Faced with the actual problems of Pakistan, she twice made a disastrous prime minister. Her death obviates a third term. But the legacy creates as large a mess. She tutored her supporters to blame President Pervez Musharraf for any harm that might come to her, so that when al-Qaeda pulled off the murder, they scored twice. In addition to killing a hated symbol of westernization, they set the mobs not against themselves, but against Mr. Musharraf. As I have argued before in these columns, for all his visible faults, Mr. Musharraf has been dealing to the limit of his abilities and opportunities with the actual problems of Pakistan.

David Warren’s column appears Sunday, Wednesday and Saturday.

) The Ottawa Citizen 2008

The Madness Within

It truly now seems like an eternity that man has gone through various, humoungous changes in his own self, in his mental state, in the development of the environment around him. Changes that he has brought about himself through the great tool that is called Science. But also through the impending laws of nature. Yet for all of his adaptive achievements, there are still some areas he has not dominated. One of them, is of course the struggle to understand the human mind. The emotional boiler room, the intrinsic workings that generate the passion, the pathos, the soulwork.

And so we continue today, standing like small little specks in the midst of a huge concrete jungles which dress the surface levels of the earth. The metropolitans, the super cities. New York, London, San Francisco, Chicago, Tokyo, etc etc. Oh and of course Dubai. You realize that you are just a small little speck in the midst of billions of specks, spread out through out the earth. But for the life of you, the emotions boiling inside you, seem so much more bigger than yourself, and those around. Because, whatever they say in regards to your emotions, seems like a lost cause. So you take the support of mostly your own self made paranoia. Isn’t that just the peachiest thing to do. The self absorbing, consumed states of mind that takes over is like a black and blue bruised eye that has been set to stare at you for all of eternity, and you know what? … That’s not really a very pretty sight.

One can go on to try and distract himself. Watch some shows or movies or sports again and again. But at some time you will run out of those things. Or you will grow tired of them. Which is not surprising, because after all, with all that has been said about the mind so far, it’s obvious that it will grow tired of routine. It needs change. It wants change. It’s essential for it’s survival. Yet in some parts, change is exactly what it doesn’t want. You want you environment to change. But you want your safety and security to remain exactly the same. Similarly, your emotions as well. You want the loving feelings to be there, always, throughout. You yearn for that bliss. But, like almost every other entity, thought, living being on this planet, that also changes. This world and this life is made of change. But the madness within doesn’t change. You promise to change, to make things different. You promise to be stronger. But guess what ? That guy in the mirror is still you. You just might have become more older, there might more wrinkles and less hair, but it’s the same old you buddy. And that rage, that conflict, the madness … is still the same. And why? Because all people, all humans, are saps.

Gloom

A fragile moment in the midst of winter rain. Cold, freezing drops of water striking the withered body of a man dead from inside. The clouds thundering bloody murder above him, his head hung low, his clothes drenched with his own sorrow and that provided by the elements.

His heart sinking wildly inside him. His darkest thoughts and feelings finding a way out of their cages. On their way to take over his nimble mind. Small, little nimble mind. A mind which was made of emotions. How hard would it be to crack that? Not too hard I reckon.

Things seem so hard for him to understand. So hard for him to contemplate. A snap from here and a snap from there. All eating at him. All gnawing at his soul. The thunder keeps striking hard and keeps striking fast. His head starts to fill with voices. Shrieks and screams, such that might have been speaking after a million years in captivity.

The earth, felt so cold to him. Everything did. It was a coincidence that the weather should choose to be cold as well. Truth be told, it wouldn’t have made even the slightest of difference. Everything would still feel very very cold to him. Because all warmth had been snatched out of him. It’s worse when you feel a chill down your spine, a chill which is brought about your emotions that is. So one could say that the weather was merely depicting what went on inside this man’s heart. A gloom.

Last thoughts of a Deranged Psycho Killer

There’s this habit of mine. Its not like , its something bad. Its just a little annoying habit i have. Not much that anyone else can do about it. To be very honest not much anyone can do about it as long as I don’t let them. You see, I restrict their motions. I stop their heart beat. I set their “soul free”. Oh what the heck. I kill them. And yes… I suppose if you take that into perspective than being a deranged serial killer is a slightly bad habit then.

Do I feel bad? … no no … not at all. Its quite a rush really. Its this magnificent meeting of an energy with your own. It creates quite the rush in you. An unmatched excitement. You feel powerful. Watching yourself control someone else’s life like that. Its just, fantastic.

Well yes, of course I know I am going to go to hell. Into the very deep reaches of hell. Probably have dinner with the lot. Hitler, Longshanks, and every single mindless killer you could think of. We would probably be playing BINGO. Bit of a favorite down there I would like to think.

Killing is an art I would like to think. And I am sure if you take into account the entire gravity in the thinking and the method of the murder, the scene, the circumstances, you would agree with me in saying that it is indeed an art. I express myself, towards the filth that is humanity. The scum of the earth. They kill massively. I kill singularly. I kill for rush of it. They kill for their ulterior motives. I am taken over by a passion. They are taken over by their greed. But of course you already know who I am talking about. The veritable who’s who of the War on Terror, and other blanketed pious missions of the world. Passion above greed. Righteousness over self serving ulterior motives.

I am now babbling as I can sense in your trickling emotions. Your sweat beads, crawling, ever so slowly towards the ground of your skin. Why you are almost pale as a ghost? Could it be because in me you see no remorse? Even thou I have killed many a soul. Including woman and children. Children… yes… I am very sorrowful for the children. But everyone has their destined time and place. Not in my hands! As for women. Haven’t you heard behind every man there is a woman. So be it successful or evil, some woman will always be there lurking about, either as the one that whispers in the ear, or the one who is the object or motive of desire for which the ignominy of evil takes over. It takes control. So no, they can’t be ignored of this list of mine.

I know I face death myself right now. And I am not saying this because of the obvious hanging noose over my head, awaiting to hang me, and serve its existence’s sole purpose. No, I have met death. He came to prepare me. He showed me my destiny for down there, and he showed me my life that has past. And I saw it all, my abused childhood, my rotten afterlife, and all the kills in between. And you know what the dirty little secret is about all of this, I would do it all over again.