When I said
goodbye to Benazir Bhutto two months ago, just after she had survived a
bomb attack, she said she would "catch me later". I was returning to
England after accompanying her on her return journey to Karachi; and
those were the last words she said to my face.
To me, they
epitomised our friendship which had started 33 years ago, when we were
students at Oxford.
Despite the
different worlds in which we lived - she a politician in Pakistan, me a
writer and historian living in England - I always knew I would be seeing
her again, whether as prime minister, opposition leader or friend and
mother.
Our friendship
had passed through many phases. After our student days at Oxford, when
we had enjoyed debates at the Union - where she became president in
1976, and I followed a year later - I witnessed the beginning of her
political career.
Not long after
returning to Pakistan, her father was dismissed in a military coup and
put on trial for conspiracy to murder. While he was in jail, almost by
default she picked up his political mantle. "All the other political
leaders have been arrested," she told me when I joined her in Pakistan,
that summer of 1978.
When her
father was executed the following April, what she hoped would be only a
temporary position, standing in for him as leader of the Pakistan
People's Party, became a permanent one. It was to be a long struggle.
General Zia al-Haq, the military leader who had overthrown and executed
her father, was entrenched as president of Pakistan.
After the
Soviet Union invaded neighbouring Afghanistan in 1979, he enjoyed the
backing of the West. His death in a plane crash in 1988 opened the way
for her to stand in national elections. When she became prime minister,
it seemed that she had been able to step into her father's shoes to
continue his work.
As a liberal
Western woman and believer in the political process - something she had
imbibed during her education at Harvard and Oxford - she genuinely
believed that she could make a difference. She often told me that it
was the love and dedication of the people that kept her going.
But within 16
months, her first premiership was over, after the military ousted her
amid allegations of corruption. Her second term as prime minister
lasted longer but ended in the same way.
As a mother of
three children with her husband in jail, she preferred to retain her
liberty rather than face possible imprisonment - and so moved to Dubai.
She also continued to campaign for the restoration of democracy in
Pakistan, fighting, as she used to say, against dictatorship because
under its wing the forces of extremism could flourish.
Her joy at
returning to Pakistan in October was immediately marred by the attack on
her bus as she made her way in a triumphal procession through Karachi.
It was a
reminder, as she knew already, that by returning to Pakistan her life
was in danger. Even then she showed that extraordinary courage, which I
had come to appreciate as the hallmark of her character. "We cannot let
them force us to quit," she said to me. During the various phases of
her political career, I had also seen how much she enjoyed her role as a
mother - more perhaps than the general public was aware.
Even during
her periods of exile, when she came to London to meet politicians and
party workers, she loved organising outings and picnics for her
children. As a friend, she was kind and generous.
One of the
things she enjoyed most was catching up with our old friends from
Oxford, finding out who had married and had children. After more than a
decade in exile, one might almost have thought that she would stay in
Dubai, where she had made a home for herself.
But throughout
her time in exile, she never lost sight of what was going on in
Pakistan, or the pledge she had made to the people to return to attempt
to make their lives better, repeating the election manifesto of her
father to provide them with food, clothing and housing.
In October,
with elections due and her children now teenagers, she felt the time had
come to return. Despite the dangers which she knew she faced, it was her
sense of duty and commitment, which so tragically made her not just the
daughter of Pakistan, as she was so famously known, but also of destiny.
