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The Death of a Prime Minister
“Benazir is dead.”
I look up quietly from my Elle magazine, sitting at Zarqa’s Salon in Karachi, Pakistan, awaiting a henna temporary tattoo on my hands for my cousin’s wedding the next day. Zarqa, the parlor owner, is talking on the landline phone. My cousins and I turn to each other in alarm.
The news unraveled quickly from Zarqa. Benazir Bhutto, an ex-Prime Minister of Pakistan and candidate for election on January 8th, was shot before her killer committed suicide and killed twenty others with a bomb in Rawalpindi, a city very close to Islamabad. My cousins and I rushed home, half-pedicured and half-hennaed.
Sitting at my aunt and uncle’s home, we stared obediently at the television, calling everyone we knew on the landline phone (the cell phones weren’t working), and assuring each other that we were all okay. Outside the house, I could hear gunshots being fired.
We sat there for hours, watching the violence on television. Dinner was scheduled earlier that day to be at another aunt’s home; my aunt had cooked nothing for us to eat. We chanced to go outside a few hours later, staring out the windows and praying at the same time. There were no cars on the streets, but there were burnt motorcycles, a brightly painted bus broken down in the middle of an intersection. Around us were broken pots of flowers, and not a single streetlight was working.
At dinner, we ate in front of the television, deep in discussion as the news repeated itself for the fourth time. Listening to everyone’s opinions, I heard deep discussions about her history, her father, her college, her children. Some said she was a marked martyr the moment she stepped into the country, and it was sad that she had died, but she should have realized the danger she was in and taken a quieter plan of action.
Coming back home, we quietly laid ourselves to sleep. This morning, we are hoping and praying for every family that has suffered in the past eighteen hours. And we are hoping and praying for the violence in this city to cease.
By
Hafsa Arain
|
December 28, 2007; 2:35 AM ET
| Category:
Salaam Chicago
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Posted by: mae | June 30, 2008 11:42 PM
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"The lament of the nai is fire." Unknown Author
Posted by: Diane | January 3, 2008 3:14 PM
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You're in my thoughts, Hafsa
Posted by: Amy | January 2, 2008 1:53 AM
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We're all glad that your safe, Hafsa.
Posted by: Brittany | January 1, 2008 8:45 PM
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Civa Pakistan,Civa Pakistan.
*But they will never stop me from saying what I believe* The denial of Belief,Salaam(Hello) Chicago(Salaam is a violence word.The best way,good morning or good evening in Urdu language or even in english.Salaam-u Alaykum is not your language.The Nightmare is not your cult)
Shall you not say anything about the Nihgtmare followers who assassinated Benazir Bhutto ?
Shall you not blame the Nightmare which subjugates the women ?
Shall you not denounce the terror of the Nightmare ?
Shall you not criticize the cult of the Nightmare ?
Civa Pakistan.The cavemen of the Nightmare shouldnt rule over Pakistan.
Please,please,come to the twentyfirst century,The Pakistani People will win.
Civa Pakistan.
Posted by: halozcel | December 29, 2007 2:32 AM
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Keep your eyes and ears open and share your experience with this forum.
Try to stay safe.
Posted by: Anonymous | December 29, 2007 12:33 AM
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Scary! You are in my thoughts and prayers, as is Pakistan.
Posted by: Stephanie Petrilli | December 28, 2007 1:00 PM
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The comments to this entry are closed.
Good bye Hafsa. I guess you aren't bloggin anymore.