Campaign 2008

More
recycled
columns

Death by Cheese and the Dreaded Ruptured Stomach
The past and future of competitive eating injuries.
Jason Fagone
posted July 3, 2008
How To Plan a Fireworks Show
Those big fireworks displays don't choreograph themselves.
Daniel Engber
posted July 2, 2008
What Kind of Terrorism Does North Korea Sponsor?
It sells missile technology.
Brendan I. Koerner
posted June 26, 2008
Itsy-Bitsy, Teeny-Weeny
A brief history of the bikini.
Julia Turner
posted June 25, 2008
Do Kids Need a Summer Vacation?
Why schoolchildren get to take three months off.
Juliet Lapidos
posted June 23, 2008
Search for more recycled articles
Subscribe to the recycled RSS feed
View our complete recycled archive

recycled: Previously published Slate articles made new.

A Week in the Life of Benazir Bhutto

recycled
entries

1 2 3 4 5

from: Benazir Bhutto

Posted Tuesday, June 17, 1997, at 3:30 AM ET

Benazir Bhutto
Former Pakistanti Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto was assassinated Thursday at a political rally near Islamabad. In a series of "Diary" entries published in 1997 and reproduced below, the Pakistani opposition leader describes giving impassioned political speeches and buying McDonald's ice cream sundaes for her children.

As leader of the opposition in the National Assembly of Pakistan, I have to open the debate on the budget proposal tomorrow.

I get up today and head straight for the big bundle of budget documents which the finance minister has placed on the floor of the National Assembly.

It made me think of my university days.

When I graduated from university in the '70s, I was thrilled. My education was over. A life of exams, grades, waiting for results was part of the past.

I was wrong.

Life is one big exam.

And whether it is an election, a speech, a court decision, or a domestic matter, I am always wondering whether I am going to pass or fail, whether I am going to make the grade or not.

Some days are good. Some days are not. As Lady Thatcher once said to me, "In politics always expect the unexpected." I would only add, in life always expect the unexpected.

I finish the first reading of the budget documents by lunch time. I find that the Intelligence Bureau of Pakistan spent one-third over its allocation.

Was this huge expenditure to rig the general elections held this February, to fund my opponents, to bribe witnesses into giving false statements, or to bribe journalists into writing negative stories? These questions whirl in my mind.

Last November, my government was dismissed by presidential decree on the eve of our signing an agreement with the International Monetary Fund.

A witch hunt was launched. It still continues. That night of November 4, 1996, my husband was kidnapped by security agents. He was produced 48 hours later after we raised a hue and cry. For eight months he has languished in a prison cell in solitary confinement, with temperatures soaring to 48ºC. He has not been indicted in a single case so far, despite the government's tall claims that he was "The King of Corruption."

My cousin Fakhri comes to our house along with her three grandchildren. I send them, along with my own three kids, to have pizza and chocolate cake. They shout with delight. Children are so easy to please. What happens to us when we become adults?

Mummy, Fakhri, and I have lunch. The cook has made "Karri." It is made with yogurt and gram flour. Mummy says it is delicious so her cook must have made it.

Mummy has just returned from a religious pilgrimage. She says she prayed really hard for me and our party workers, and things are going to get better. Let us hope so.

After lunch we sip green tea and chat until the sound of shouts and screams heralds the return of the children. The kids now demand to see a cartoon.

I do not like my children watching cartoons. But I am feeling guilty. I have to catch a flight to Islamabad where the Parliament is based. So I cave in.

As I come down the stairs to leave for the airport, my 7-year-old daughter, Bakhtwar, looks up. Casually waving, she says, "Bye, it was nice seeing you. Come back soon."

"What do you mean," I say. "I am your mother. I am stuck to you like that arm of yours for life."

"But, Mama, my arm keeps going away," she complains.

"But it always comes back," I reply.

"Yes, it does, it does," says my 8-year-old son, Bilawal, as he gives me a hug.

On the flight I see my mother-in-law. We say hello. She says the regime is still bothering my father-in-law. He is in Lahore, meeting lawyers in connection with politically motivated allegations made against him.

I write my speech by hand during the two-hour plane journey from Karachi to Islamabad. I rush home and into my study to complete the speech. Once the draft is finished I call my party leaders to vet the draft. While they are doing that, I binge on pizza and chocolate cake.

It is four in the morning by the time we finish. We leave the speech for typing, translation, and copying and call it a day.