Twin Bombings
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| Fahad Faruqi | Nov. 20, 2008 | 1:35 AM |
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Most of the dead are not heralded or remembered much beyond their own families.
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Following A Trail Of Shattered Lives
Both Javed Ali and Amir Baluch died instantly in the bomb blasts that went off during Benazir Bhutto’s homecoming procession on Oct. 18 after her 8-year self-imposed exile.
On the day of Bhutto’s return, hours before her arrival, workers had started piling up at Jinnah Terminal 1, in Karachi, Pakistan. By day, Quaid-e-Azam, Mohammed Ali Jinnah’s tomb, was packed with a cheering crowd that stood for hours for a mere glimpse of Benazir, where she was scheduled to go from the airport to pay a tribute to the founder of Pakistan. The procession was supposed to climax at her private residence, Bilawal House, where party zealots were singing, dancing and firing semi-automatic weapons into the air. Some workers had arranged for cows and goats to be sacrificed, per tradition, to counter the evil eye on Bhutto’s arrival. A day filled with joy for Bhutto and her followers turned into martyrdom, when two bombs went off at a shade after midnight, in short succession, a few kilometers away from the airport.
Bhutto survived the attack only to die 70 days later. But Ali and Baluch were among the 250 who died in the homecoming procession. Ali and Baluch were as much victims of the economic necessity that drove them to this appointment with destiny as they were of the explosives that shattered their lives and the frail hopes of their families.
While Bhutto’s death generated many headlines, cover stories, tributes and obituaries, most of the dead are not heralded or remembered much beyond their own families. This is the story of Ali and Baluch, just two of the many hundreds who perished in the bombings that wracked Pakistan in the last year.
Ali, 34, and Baluch, 18, were complete strangers. They were amongst the thousands lining the streets the day Bhutto was flying into Karachi from Dubai, where she had lived her course of exile. Neither man was active in politics, but they lived in an area where the Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) had a strong hold.
Each of the men had the desire to improve his standard of living; hence, each wanted to please the party representative in the district, who was running for election to the National Assembly. If elected, he would be a man of great influence who could pull many strings to help improve the lives of those who had been seen to support him and the party.
These reasons for political support are common in Pakistan. The poor seek the patronage of the party representative of their area, in this case one who was working to gain favor from Bhutto by bringing many supporters to her rally.
Javed Ali was born in 1974 to Hamida Begum and her husband, who abandoned her and their eight children when Javed was only four. Ali’s father remained in and out of the picture and didn’t play a positive role in bringing up the children.
In an interview three days after Ali was killed, Begum was sitting among the mourners in a room that is used for cooking, dining, lounging and a play area for the young. She wore the Pakistani dress, shalwar kameez, with no jewelry. She talked about Ali in a soft tone and narrated a story of the pains she had to take in order to educate and provide for Ali and his siblings.
“I sacrificed a lot for their upbringing,” she said. “Their father had left me when they were very young. I myself am an orphan, who has never had any support from anyone or anyone to look up to.”
“He cared a great deal for me,” she said and broke into tears. Among the mourners was Raza Rabani, the opposition leader representing PPP in the senate, who attempted to console her by saying, “Your loss is great, but he has died as a martyr for a cause. ” He then raised both hands for fatiha—an Islamic prayer for the departed.
Ali was 23 when he married Sabra Ali, who was a year older than him. They hardly knew each other when they wed, but she fell in love with him after her marriage, Sabra Ali said. They had four children together: Kainat, 8; Rhea, 4; Nimra, 2; and Mohammed Hadi, 9-months-old. Marriage transformed Javed for the better and he worked hard to provide for the family.
“He changed to the degree that he would be upset with me if I even missed a single prayer,” Sabra said in her house, which is across from Hamida Begum’s home.
Ali was completely transformed after the birth of Nimra in 2006. He took an oath in front of his mother that he would work towards becoming the beacon for the family. In keeping his promise, he enrolled in a computer course that proved fruitful.
“He had a good mind that he put to use,” said Sabra, during an interview in December. Javed Ali repaired and assembled unbranded desktops, but he wanted to have a business of his own.
Upon hearing the news of Bhutto’s return, the party representative called all those people he felt could easily be recruited. Ali was high on the list because he owned a van, meaning he could transport others and boost numbers at the rally—and boost the credibility of the representative in the process. Even though Ali wasn’t a fervent party activist and was more concerned with day-to-day survival, he harbored the hope that Bhutto’s return would jump-start his life because of his rapport with the party representative. In a country where merit counts for little, having connections with influential people offers virtually the only means of getting ahead.
On the day of the procession, Ali insisted that the entire family, including the children, be ready to accompany him at 1 p.m.—as these were the instructions given to him. Ali’s mother tried to persuade him to leave a bit later at around 3 p.m., but she remembers that he insisted adamantly that they leave earlier. On Ali’s insistence, his mother asked his sister, who also lives with her, to depart promptly for the homecoming procession.
“All of us got ready, sat in his van and left for the procession to hail Benazir,” Begum said. At 2 p.m., Ali was on Shahrae Faisal—the only route to the airport from the city—which was jam-packed. There was no way of going forward or back. Thousands of people were chanting slogans, “Jiyee (long live) Bhutto,” and were dancing to the party songs.
Bhutto left the terminal at 3 p.m. and, by sundown, her caravan had covered the two kilometers from the airport.
At around 9 p.m., with Bhutto yet to be seen by Ali and his family, Ali’s children began to get cranky and sleepy. Sabra Ali and Begum asked Ali to take the kids home so they could be put to bed. Ali was furious and shouted, “What are you people talking about? We should all stay here.” But his mother convinced him to return home with the understanding that they would return when Mohtarma (Lady) Bhutto would proceed to her private residence in Karachi.
Upon returning home, Ali and his wife ate and prayed, then turned on the television. When Ali saw the scenes from earlier in the day of Bhutto’s arrival, he became very sentimental. He saw Bhutto weeping and proclaiming that Allah and the people will protect her from all harm.
“The sight of seeing Benazir Bhutto cry brought tears to his eyes, which he tried to hide from us,” his mother said, with a tear in her own eye.
The plan was to return to the procession after putting the children to bed. But when Ali saw that his mother was unwell and his wife was getting comfortable at home, he picked up a few packets of gutkka (beetle-nut with tobacco), which was his only addiction, and spoke to his wife for what would be the last time, saying, “I’ll be back soon.”
He took his eldest daughter, Kainat, by the hand, and drove back to the procession with her.
Sabra Ali cleaned up and went to bed. Begum went about her usual chores after she learned that Ali had left with Kainat. The next thing she remembers is receiving a call from a family member who was also at the procession. He was somewhat agitated and told her about the blast and that he had been able to get in touch with everyone he knew who was there—except Ali.
“I didn’t know that there was a bomb blast until the call came, and when it did, I felt like I was about to die,” Begum said. “I came out to the corridor and was pacing about frenziedly and I felt as if someone had snatched my soul from the body.”
Begum remembers leaving her house to inquire about Ali from the other boys in the neighborhood, who were by now returning from the procession. No one was aware of where Ali was.
“I started praying. I was worried, but I didn’t cry,” she said. “I had the hope that he will return.”
A few minutes later a local boy called Ramzan, came to the doorstep bringing Ali’s daughter Kainat to Begum. She recalls how he didn’t utter a word and was acting strange.
“I was suspicious because he was avoiding eye contact,” she said. I screamed, “Where’s my Javed, where’s my Javed? And after gaining some poise he informed me that Javed was severely injured, and whilst almost unconscious had asked him to safeguard Kainat, and to run away from the scene.”
Ramzan highlighted the events to Begum and finished by telling her how Ali had said “Ya Allah” (Oh God) before he fell to the ground.
None of the family could come to terms with this. Begum still held out hope that he might be okay in some hospital, so she didn’t bother waking up Sabra Ali. A short while later another neighbor said that he had seen someone he thought who looked like Ali getting into a cab—but didn’t know for sure if it was him. This gave the family some hope and they tried to get information from Kainat to understand what had happened, but the child was in such shock that she couldn’t answer anything.
At dawn, the family was startled by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Akbar, the eldest son, received the call, while Begum prayed that it was Ali calling to inform them that he was unharmed. One of the party workers informed them that Ali had perished in the bombing and that his body was at the morgue. Begum lost consciousness and had to be picked up by Akbar.
Akbar hurried off to identify Ali’s body, while Begum tried to contain herself. She didn’t have the luxury to mourn her son’s death, as the burden of informing Ali’s wife, who had given birth to his son only four months earlier, was on her shoulders. Begum went across the alley to her son’s house to break the news. She woke up Sabra Ali and first spoke in generalizations about what had happened at the procession. Sabra Ali vividly remembers that moment.
“A few minutes into the conversation, I realized that something had happened to my husband and then I started screaming when she unveiled the news,” said Sabra Ali.
Begum was standing at the doorway when she saw a car approaching with her son’s body and she ran to greet it with shrieks of anguish. As the body was brought out carefully from the van and laid in a corridor of the house, Begum couldn’t stop weeping and looking at her son wrapped in a white shroud, according to Muslim custom. Sabra Ali could not contain herself and started screaming. Begum recalls how the children were clambering onto their father and crying out, and how she wished it was she who had died and not her son.
“He had so much to live for and so much responsibility—why couldn’t it have been me?” She cries even now.
Upon hearing of the misfortune, relatives and neighbors began arriving at the house and arrangements for the funeral were made. A dozen other men from the neighborhood had alsodied in the bombings. This was not the grief of one family, but a tragedy that rippled out to 13 families, to an entire neighborhood and to the nation.
It turns out that Ali lost his life trying to save someone else’s. The eyewitness to his last moments was his 8-year-old daughter, Kainat, who saw her father die with her own eyes. She told the family that both she and her father were safe and in the van after the first blast, which went off just past midnight. As they were about to leave the scene, her father responded to the call for help from a woman who was bleeding from the initial explosion. Ali told his daughter that they would take her to the hospital on their way home. He emerged from the van to rescue the woman. Kainat says that just as he was lifting up the injured woman, the second, more powerful, bomb went off. The force of it was so intense that it threw Ali head first to the ground where he lay prostrate. Had he remained inside the van with Kainat or simply driven off, he would have left unscathed.
After the tragedy, Bhutto’s party promised to compensate the grieving families. About a month later, Begum was called by a party official to inquire about whom they should send the compensation check to – and she told him that the check should be sent to Ali’s wife who was left without a breadwinner. Sabra Ali subsequently received a check of 100,000 rupees, equivalent to $1,667, but nothing from the government.
“Javed’s three daughters and son have a long life ahead of them and this sum is insufficient to sustain his wife and the upbringing of his children,” Begum complains. “Is this all that my son’s life is worth to them?”
Life is now a constant struggle for the entire household. With the main breadwinner no longer there, Ali’s 23-year-old sister, Kanwal, is committed to helping her sister-in-law manage. She has chosen to remain single, a significant sacrifice, so as to give her mother a hand in providing for Ali’s wife and children. Ali had hoped to educate his children. And his wife and sister want to fulfill his dreams.
Begum has returned to work in order to sustain Ali’s family. With a son, who is not even a toddler, and three young daughters, Sabra Ali has no time to earn a living; hence, someone has to come forward to support her, as she and her children were completely dependent on Ali.
“The party has moved on and is busy prepping for the elections,” said Sabra Ali, when she talks about getting her voice heard, which is even more difficult now after the death of Benazir Bhutto. The new co-chairperson, Asif Ali Zaradari, is inaccessible.
“The future is bleak,’’ Sabra Ali said. “What is going to change? We are effectively dead as well. What do we have to live for now? How will my children excel in life when they have the burden of poverty over their heads? Politics is for the rich—and we poor people should stay out of it.” As she spoke, she wept into her dupataa, which had already absorbed so many of her tears.
Amir Baluch was single. He left no wife and children, but his death also took a great toll on his family. Amir started working alongside his father after he finished third grade. “We were marred by poverty,” said his father, Mohamaddin Baluch. Child labor, which is a harsh reality for many youngsters in impoverished nations, became Amir’s fate at the age of 10. He earned 60 rupees, $1, a day for painting walls in a middle-class residential area nearby. When Amir grew older he started painting the walls of factories in Karachi’s industrial area, which earned him 250 rupees a day.
Only six months before he died, Amir got a better job as an elevator operator in a high-rise building. This job came as a blessing to the family because his 36-year-old father couldn’t work as much as before because of a heart problem. A year ago, while driving a cab, Mohamaddin Baluch’s vision started to blur and he was taken to the hospital, where he was diagnosed as having a weak heart. Since then, he hasn’t been able to work to capacity. Being the eldest son, Amir had to work even harder as the main breadwinner of the family, comprised of his four brothers, a sister and his parents, as well as an uncle who suffers from throat cancer.
Even before Amir’s death his parents were plagued by tragedy. Three years ago, they lost their 18-year-old daughter. Mohamaddin didn’t feel comfortable talking about his daughter—she was engaged to be married. She was admitted to an under-resourced government hospital where her intestines burst open and she died.
“We couldn’t get her treated because our economic conditions didn’t allow us to do so,” Mohamaddin said.
Amir had joined the Pakistan People’s Party within the last three years in the hope that Benazir Bhutto would come to power, which might have led to his landing a government job. Amir belonged to the lowest stratum of Pakistani society, where a young man needs the backing of a powerful patron to get ahead.
“He wished to live a better life,” his father said.
Mohamaddin has no memory of the day of the rally. He only recalls that Amir was attending the procession because all his friends were going. Amir had left early in the morning and the first his family heard that something was wrong was when Mohammaddin was wakened by party workers who came to inform him about the bombing. He was told that his son must have died, but no one knew to which hospital he had been taken, if any. The family went to several hospitals in search of the body before they discovered it in one of them the following day. Amir had been in the direct line of the blast. He had a hole at the back of his head and the left side of his face was crushed.
Amir’s body was brought home and he was buried the same day. A white shroud in which a body is wrapped was provided by the party but the rest of the necessary expenditure came from Mohamaddin’s own pocket.
The PPP compensated Amir’s father with the same amount they had done for Ali’s survivors and the families of the other party faithful who had been slain in the bombing. This didn’t even pay half the costs of what would be spent on funeral ceremonies that are part of the traditional culture. For 40 days following death, the house in mourning is expected to play host to a stream of guests who console the family with their presence, supplication and prayer. This only worked to further impoverish Amir’s family.
After the 40-day mourning period, the father is having difficulty expressing his emotions and the mother doesn’t utter a word.
While I was talking to Amir’s father about his son’s motives for joining the party, his mother was nearby trying to overhear our conversation, which was in Urdu. She is an illiterate woman who only speaks her tribal language. She can’t understand Urdu but she started crying when she realized that this conversation was about her son, Amir. We could hear her cry, as she came into the room wearing a headscarf. She took a Qur’an from a shelf that was elegantly wrapped in cloth and went to another room to pray because that is the only source of solace in her unbearable grief. When I asked Mohamaddin to invite Amir’s mother to join us in the conversation, he responded: “She doesn’t talk about it, she can’t; she went mad [not literally] after her eldest daughter died – and with Amir’s death she is beyond repair.” More than any other member of the family, Amir was thought to care most for his mother. She had been disconsolate and in failing health after the death of Amir’s elder sister. He was particularly solicitous of her frailty and would take her to the doctor even when she had a headache.
“I try to console her, but a mother is a mother,” says Mohamaddin. “We go out, meet people,’’ he said, referring to his experience as a man. “But they are mainly at home with just their thoughts and memories, and no outlet.”
Despite his poor health, Mohamaddin has started to drive a cab again, which he rents for 250 rupees a day – but this is hardly enough to make ends meet. Work is scarce and there is no regular income – especially with the recent political chaos in Karachi.
The two older children, who were studying, have left school and work with a mechanic in a local garage to try to learn the trade, in hopes of one day assuming the family’s financial burden.
Joining a political party is not a necessity, but in Pakistan, the poor have to follow the herd to survive.
People go where there is money and patronage, which is a critical factor in motivating young men like Amir Baluch and Ali to throw in their lot with political parties.
“Amir’s ulterior motive was to get a job, which would improve his standard of living,” his father said, adding “Ones who are blessed with financial security are sitting in their houses in peace, but helpless people run around with the hope of getting a job by seeking the favor of influential people.”
“Now with Amir gone, I have to go back to work despite my heart problem,” said Mohamaddin. “We have gone back to square one again and I don’t know how long I can carry on doing this. I pray that I hold out till my other children are able to stand on their own two feet and support the family. After that I don’t care what happens to me.”
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