Left Flank

Huma Yusuf reminisces about Bhutto's "Kennedy" affect on affluent Pakistani women. I mention "JFK" because Yusuf's adolescent recollections remind me of my mother talking about her enthusiasm for JFK in 1960, a sentiment she has not recaptured since. I think Yusuf's essay works more for what it says about her "people" in Pakistan than for anything useful about Benazir Bhutto. She does bring up the issue of Ms. Bhutto's role in her brother's death also. It helps to keep supporters honest as feminists try to claim a Bhutto legacy.

Too young to understand the dynastic politics that spurred her career, I saw in Benazir a vision of femininity that had yet to materialize in the world around me. She was a sister who outshone her brothers by carrying forth her father's legacy; a daughter of privilege who knew the travails of solitary confinement; a woman who deigned to marry only after she was confident that her career would not stall; a young bride who kept her last name; a mother who did not let pregnancy get in the way of politics; a Harvard and Oxford graduate who could move with ease amongst the throng of truckers, farmers, and day laborers who attended Pakistan Peoples Party rallies.

The fact that Benazir happily assumed the responsibility of inspiring millions of women still recovering from General Zia-ul Haq's rigid and repressive regime became apparent to me when she presided over my high school's annual athletics meet in 1990. All the young girls who had won races earned a wink, a warm hug, or had words of wisdom whispered in their ears. To this day, I regret not having run a wee bit faster.

Over the years, though, I have found my enthusiasm for Benazir slowing down. Her charisma suffered, owing to well-circulated jokes about conjugal visits during her husband Asif Zardari's eight-year imprisonment. She disappointed Pakistani women when she failed to repeal the Draconian Hudood and Zina Ordinances that continue to curtail the rights of Pakistani women, especially those who have been raped. Her glamorous visage - well-cut shirts, stark-white scarves, a slick of red lipstick - had been supplanted by images of gore from Mir Murtaza's death, violent political clashes in Karachi, and, of course, her own untimely demise in Rawalpindi.

We all grow older.