“Benazir Bhutto has been killed!”
I got this SMS on my cell and I initially laughed it off. But then my phone started ringing ferociously.
It was already a chaotic night for the family. My father had had an attack of GB Syndrome the night before, which was my sister’s wedding night. I had to rush to Liaqat National Hospital (LNH) near leaving the family at the wedding. I was leaving the car park to drop my wife at my in-laws’ who live near Mashriq Center. Those who live in Karachi or are familiar with it, would know that it takes less than ten minutes to reach Mashriq Center from LNH under normal circumstances.
However, the circumstances were not normal on 27th December 2007.
The Daughter of East had been killed. Chairperson of the largest political party in the country. The turmoil was about to begin and how bad it could get was anyone’s guess.
I quickly drove out of LNH to drop my wife off. It took me around half an hour to reach Mashriq Center as the traffic had gone crazy. Cars were moving left right and center amidst all sorts of rumors. I had to return to the hospital immediately to attend to my father. Panic had sunk in and everyone was running for his life. The traffic coming from National stadium towards Hassan Square had blocked both sides of the road. There was no way to go back to Stadium side from Hassan Square. Traffic grew noisier, agitation and worries on the faces of common men became more obvious.
Then there was some firing sounds heard in the background. That made things worse. Passengers from mini buses started walking, rather running. Car owners did not have a choice so they stayed inside their cars. Some volunteers started managing the traffic and somehow or the other it started moving. It took me over an hour and a half to cover the distance ten minutes. I saw people leaving their cars on the road and walking away. I saw women with children running on the streets.
Every face was asking the same question… “What will happen now?”
Scenes inside the hospital were not really different. Those who were in the hospital to see their relatives were stuck inside. Food and tea in the cafeteria finished. Benches were occupied and people lied down on the cold floor without anything that could keep them warm. Loud sirens of ambulances did not let anyone sleep. Victims of riots were being brought in every minute.
I went to the ‘Emergency’ and it was in a big mess. Not enough doctors to handle the injured coming in. Almost like the scenes after a major bomb blast. I donated blood but I am sure it was not going to be enough. The need was much more than the donors available.
Suddenly there was more noise and chaos. Someone screamed that the rioters were trying to enter the hospital. More panic. Everyone got up with quizzical looks and dread in the eyes. Then someone else confirmed that the gates of hospital were closed. Things settled down a bit.
I called my sister. She was stuck in Gulistan-e-Jauhar with her husband and 2 year old son on their bike. They kept looking for a place to hide and eventually reached a masjid; in fact an Imaam Baargah. The Imaam Baargah had an entry policy though. Only women and children were allowed to hide inside. A fair policy because they could not be sure whether the men coming inside were unarmed or not. Luckily for my sister and hundreds of other women inside, the Imam Baargah custodians did not ask them whether they were Sunnis or Shias.
I called my maternal uncle who was driving from Hub to Karachi and had to cross a couple of Goths and Lyari. He reported fire and mobs all around. He hid his car off-road to save his life.
Slowly the chaos settled down only after taking away so much from Karachiites and rest of the country. I came out of the hospital at around four in the morning and drove to my home in North Nazimabad. I crossed burned tyres, scorched vehicles, shattered glasses and other signs of a calamity. I crossed burned hopes, scorched ideology and shattered dreams of a city. The city was mourning even at the break of a new dawn. The city was mourning the loss of hundred lives along with the life of the departed national leader.
My story is one of the hundreds stories of that night and probably not even a tearful one. I am sure there are more stories out there which can bring more guilt to all of us.
27th December 2007 was a cold night. It became cold-blooded when some people took the opportunity to go on a killing and looting spree. The nation lost one leader and thousands of lives in its aftermath. 27th December 2007 somehow passed but there is no guarantee that there will be no more such nights. Protesting and mourning is everyone’s right but we have a different method to our mourning and protests. Sadly, it brings more and more mourning to us as individuals and as a nation.
Syndicated from: GypSy