Benazir
Bhutto has never looked this good. This week has seen the international press
posthumously apotheosising the telegenic Pakistani politician. But the
widely-expressed view that Benazir epitomised Pakistan’s hopes for
democracy, which have now perished with her, seriously overstates both what she
represented and the implications of her demise.
The principal consequence of
Benazir Bhutto’s death is the setback it has dealt to the US-inspired plan
to anoint her, after not-quite free-and-fair elections, as the acceptable
civilian face of continuing Musharraf rule. The calculations were clear:
Musharraf was a valuable ally of the West against the Islamist threat in the
region, but his continuing indefinitely to rule Pakistan as a military dictator
was becoming an embarrassment.
The former chief martial law
administrator had to doff his uniform - long overdue, since he was three years
past the retirement age for any general - and find a credible civilian partner
to help make a plausible case for democratisation. Benazir - well-spoken,
well-networked in Washington and London, and passionate in her avowals of
secular moderation, however self-serving - was the chosen one.
The other exiled civilian
ex-prime minister, Nawaz Sharif, was none of these things, and having been the
victim of General Musharraf’s coup, was considerably less inclined to
co-operate with his defenestrator. So, Nawaz was returned to exile in Saudi
Arabia when he attempted to come home, and when that ploy did not work (the
Saudis having no particular desire to take Benazir’s side over his), was
disqualified from running for office on the risible grounds that his attempts as
an elected prime minister to prevent a coup against himself amounted to
hijacking and terrorism. This left the field free for Benazir to do sufficiently
well in the elections to become prime minister of Pakistan for a third
time.
Her first two stints had,
however, been inglorious. From 1988-90 she had been overawed by the military,
whose appointed president duly dismissed her from office on plausible charges of
corruption, mainly involving her husband, who had acquired the nickname
‘Mr 10 per cent’.
Her second innings (1993-96)
was, if anything, worse: charges of rampant peculation (and administrative
adhockery) mounted, even as her avowedly moderate government orchestrated the
creation of the Taliban in neighbouring Afghanistan. This time it was a
president of Pakistan from her own party who felt obliged to dismiss her. To
assume that a third stint would have been any different requires a leap of faith
explicable only by the mounting international anxiety over Musharraf’s
fraying rule.
But
Benazir’s true merit lay in the absence of plausible alternatives. She was
no great democrat - as her will, appointing her husband Asif Zardari to inherit
her party, confirms. The Bhuttoist ethos is a uniquely Pakistani combination of
aristocratic feudalism and secular populism. To her, democracy was a means to
power, not a philosophy of politics.
But the same was true of the
other contenders in Pakistan’s political space - the conservative Punjabi
bourgeoisie represented by Nawaz Sharif, the moderate pro-militarists grouped
around Musharraf, the deeply intolerant Islamists, and the assorted regionalist
and particularist parties whose appeal is limited to specific provinces.
Musharraf knew that all that elections would ensure was a temporary
rearrangement of the balance of forces amongst these diverse elements. But it
would enable him to remain in charge as a "civilian" President while portraying
his Pakistan - more credibly than heretofore - as the last bastion of democratic
moderation in the face of the Islamist
menace.
Democrats in India may
well believe that the Pakistani people deserve better, but it is difficult to
imagine a viable alternative to such a scenario. The central fact of Pakistani
politics has always been the power of the military, which has ruled the country
for 32 of its 60 years of existence. In other countries, the state has an Army;
in Pakistan, the Army has a state.
The military can be found not
only in all the key offices of government, but running real estate and
import-export ventures, petrol pumps and factories; retired generals head most
of the country’s universities and think-tanks. The proportion of national
resources devoted to the military is perhaps the highest in the world. Every
once in a while a great surge of disillusionment with the generals pours out
into the streets and a "democratic" leader is voted into office, but the
civilian experiment always ends badly, and the military returns to power, to
general relief.
The British
political scientist W H Morris-Jones once famously observed that the only
political institutions in Pakistan are the coup and the mob. Neither offers
propitious grounds for believing that an enduring democracy is around the
corner.
The elections that
Benazir might have won have now been postponed, but they will take place
eventually, because they represent the only safety-valve in the pressure-cooker
that Pakistan is today. Her party will benefit from a sympathy vote, but in the
absence of a charismatic leader, it will be obliged to come to an accommodation
with the generals. Despite widespread anger at Musharraf’s failure to
protect Benazir, this may actually be the best outcome for Pakistan.
The Islamists, who have never
won more than 10% of the popular vote nationally, may fare even worse in the
aftermath of Benazir’s killing; most people assume her killers were
religious fundamentalists. The other suspects - Islamist sympathisers in the
Pakistani military, of whom there are many in key positions (notably in the
Inter-Services Intelligence) - will also be on the defensive in the face of
popular fury at Benazir’s murder. The great danger in Pakistan has always
lain in the risk of a mullah-military coalition. The death of Benazir has made
that less likely for now, and that may remain her most significant
legacy.