Andrew Sullivan links to this piece from a Pakistani blogger on the death of Benazir Bhutto. It reminds us all that, for all the international importance of this event, there is an aspect to such events that is frequently overlooked and yet more tragic still.

At a human level this is a tragedy like no other. Only a few days ago I was mentioning to someone that the single most tragic person in all of Pakistan - maybe all the world - is Nusrat Bhutto. BenazirÂ’s mother. Think about it. Her husband, killed. One son poisoned. Another son assasinated. One daughter dead possibly of drug overdose. Another daughter rises to be Prime Minister twice, but jailed, exiled, and finally gunned down.

Today, in shock, I can think only of Benazir Bhutto the human being. Tomorrow, maybe, I will think of politics.

All too often, we forget that political leaders are human beings first -- mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters and a host of other relationships -- and politicians second. And so while our hearts ache and minds whirl this day as Pakistan continues in its orgy of violent despair following the terrorist murder of its favorite daughter, let us not forget that the Bhutto family has suffered a grievous loss that is more than equal to the loss suffered by the nation of Pakistan itself.

After all, Bhutto, who marked her 20th wedding anniversary only nine days before her murder, leaves behind not only her mother, but also an ill husband and three children. May we each take a moment to spare them a bit of the concern that we have spent on the political and security ramifications of this very human tragedy.

UPDATE: I've never quoted FireDogLake approvingly in the past -- but I'll make an exception for this personal remembrance of a very different Benazir Bhutto.

One of my sisters attended Harvard University as an undergraduate. I helped her move into her freshman dorm in Wigglesworth Hall on Harvard Yard. Wigglesworth was divided into suites with bedrooms and bathrooms off a sitting room with a fireplace. It was an old building and the suites looked like Sherlock Holmes' apartment.

* * *

In the stairwell that first day, the very first new friend my sister made was a cute little freshman in tan corduroy jeans with her dark hair pulled into two pigtails. She looked more like a high school freshman than a college student. She was tacking up fliers for some kind of cause (might have been related to world hunger) on the bulletin boards in the stairwell.

She was pretty and outgoing and introduced herself to us at once, "Hi, I'm Bennie, Bennie Bhutto." She offered to help move the bedding in, and may have carried up the pillows. She had arrived a couple days before my sister and filled us in on the lay of the land: Where the Baskin Robbins was; how to find the bookstore; you name it, she was willing to tour guide.

Over the course of my sister's freshman year, I often drove up to Boston to visit. From Bennie and from stories my sister told me, I learned that Bennie's real name was Benazir, but she had decided to use her nickname in order to fit in better in America.

There is more, much more, about the girl (age 16) who would become the woman. It explains a lot about the family dynamics that resulted in her rise to power, and the problems between her and her brothers. And I'm particularly struck by the closing paragraph.

Other people can analyze what her death means in political terms, in human terms. An intelligent, thoughtful woman is gone from this world, and I am saddened to learn that.

Indeed.

Posted by: Greg at 11:47 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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