As Karachi burnt in ethnic riots, Shah was replaced by Sindh Chief Minister Aftab Shahban Mirani. The gentle, heavy-set Mirani with salt and pepper hair visited the bereaved Bhutto household in Shikarpur to offer prayers for the murder victim. He came from the same town as Javed’s family, but Mirani was mostly compelled to visit them because of the national attention the case had received. State television drew mileage from the visit and cameras trailed him as he personally condoled with Fauzia’s grief-stricken family.
What national television did not show was that the victim’s brother, Javed told the chief minister that he knew that influential members of the PPP government were “hiding the murderer.”
Murder’s Impact on Society
Fauzia’s murder exploded a bombshell into society and revealed wide-ranging strata of opinions. Tongues wagged as soon as the accused was identified. Fauzia’s family thought that she had most likely pressured the already married Jamali to legalize his relationship and marry her. Apparently enraged by her persistence, they speculated, he pulled the trigger on her.
I saw that Fauzia’s murder was likely to have a negative effect on middle-class parents. Pakistan is a segregated society where marriages are mostly arranged; this incident would not help. More than once, I heard parents express disapproval how the girl had had a relationship with a man to whom she was not married.
Non-governmental organizations saw the murder as closely linked to women’s low status in society. They used it to agitate for reform. The Women’s Action Forum, comprising urban, young, professional women, took on the issue as symbolic of the rights of working women. WAF was joined by another newly-created group – War Against Rape (WAR) – that mobilized men and women of all ethnic groups on the case.
Overall, working women looked to the woman prime minister to improve their situation. Benazir Bhutto had come to power pledging “to take a firm stand against the ill-treatment and exploitation of women.” Now, delegations of human rights activists met the woman prime minister to demand that her MPA be arrested and unseated from office.
But the PPP did not unseat their member, saying they would not do so until the court reached a verdict. It was an ingenious argument – murder cases dragged on for decades without a resolution.
Every evening, the press material on the Fauzia Bhutto murder case landed with a thud on my desk. Women and human rights groups were growing frustrated at the government’s inability to catch Jamali. It weighed on me as well. With a government official accused of murder and protected by those authorized to prosecute him, there appeared to be no recourse to the law.
We Hunt Together for the Killer
Within two weeks of finding the body, the chief investigator in the Fauzia Bhutto murder case, Deputy Superintendent Police Sattar Shaikh had built a solid case against Jamali. I heard the smile in his voice when he told me that no sooner did he give a piece of information to the victim’s brother, Javed, than it appeared in the next morning’s newspaper.
Javed had finally come to trust me with sensitive information. Come late evening and I would get a phone call from him, updating me on the latest find by the investigating authorities.
Call it destiny or chance: I had begun walking on the same path as the victim’s brother. In the process, I gained respect for Javed, the man who sought justice, not revenge. His decision to bring the accused before a court of law seemed especially remarkable in a society crumbling under anarchy. I was struck by his handsome presence – gentle, polite and well-spoken.
And yet, we were a study in contrasts. In comparison to his laid-back introspective style, I was restless for action. As we began our separate investigations into the young woman’s murder, he came to know me as an aggressive reporter who barraged him with questions in order to meet a newspaper’s deadline.
At an early stage of the murder investigation, Javed had come to speak with a reporter in the adjoining newspaper office to convince him to do an investigative piece on Fauzia. I called him a couple of times on that telephone extension but despite assenting politeness, he failed to come around to my office to talk to me.
So, I walked into the other paper ’s office and asked the questions in person. I found him reticent to speak. He knew that I worked for a daily newspaper and he knew me too little to divulge the latest information. Without being rude, he had tried to brush me aside. Clearly, this was a man who did not trust easily.
We were both fired up for the same mission but remained complete strangers. I knew though that if we did not move quickly on Fauzia’s case, her murderer would vanish and she would be among the thousands of nameless, faceless victims of crime.
I decided to undertake my own investigation into the murder case. The opportunity came when my newspaper sent me to report on another issue in Nawabshah. It provided me the perfect opportunity to call upon Jamali’s driver, Mohammed Ishaq – who, after being released on bail, had returned to his village near Nawabshah city.
Once I had located his address, I took the office van to the driver ’s mud dwelling. The driver went inside and called Ishaq. A few minutes later Ishaq emerged nervous and disheveled. He was aware that the fact that I had traveled from Karachi meant that I was on important business.
The two of us sat upright, opposite one another in the spacious van and Ishaq narrated the story of that fateful night. He spoke in a resigned tone, in Sindhi-accented Urdu. It was the same account he had given to the police.
“Yes, he killed her,” he told me nervously. His matter-of-fact tone made me angry. Ishaq had driven off with Jamali to Nawabshah after the murder and would never have confessed had the police not arrested him. Knowing that I was staring at him, Ishaq dared not look up. Instead, eyes down, he muttered, “What could I do? He threatened to kill me if I told anyone.”
Fear had crippled this poor man of peasant origin. For the lowly driver to have testified against his master – a wealthy landowner, well-connected lawyer and an MPA – would have meant devastation for his entire family.
Although Sindhi feudal landlords are represented in the country’s two major political parties, they have kept their peasants ignorant and fearful. As a cynical Urdu-speaking friend of mine was fond of saying, “When one landlord wants to take revenge against another, he opens a school in the other’s locality”.
To Ishaq, I was a powerful figure from the city that belonged to the same social class as the landlords. When he described the entire murder scene, he never once looked up. Not just because I was a woman – people of lower status are not supposed to look into the eyes of the higher class.
As I left, I knew that although he had confessed to me privately and testified in front of a magistrate, he would never have the courage to testify against his master in a court of law.
Women Surprise Government Legislators
The city was abuzz with news about Fauzia’s murder. In the forefront were women activists, resolute on building pressure to catch the murderer. I attended their meeting at the Karachi Press Club where Javed was also present. His face was alive with expectation. He had come to depend on civil society to bring his sister’s killer to justice.
We discussed the possibility of my smuggling a group of women inside the Sindh Assembly building – banners and placards in tow – to demonstrate inside the premises and demand that the run-away Jamali be brought back to face murder charges. It was a novel idea proposed by WAF and WAR and I shared the excitement of what this could do to publicize the case.
The next morning, the handful of women activists piled in my car and we drove to the imposing Sindh Assembly. We planned that the bulk of protestors would unfurl their banners outside, once our “inside group” got in. They would then join a much larger group of activists on the street outside the parliament building.
As I drove to the majestic assembly gates, the guards peered in. They took one look at my assembly pass and then waved us in…just a harmless group of women. I parked inside the prepossessing Sindh Assembly building – its g
randeur masking the unruly sessions between government and opposition. My women friends waited in the assembly’s cafeteria room and I went to the opera house style press gallery.
Figure 8 PPP parliamentary leader Nisar Ahmed Khuhro addresses Sindh Assembly (Dawn photo).
The press gallery affords a bird’s eye view of the legislators under a large canopy of the British built parliament building. From here, I frequently watched the vitriolic exchanges between the government and opposition members.
Over a month had passed since Jamali had fled. I looked down to his seat to see if the assembly session had coaxed him back to his seat. Not surprisingly, his seat was empty.
As the session ended, the unsuspecting legislators walked out of the front door, smack into the middle of the women’s demonstration. The women had lined up for the protest in their modest shalwar kameez in vibrant spring colors, with dupattas strung across their necks. They dramatically unfurled banners and placards with slogans that read “Arrest PPP MPA Rahim Baksh Jamali” and “Arrest Jamali – Fauzia Bhutto’s murderer.” Female voices rent the air: “Arrest the killer of Fauzia Bhutto.”
Traditionally, the Sindh Assembly is a male enclave of feudal and urban parliamentarians, reporters and security personnel. But that day the legislators were taken aback by the sudden appearance of upper-middle class women demonstrating for women’s rights.
I saw the discomfort on the faces of the PPP legislators as they tried to avoid the demonstrators and instead walked briskly, mobile phones in hand, toward their Pajeros, the huge vehicles that symbolize feudal prosperity.
But before the parliamentarians could escape, the journalists who normally cover the Sindh Assembly went into action. As reporters took notes, newspaper’s photographers bent out of shape to snap legislators fleeing the bad publicity. It was not that easy for the PPP parliamentarians to escape. Outside the Sindh Assembly building there was a larger demonstration of women with banners and placards, demanding Jamali’s arrest.
Our inner group came out of the assembly gates and joined these daughters, sisters and wives of the crème de la crème. The assembly reporters had their work cut out for them. Even while many members of parliament had already revved up their high-powered vehicles and fled, the story of their runaway colleague would follow them the next day.
That night as I drove home after work, I knew the satisfaction of a day well spent. And yet, as I drove through the dark, silent streets of Karachi, I felt as though I was being followed. It was a familiar feeling. Years of driving home alone at night had taught me to shake off pursuers.
But that night something was different. I had glimpsed a man in my car mirror, who trailed me in a pick-up truck. Trying to shake off the eerie feeling, I looked behind and saw the street was empty. Gathering courage, I disembarked to open the gates of my house. Cautiously, I drove in and closed the gates behind me. This was my daily ritual.
Just as I walked up the three short steps to my house, I sensed a figure had crept up from behind. Instinctively, I called out, “Ma.”
It was just as well. At that moment, a hefty man had jumped over the boundary wall and pulled my tunic from behind. My karate reflexes came into play – I wrenched free and hit him with my bag.
In that split second, my mother had opened the door and the assailant vanished. My mother told me it had been the note of urgency in my voice that had made her run to open the door. My father turned on the balcony light and ran out into the courtyard to see if he could spot anyone. But the attacker had vanished.
History is Made
Three weeks after Jamali’s disappearance, as I dropped off a routine news report for my city editor Akhtar Payami, he quietly drew my attention to a news item from the wire services.
After many weeks, Jamali had surfaced before a court in Lahore, Punjab, where he had obtained a conditional bail-before-arrest. The Punjab court had ruled however that he needed to reconfirm bail from a Karachi court a week later.
We correctly surmised that since the body had been found in District East, this meant the runaway assembly member was required to appear in front of the District and Sessions Judge from Karachi East. I wrote a news item in my newspaper, giving the date and place where the accused was scheduled to appear.
The British had built the district courts in Karachi with the kind of imposing architecture meant to inspire respect for rule of law. That lofty ideal has fallen by the way side. Located on the chaotic M. A. Jinnah Road, the tall granite buildings of these lower courts – complete with ornately carved balconies – are today besmirched with air and noise pollution. The inmates arrive packed like sardines in police vans…their chains clanking as they shuffle behind policemen. The court’s grandeur has given way to a bazaar scene.
Seated in the courtroom during hearings, with tattered window screens and pigeons hopping in and out, I used to wonder how the judges could remain independent and dignified. Court clerks would step in the hallway and bellow the names of the parties involved – drawing out their names into lengthy syllables: “Ra – HEEM – Baksh Ja – MA – Lee”.
The scene was reminiscent of a crowded railway station in South Asia, where vendors peddle their wares. Even the black-robed lawyers who argued before the district judges were poorly qualified and often spoke the court language – English – with comical results.
But that day, when the educated elite of Karachi thronged the court to hear the case entitled “State vs Rahim Baksh Jamali,” the atmosphere was different. Many observers had read the case’s intimate details in the press. Late Fauzia’s brother, Javed was there. As our eyes met, I saw his wonder that so many people had come out to hear his sister’s murder case.
All eyes turned to the dark, balding Jamali as he slunk into the courtroom. He looked visibly dismayed at the sight of so many spectators crammed inside.
The courtroom drama was completed as Khawaja Naveed, the self-appointed lawyer for the victim’s family, bounced into the court and began reading the confession of the Jamali driver, Mohammed Ishaq, in a loud voice to give the gory details of the murder. Naveed was a famously flamboyant lawyer, youthful looking, with a curly lock of hair on his forehead and a ready laughter.
I understood his need to capture the limelight after a subsequent visit to his office. There on his table was a prominently displayed photograph of him where he appeared standing next to a cardboard image of US President Ronald Reagan – the president’s arm around him.
Twelve years later, Naveed bounced with the same gaiety to defend American journalist Daniel Pearl’s alleged killers. In both Fauzia and Daniel’s case, he exited once the media lights were turned off.
But, at Jamali’s bail-before-arrest hearing, Naveed’s theatrical performance was heard in all seriousness. Although he merely read the evidence recorded by Jamali’s driver, Mohammed Ishaq in front of a judicial magistrate, the facts of the case were dramatic enough to keep everyone’s attention. With eager scrutiny, men and women watched Judge Rehmat Hussein Jafri ponder the merits of the case. The accused stood sullenly – aware that the Sindh police waited outside in full force to arrest him.
The deliberation took several hours. The overflow turnout of the crowd and their interest bowled me over. I never imagined that the city elite would wait for hours to hear a judgment from the court. Finally, the judge looked up from his pince-nez spectacles and pronounced the verdict: “Bail denied.”
Photographers and reporters struggled to capture Jamali’s response as he was handcuffed and led to the awaiting police van bound for Karachi Central Jail. History had been made as a sitting MPA was sent to prison.
There was huge relief on Javed’s face as the verdict was announced. His was a Herculean task: to achieve what the civilized world takes for granted – getting justice through public institutions. Instead of retaliating with a tribal act of revenge, the victim’s brother had mobilized society to follow the rule of law.
Buoyed by the victory, human rights organizations rallied around Javed
to find him a lawyer. The Citizens Police Liaison Committee (CPLC) – a powerful organization, initiated by then PPP Governor, Fakhruddin G. Ebrahim to fight crime – used its leverage with the government to secure the appointment of a trusted high court lawyer, Syed Sami Ahmed as special public prosecutor to argue on behalf of the victim’s family.
A senior, capable lawyer, Sami Ahmed brought an imposing presence to the lower courts – impressing judges who were far junior to him in the profession. Tall, well-built and always impeccably dressed in well-tailored suits, he spoke in clipped sentences. His special appointment had done away the need for public prosecutors, whose pittance earnings from the government made them a rapacious breed.
The first sign of the rotting system came when police took the jailed Jamali for two weeks of questioning. This process, called a police remand, is routinely followed to extract information from the accused. The application for police remand had been moved by Sami Ahmed to lay the basis for trial.
To everybody’s shock, after the two weeks of “questioning” Jamali came to court looking fat and rested. “It’s as though he had gone for a sauna,” – a bewildered Javed said.
Human rights activists came to the hearings, their presence meant to monitor the proceedings. But Jamali refused to sit in the prosecution box. Instead, he wore a black coat worn by all lawyers and sat in the front row – reserved for attorneys. On occasion, I saw an honest judge snap at him and warn him to take the designated stand.
Still, the accused sidled up to the human rights activists. As they moved away, he told a woman friend, “You all look at me as though I’m a murderer.”
Using one pretext or another, the accused continually managed to get the hearings adjourned. Almost effortlessly, it seemed, he manipulated jail officials, doctors, witnesses, police and government prosecutors. Often, he would not be brought from Karachi Central Jail…the excuse being that jail vehicles or police escorts were not available. At other times, his lawyer didn’t show up or came with a medical certificate that claimed that the accused was too sick to come to court.
Aboard the Democracy Train Page 16