How Can Zia Die?

A few days back I was flipping through Pakistani news channels and saw someone revealing some fresh rumors surrounding the mysterious death of General Zia-ul-Haq, followed by interview of a very emotional Ijaz-ul-Haq (Zia’s son) complaining how everyone had betrayed him in investigations. It had been a long time since I saw anyone discussing Zia’s death on TV and it brought back a lot of memories from that hot summer day in Bahawalpur.

The date was 17th of August, the year was 1988, and the day just felt like a usual day. Earlier in the day, someone had casually mentioned that Zia was visiting our small desert down. This news wasn’t too interesting for an 11 year old like me, although for a moment I did wonder if there would be anything interesting going on in the city related to his visit. But by the afternoon, I had forgotten all about the presidential visit, and was busy getting ready to go for tennis with my father. We reached the Cholistan Tennis Club, and started looking for doubles partners while waiting for the existing games to conclude.

There was just the usual chatter going on, when one of the club members, a retired army officer arrived and interrupted the conversation. The gentleman lived a bit far out of the city. He said that on his way to the club, he saw an aircraft doing strange acrobatics, after which it seemed to plunge down on the horizon. Someone suggested that since the Independence Day had just passed, it could be some event related to that, and then it was tennis as usual for the next several minutes.

Our concentration in the game came to a sudden stop when we heard unusually loud sirens from the road outside. Almost everyone left tennis and clung to the wall, looking outside and wondering what was going on. There was a flood of vehicles speeding away with their sirens blowing at full volume – military jeeps, ambulances, fire brigade trucks, police vehicles and more.

Someone said, “Zia was in the city today.” There were a few nervous smiles and nods, but no one was sure what it was all about. Rumors started flying around. I thought the “hypocrite” (as he was usually referred to in our house) must be enjoying his evening tea in Islamabad. He was the only Pakistani head of state I had seen in my life since I was born after Bhutto’s regime was overthrown by Zia. I thought in disbelief, “How can Zia die after all these years in power?” but secretly I wished that the rumors were true. Not that I had anything against Zia at that time; it just felt exciting to have something interesting going in the otherwise quiet city.

We went home a little early that evening where rumors had already reached. My mother picked the telephone to call someone, but the phones were dead. She asked me to turn on the TV to check if there was some news on it. In those days, the only channel we had was the state-owned PTV. I turned on the TV and saw recitation of Quran going on. I still didn’t get the hint, and announced, “Nothing unusual, just the recitation of Quran.” What seemed like a normal thing alarmed the more experienced people around me.

Minutes later, it was official. General Zia had died in a plane crash, with senior military brass and two US diplomats, after 11 years in power.

In the next few days, the state-owned media and the right-wing newspapers turned the “hypocrite” into a great hero of Islam and a savior of the nation. Stories of his righteousness were spread around, fables of his courage were crafted, everyone from US to Al-Zulfiqar (the militant group headed by Bhutto’s son) was blamed for the conspiracy, a huge state-sponsored funeral was televised and Bahawalpur was the center of all attention. I felt that I was living through a murder mystery movie and even got to meet two key characters of that movie, Ijaz-ul-Haq and Humayun Akhtar (son of General Akhtar, who also died with Zia). I enthusiastically followed all the news stories about it.

The other ongoing news story of the time was the danger of flood in river Sutlej which stays dry for rest of the year thanks to the Indus Water Treaty. It was an unusual sight to see so much water in the otherwise dry river, so we decided to drive around and take a tour of the areas affected by flood. I vaguely remember some popular patriotic songs were playing in the car stereo. On our way back, we had planned to stop by Basti Laal Kamal to see the site where Zia’s plane had crashed.

The site had just been opened after being sealed for days by investigators. We parked our cars, and walked towards what seemed like an alien landscape. Small pieces of metal were still scattered on the sand and a very strong smell of various burnt materials filled the air. The flood water was just a few feet away. All the kids wanted some pieces of the plane as souvenirs. I was also carrying a small empty metal container of “Red Cow Milk” for that. We collected the best pieces we could find, and came back home thrilled with our achievements.

A day or two later, flood water swept away the crash site.

Two decades have gone by, and the kids who lived through that day have all grown older. Pakistan has survived through another dictatorship. We have a much better context of history today than we did at that time. Hardly anyone shows up anymore at the lonely grave of General Zia in front of Faisal Mosque in Islamabad on his death anniversary. Even his closest allies have dissociated themselves from him. I am here in the US, and that container with those molten metal pieces is somewhere in some closet in our house in Bahawalpur. But every time I see visuals of a suicide attack in Pakistan, or hear interview of some captured militant, or talk about the increasing influence of armed extremists in Pakistan, I wonder if General Zia really died when we thought he did on 17th August 1988. And I get the same feeling of disbelief that I got on that day, “How can Zia die after all these years in power?”