December 27 2007/ Draft 3

“Benazir Bhutto has been assassinated,” my mother told me as I entered the kitchen. For the first couple of seconds I could not believe what I had just head. How could it be true I asked myself? I sat down in shack. This was Benazir Bhutto, the Pakistani Pri-minister. The daughter of the East. She seemed like the person who would always be there. Her death wasn’t possible.
As a child I just saw her as another politician that came on T.V every now and than, however even as I grew up, I never really realized how important she was in my life. I never realized how much I admired her, and now this tragic event had completely confused me. I was angry at myself for criticizing her when I felt like she was wrong, but now it seemed like she was always right. I felt like something had sucked all the happiness out of me.
She was not related to me, she wasn’t even a family friend. Then why did I care so much? I had never even met her. Now I felt guilty. I felt like I had taken her for granted. Then another thought struck my mind; what about al those people who died with her. How would their families feel? I felt even guiltier. I was in a country where I was safe, where there were no suicide bombings or military operations and I had done nothing to deserve it. Before now I had never even cared about anyone dying in those bomb blasts or who was responsible for them.
So was it all over? Was there nothing to look forward to? I felt like this had happened before. Without even thinking about it for more than a second, I remembered everything my dad had told me about her father’s assassination during an army government by General Zia-Ul-Haq, and now General Pervaze Musharf had killed her in the same city that her father was killed in. Everything everyone had ever done for the Pakistan People’s Party seemed worthless. How could she have been killed with so many security guards, a bulletproof car and most importantly the people of her party, who were her biggest protection? As the day progressed, I felt even more depressed. I felt like I was suffering from an incurable disease. There was nothing in the world that anyone could have ever done to make her come back. Seeing the hopeless faces of the People’s Party workers made that winter day darker than usual.
At night when I was watching BBC, I saw her three children, one of them my age. I started to think what it would be like to lose my mother. How could I live without her? I felt selfish and egotistical. I was taking everyone in my life for granted. I had never seen death so closely before. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t because in a way that would be accepting her death. Also because half of my family who were with me at the time was against the Pakistan People’s Party, so if I cried in front of them, they would think I was crazy; crying for a politician. I felt like I hated them. They were being very insensitive and they didn’t even care about how my parents and I felt about her.
That night I couldn’t go to sleep. I couldn’t tell my parents how I felt because I knew that would make them even more miserable. Then I remembered what I had hard a man saying on T.V earlier; “How many Bhutto’s can you kill, out of every house a Bhutto will come.” That one sentence gave me a very comforting feeling, as I fell asleep.

December 27, 2008/ 2nd Draft

“Benazir Bhutto has been assonated,” my mother told me as I entered the kitchen. For the first couple of seconds I could not believe what I had just head. How could it be true I asked myself? I sat down in shack. This was Benazir Bhutto, the Pakistani Pri-minister. The daughter of the East. She seemed like the person who would always be there. Her death wasn’t possible.As a child I just saw her as another politician that came on T.V every now and than, however even as I grew up, I never really realized how important she was in my life. I never realized how much I admired her, and now this tragic event had completely confused me. I was angry at myself for criticizing her when I felt like she was wrong, but now it seemed like she was always right. I felt like something had sucked all the happiness out of me.She was not related to me, she wasn’t even a family friend. Then why did I care so much? I had never even met her. Now I felt guilty. I felt like I had taken her for granted. Then another thought struck my mind; what about al those people who died with her. How would their families feel? I felt even guiltier. I was in a country where I was safe, where there were no suicide bombings or military operations and I had done nothing to deserve it. Before now I had never even cared about anyone dying in those bomb blasts or who was responsible for them.So it was all over? Was there nothing to look forward to? I felt like this had happened before. Without even thinking about it for more than a second, I remembered everything my dad had told me about her father’s assignation during an army government by General Zia-Ul-Haq, and now General Pervaze Musharf had killed her in the same city that her father was killed in. Everything everyone had ever done for the Pakistan People’s Party seemed worthless. How could she have been killed with so many security guards, a bulletproof car and most importantly the people of her party, who were her biggest protection? As the day progressed, I felt even more depressed. There was nothing in the world that anyone could have ever done to make her come back. Seeing the hopeless faces of the People’s Party workers made that winter day darker than usual.At night when I was watching BBC, I saw her three children, one of them my age. I started to think what it would be like to lose my mother. How could I live without her? I felt selfish and annoyed with myself. I was taking everyone in my life for granted. I had never seen death so closely before. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t because in a way that would be accepting her death, also because half of my family who were with me at the time was against the Pakistan People’s Party, so if I cried in front of them, they would think I was crazy; crying for a politician.That night I couldn’t go to sleep. I couldn’t tell my parents how I felt because I knew that would make them even more miserable. Then I remembered what I had hard a man saying on T.V earlier; “How many Bhutto’s can you kill, out of every house a Bhutto will come.” That one sentence gave me a very comforting feeling, as I fell asleep.

December 27, 2007

“Benazir Bhutto has been assonated,” my mother told me as I entered the kitchen. For the first couple of seconds I could not believe what I had just head. How could it be true I asked myself? I sat down in shack. This was Benazir Bhutto, the Pakistani Pri-minister. The daughter of the East. She seemed like the person who would always be there. Her death wasn’t possible.
As a child I just saw her as another politician that came on T.V every now and than, but even as I grew up, I never really realized how important she was in my life. I never realized how much I admired her, and now this tragic even had completely confused me. I was angry at myself for criticizing her when I felt like she was wrong, but now it seemed like she was always right. I felt like something had sucked all the happiness out of me.
She was not related to me, she wasn’t even a family friend. Then why did I care so much? I had never even met her. Now I felt guilty. I felt like I had taken her for granted. Then another thought struck my mind; what about al those people who died with her. How would their families feel? I felt even guiltier. I was in a country where I was safe, where there were no suicide bombings or military operations and I had done nothing to deserve it.
So it was all over? Was there no hope? I felt like this had happened before. Without even thinking about it for more than a second, I remembered everything my dad had told me about her father’s assignation during an army government by General Zia-Ul-Haq, and now General Pervaze Musharf had killed her in the same city that her father was killed in.
There was not hope. Everything everyone had ever done for the Pakistan People’s Party seemed worthless. How could she have been killed with so many security guards, a bulletproof car and most importantly the people of her party, who were her biggest protection? As the day progressed, I felt even more depressed. There was nothing in the world that anyone could have ever done to make her come back. Seeing the hopeless faces of the People’s Party workers made that winter day darker than usual.
At night when I was watching BBC, I saw her three children, one of them my age. I started to think what it would be like o lose my mother. How could I live without her? I felt selfish and annoyed with myself. I was taking everyone in my life for granted. I had never seen death so closely before. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t because in a way that would be accepting, also because half of my family who were with me at the time was against the Pakistan People’s Party, so if I cried in front of them, they would think I was crazy; crying for a politician.
That night I couldn’t go to sleep. I couldn’t tell my parents how I felt because I knew that would make them even more miserable. Then I remembered what I had hard a man saying on T.V earlier; “How many Bhuttos can you kill, out of every house a Bhutto will come.” That one senence gave me a very comforting feeling, as I fell asleep.