A Dream of Bhutto and Benazir — The Souls of Democracy Rise in Protest on a Broken Constitution
By Raja Zahid Akhtar Khanzada
In the stillness of night, a strange rift tore open, as if someone had split the curtain of time and placed me in a realm untouched by day or night.
From afar, a dim light trembled closer, until suddenly, two familiar faces—long lost to history, emerged before me.
One carried the same glint of confidence, the same ironclad smile—Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. The other, wrapped in a white shawl, bore a radiant face, dignified and gentle, yet bruised by sorrow, Benazir Bhutto.
I stood frozen, as if turned to stone.
But they were restless—disturbed by a pain that reached beyond the grave.
Bhutto’s voice thundered first.
The same power as before, but now undercut by an invisible wound.
“My son, why have we been summoned?
What is this document that rattles our rest in the graveyards?
What is this amendment being written in the name of our party?”
I gathered myself to respond, voice trembling. “Sir… It is the 27th Constitutional Amendment.
The one that restructures the judiciary, weakens the Supreme Court’s authority, consolidates military command in the hands of a single man, now called Chief of Defense Forces, and your very party is leading the charge for its passage.”
Bhutto began to walk slowly, as if treading upon the ruins of the democratic map he once drew.
“We wrote the Constitution so that power would belong to the people,
not become the estate of institutions. I stood on the gallows and said, ‘History will not forgive us if we strip the people of their authority.’ And today…”
He paused, not looking at me, but seeing everything.
“Today, the state is once again collapsing into a single center of power? Is this what we built everything for?”
I stayed silent.
Benazir stepped forward.
Her eyes still held that wounded flame which had lit her entire journey.
“In the Charter of Democracy, we pledged that power would never be centralized again.
Institutions would recognize their limits.
Courts would be independent.
The provinces, sovereign.
Parliament, supreme.
And now everything is being reduced, to a single office, a single man, and a single signature.”
Her voice shook.
“I gave my life for parliamentary democracy.
And today, my husband, my son, are ready to sign away that vision?”
I tried to explain.
“Madam… perhaps they are helpless. Circumstances, political pressures, compromise…”
She looked up with resolve.
“If circumstances dictate everything, then where is conscience?
We faced Zia’s dictatorship. We resisted Musharraf.
We cried from the graves that the Constitution belongs to the people.
And today, that Constitution is being rewritten. into a document of permanent power?”
Bhutto’s eyes were tired.
“The 27th Amendment? Has it passed the Senate?”
I nodded.
“Yes. With 64 votes.
The opposition protested, tore copies of the agenda, surrounded the Chairman’s dais, but your party, your successors, stood in support. It now moves to the National Assembly, and once passed, President Zardari, your son-in-law—will sign it.
He too will be shielded under lifetime immunity.”
Bhutto closed his eyes.
“Power now lies permanently in military hands.
The courts will no longer act on their own. The Joint Chiefs is abolished. One man commands all. Is this constitutional? Is this democracy?”
Benazir spoke again.
“And they accused us of stepping back from power?
At least we tried to return it to the people.”
I said,
“Madam, some argue constitutional courts exist in Europe too. That reform is needed. That the Supreme Court is overloaded…”
Benazir looked toward the sky.
“When power is consolidated in the name of reform, when courts become subordinate, when politics becomes ceremonial, and when a military chief is declared Field Marshal with lifetime authority, is that democracy, or dictatorship by another name?”
Her final words echoed:
“We never dreamed of this.
We never wrote this in blood.
If you remain silent even now,
neither we, nor history, will forgive you.”
The Dream Deepens: More Ghosts Join the Protest
Night fell again.
In the dream’s second act, it was no longer just Bhutto and Benazir.
Now, there were those who had bled on the streets. Who had taken bullets to the chest.
Who had fallen—voiceless—during Benazir’s procession at Karsaz.
And then… two figures emerged from the shadows of a shrine. One, bold, piercing-eyed—Mir Murtaza Bhutto.
The other, gentle, questioning Shahnawaz Bhutto.
Mir raised his chin. “Was our blood spilled so that tomorrow’s parliament would be reduced to a rubber stamp?
Did I not give my life for my father’s dream of democracy? Did I not challenge Benazir, not out of hate,
but because I feared what her husband would become? And now, look—we are all burning in the same fire.”
Shahnawaz whispered: “I was murdered in exile. But Pakistan lived within me. And now, the Constitution being written there, it has no soul. It is merely a map of power.”
The martyrs of Karsaz were silent.
Their wounds spoke instead.
One pointed toward the heavens.
“We did not die in that rally so that one day, a president and a military chief could be granted lifetime immunity, and the Constitution be guarded by someone wearing a uniform. We died for a Constitution in the hands of the people.”
Then, another face emerged, a young, fiery activist, the one who set himself on fire when Bhutto was hanged.
His body charred.
But his spirit, still alive.
“I burned myself to show the world: the Constitution is not a scrap of paper. It is a covenant.
A sacred trust.
And now, it is being rewritten like a corporate memo, granting lifetime protection to a president,
absolute command to a general, silence to the courts, and obedience to the people.”
I tried to speak,
but Murtaza raised his hand.
“Do not say you are helpless.
Do not say the times are difficult.
We spoke the truth, and we were killed.
But we never stood beside a lie.”
Benazir’s eyes filled with tears.
“I know you are all right.
But understand, my son now holds power. He knows every step will be judged. But is saving power worth sacrificing the Constitution?”
Bhutto looked skyward once more.
“Remember, when law becomes subject to power, when judges look to centers of control, when the nation’s conscience is lulled asleep in the name of ‘national interest’ the mourning does not happen in courtrooms. It happens in the pages of history.
And we are that history, crying, screaming, testifying.”
Then the light dissolved into fog.
But as they faded, they all turned to me.
Bhutto, Benazir, Murtaza, Shahnawaz, the Karsaz martyrs, the self-immolated activist, each with the same message in their eyes:
“If you do not write the truth,
then lies will write history.
And remember. when absolute power rests in one hand, and democracy becomes nothing but framed portraits, dreams do not die. They return, as protest,
as questions, and finally, as revolution.”
Awake, But Not Free
The night was over,
but the weight of the dream pressed down on my chest.
This was no longer a vision, it was a trial, with the nation as the accused,
and my pen as the only witness.
I turned on the TV.
The 27th Amendment had passed the Senate. 64 votes. Two senators from religious parties stood in support.
The opposition walked out.
Agendas were torn, slogans shouted,
but time’s pen had already etched its verdict, a future sealed in silence.
President Zardari, once a symbolic heir to Bhutto’s legacy, would now sign the document, granting himself lifetime immunity.
His signature, a notary’s seal upon the fate of generations.
The Army Chief, now Field Marshal, now Chief of Defense Forces, a single title. A single throne.
The cycle of history complete.
The general was no longer a guardian of borders.
He was now the final fortress of powe, standing above the Constitution,
unseen, but unshakable.
I looked at the pen on my desk, the same one given to me by Benazir in the dream.
And I knew, journalism is no longer just the craft of reporting.
It is now the final form of resistance.
So I began to write a not as a reporter,
but as a witness. As a historian.
As the son of a nation born from Bhutto’s dream, and now lost in the fog of amendment.
I asked myself:
If the courts lose their power to act on their own, If parliament becomes a ceremonial seal, If the military becomes a symbol of eternal authority, If the President, instead of guarding the Constitution, buries it beneath the pillow of power, then where is democracy?
My pen answered on its own:
Democracy no longer lives in reports, nor in assemblies,
nor in resolutions. It now exists only in the conscience of the people. If that conscience awakens, the Constitution will breathe again. If it remains asleep,
this amendment will be its final obituary.
This column.
This chapter.
This dream
is not just ink on paper.
It is a legal affidavit to be presented in the court of history, against every soul who stood silent before this betrayal.
Those who are quiet today, will scream in the testimonies of tomorrow.
And those who spoke in dreams, will awaken the eyes of the future.
Because as Bhutto once said:
“When power stops flowing,
systems don’t form, they freeze.”
And as Benazir once warned:
“If circumstances decide everything, what role does conscience play in politics?”
So now the choice is yours.
Remain silent?
Or make your pen the voice, that passes through dreams, and rewrites the future.
I woke up.
Breath heavy. Eyes wet.
But my heart certain—
this was no ordinary dream.
This was the unfinished dialogue of a nation. And I must complete it, word by word, drop by drop.
They handed me a pen in the dream and told me:
“Write the truth.
But write it not in fear, write it in warning. Because nations are made from dreams.
And if the dream itself turns crue
the future becomes dark.”
