When I was asked to write this article, my reaction oscillated between a sense of pride and a degree of consternation. To recall memories of the Shaheed as an uncle is a difficult and complex undertaking. Were he an ordinary man, an ordinary uncle, one could fill pages with mere platitudes. He was neither Mr. Bhutto the leader and legend towered high above ordinary mortals. From so youthful an age so encumbered was he with his work and politics that one has to journey repeatedly through the windmills of the mind to recall glimpses of an unburdened, relaxed man who for a fleeting moment or two was simply an uncle. I too, from a very young age was obsessed with the desire and passion to know this great man as a leader more than to know him as simply an uncle. I was awed by him. He fired my imagination even though I was no more than a boy. His charisma worked with children too!
My love and admiration for the man was, in a strange surreal sense not an ordinary one.... in the sense that love for Zulfikar Ali Bhutto the leader of men transcended the love of a nephew for an uncle. During his time as a minister in Ayub Khan’s cabinet, the Shaheed was a frequent visitor to our house in Hyderabad, where we lived in those days. I can recollect so clearly his first visit following his appointment as minister for Commerce. My parents had thrown a huge party in his honour and our house was lit up like a bride. Hyderabad was a much smaller city in those days --- almost rural in ambience. The commissioners, D.Cs. the I.G.P., the city notables and the feudals were all there. A shy little boy waited excitedly at the portals away from the sprawling lawns where the guests were assembled. His cavalcade arrived amid the blare of sirens. As he stepped out of his car, I waited on my haunches while my parents greeted hint .... then like a sprinter making the final lunge to the finishing line. I rushed towards him to offer my congratulations. I could see that he was touched. He broke into a broad grin and holding my hand he asked me to accompany him to the waiting guests. For me that was a moment of uncontrolled ecstasy, as I loved being near him and listening to him talk to the grown ups. I would happily surrender two hours of his time chatting to me for listening to two minutes of his conversation and his views expressed to politicians and officials. So many names, so many faces. He knew them all by name and had a different greeting for each. The discussion ranged from a crop failed in Tando-Jam to the machinations of super powers.
The Shaheed’s rise in the Ayub government was meteoric, reaching a climax with his appointment to the portfolio where his real passion lay. He became Pakistan’s Foreign Minister which provided him the access to international stage upon which he could bring into play his unbelievable and consummate skills and mastery in power politics and global gamesmanship. These were heady days. A youthful and vibrant foreign minister was captivating the hearts of the young at home and winning admiration abroad. He identified with the downtrodden and the dispossessed. He became the champion and spokesmen for the underdog and a Third World bulwark against the ravages of imperialism and neo-colonialism. His close liaison and friendship with the symbols of revolution and resistance of the 1960’s - ---Soekarno, Nasser, Ben-Bella and Chou En Lai were reflective of the fires burning in his own heart and the destiny he had chosen for himself and his country. For the youth of Pakistan he became the Pied Piper. A country used to aging and ailing politicians, lacking in both charisma and integrity the arrival of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto was like the dawning of the Genesis’s first chapter. Here at last was a man to fill their hearts with pride and bring them out into the streets in spontaneous joy. The Shaheed’s historic speeches at the U.N. where he tore the Indian delegation into shreds and subsequently his heroic resistance to the Tashkent Declaration made him the fantasy of every young dream.
The 60’s was an era of revolution. The gale force winds of change were sweeping away the old order. It was an era which took within its wrap the re-sculpturing of political, cultural and social milieu. To be young in the 60’s and to be Bhutto’s nephew was intoxicating. School friends would gather in groups to talk about him. They would query me on every minor, insignificant detail I could give them and waited with baited breaths as I gave my impressions. I was no longer the nephew of Mr. Bhutto the ex-Foreign Minister. I was the nephew of a folk hero. I remember the historic train journey he undertook on 20th June 1966 from Rawalpindi to Larkana after resigning from Ayub’s cabinet. Multitudes came out to greet him at even stop. big and small. The sea of humanity which had gathered at the Lahore railway station has very few precedents in terms of spontaneous emotion and adulation that was displayed. Tears trickled down the Shaheed’s eyes as he surveyed the ecstatic and delirious crowds. The handkerchief he used for wiping away the tears was grabbed and battled over for possession. All this at a time when no one dared to whisper a word against the dictator for fear of the punishing wrath of a draconian regime.
By this time we had shifted to Karachi and this was also the period in which I perhaps saw him most, as the Shaheed too had moved to Karachi and taken up residence there. I was at his house virtually even day, playing cricket or just hanging around with my cousins. Ayub Khan’s intelligence had put him under surveillance and the visitors were all hounded and harassed. To escape the gauntlet, the Shaheed would often arrange to meet people at our house. He invariably arrived before his guests and chatted with us. He would ask about my progress at school and keep stressing upon the value of good education at which point I would ask if I could put on his favorite song “Strangers in the night”, knowing full well he won’t refuse that offer. I was least interested in hearing his harangue about school and studies. I wanted to hear him on politics and his political plans. For this I would have to wait until his guests arrived and would then lurk in corners to eavesdrop on the ensuing conversation. I must admit I learnt a great deal from these regular eavesdropping sessions.
By this time the political climate had started heating up and beneath the calm exterior dissent and discontent was taking root. Ayub was by now a most hated man while the popularity of Mr. Bhutto was growing in equal measure. People were looking to him as a catalyst of change. My friends and I were growing impatient. They would pester me and I in turn would direct our common complaint at my cousin Mir -- “when will your hither start his movement against Ayub Khan. What is he waiting for opportunity is passing him by.” But the Shaheed was a master of political timing. His timing and his each step was carefully calculated and weighed in precise political scales. Combining the best in science and art to his political calculation together with his innate and instinctive political sense made the Shaheed a formidable politician.
His entire thesis on politics was built around the concept of timing. He believed politics had its own dynamic force, its own electric field. He knew precisely when it was time to ignite the fuses that would blow away dictators. The moment finally arrived in early 1967. Fearful of the Shaheed’s growing popularity, his compelling youth and his iconoclastic and idealistic image, Ayub Khan encouraged his ministers and minions to assail him on public forums. Mr. Bhutto was, likewise, compelled to defend his reputation and honour on public forums and thus the forum for political debate was created, which was to prove the watershed mark in the political mobilization and movement, leading eventually to the downfall of the Ayub regime. Pakistan Peoples Party was formed on 30th November 1967 at an inaugural conference held at the residence Dr. Mubashir Hasan in Lahore. Shortly afterwards, I rushed to get my 25 paisa membership of the Party. The PPP archives would show that subsequent to its formation, I was among the first batch of common people to join.
Having given birth to PPP, the Shaheed launched a frontal attack on Ayub. The manner and style adopted by him was unique in Pakistan’s history for two main reasons. First, no politician before had dared so boldly to speak out and agitate against an established dictatorship that, by its sanguinary methods, drove fear and terror in the hearts of people. Second, no one had previously addressed the masses directly. Not only did the Shaheed do this, but he also spoke to them in the language and idiom they related to. The Shaheed cut across the conventional lines of political discourse to direct his appeal to the poor and the dispossessed. His address at the Hyderabad rally in the autumn of 1967 drew such a magnificent public response that a panic stricken and scared regime got the Governor of West Pakistan, General Musa to react with a shoddy and typically callous rebuke. Musa taunted the Shaheed by claiming that only the rickshaw walas. Tonga ‘alas and labourers were there at the rally to hear him. The brilliant and adroit politician that he was, the Shaheed responded by accepting the charge of addressing a crowd of Tonga and rickshaw walas and reminded the Ayub government that he was indeed proud to represent the shirtless masses. The Shaheed was soon touring and rallying the crowds from Karachi to Khyber.
He barnstormed across the countryside and cities. He toured every village and every town, every hamlet and every hut. His charisma and magic carried a magnetic field that drew huge crowds every where he went. As the momentum grew and the political temperature rose, all of Pakistan was in the grip of a revolutionary fervor. A despondent and desperate Ayub Khan reacted by arresting the Shaheed in November 1968. Protest rallies were held throughout Pakistan and I remember going out with my friends to join one in Karachi. We were tear gassed and baton charged and together with a few companions I ended up in a police lock up, where we spent several hours until a friend used his influence to get us out. The Shaheed’s affidavit filed before the high court was a political masterpiece. Not only did it challenge his unlawful incarceration but also served as his political testament which was to fire the imagination of the students, intellectuals and professionals. Hitherto, the government through complete press censorship had ensured that the Shaheed’s public speeches and statements were totally blacked out. Inadvertently, Ayub Khan had created the interstices through which he himself would fall. The PPP had printed “Free Bhutto” badges and I recall walking down Karachi’s Elphinstone Street with Benazir distributing these badges. Enthusiastic crowds gathered and before we knew, we had run out of the badges.
I wrote to my uncle at Sahiwal Jail to pour out all my emotions and sentiments. I was delighted to receive his letter in reply to mine and to this day I have preserved that letter as my most prized possession. He wrote. “Not until I received your affectionate letter of January l5th did I realize how much you have grown. Of course I have seen you grow but that is not the same as getting an idea of your mental growth: Your letter gave me that idea and made me feel very happy. Time passes very fast and very slowly, depending on how one is placed. Somehow, children always seem to remain children no matter how much they grow.” Elsewhere, he wrote about his favorite subject of lecture---education: “In the world of today, there is nothing more important than knowledge. Every thing can get lost or taken away except knowledge. Everyone knows that but it is truer of today than of the past. You must select your career carefully and really concentrate on it.” He wrote so succinctly about the country, its people and youth that even 24 years later, when I read that letter today. I can feel a chill running down my spine. Some of the extracts I would like to reproduce; “Things are moving fast. Pakistan is entering a new phase. We must understand the future and be prepared for it. I am glad you are taking an active interest in what is happening. This is a very good sign. The younger generation has a great deal to do with shaping the future of this country. I any very attached to the youth of Pakistan. I understand its feelings: that is why the Noting have been so kind to me. I have tremendous faith in the capacity of the new generation. I know it will effectively meet the challenge of the future. The country is going through a difficult period but the difficulties will pass. We have to make sacrifices otherwise the future cannot change for the better. Now that the people have made sacrifices, I am confident that a more equitable society will emerge. Life in jail is not very pleasant but that does not matter. It is most elating to know that the people remember me. There is nothing better to hope for than to be in the hearts of the people. I have done my best to serve the people of Pakistan and that is why they have not abandoned me. Please make it a point to keep in touch with events. The more you study the causes of the present crisis and go into its why’s and what’s, the better will be your understanding of life. My time in jail will pass. No dictator in the world can bring it to a stop. None of you should worry at all. It will be utterly wrong if you did not concentrate on your studies on account of such setbacks. In reality, we have not received a setback. Time will Insha’ Allah show that we have not. But even if the difficulties are real, the mind must be trained to face them. On the contrary, because I have been unjustly put in jail, you should concentrate more on your studies to ensure we have a future free from such excesses. We are a poor country with limited resources. These resources have to be well harnessed to reduce the misery of our people. Socialism is the only way by which it can be done. If Ayub Khan had understood this, he would have been in less trouble today.- It is not a matter of what we like but what is good for the people. Sooner or later, people get what is good for them. Nobody can stop it. If socialism is explained properly, it will not only be understood but also accepted by the people. Our Party papers called the “Foundation Papers” explain what we mean by socialism. Only those who rob and loot the people will oppose socialism. But they will not be able to rob for long. Soon they will be held accountable. Please do not worry about me. Look after yourself, work hard and prepare to serve your country.”
The letter comprised two full scape typed pages and given the Shaheed’s pre occupation with the court and lawyers, I was obviously touched beyond measure. In February 1969, the High Court ordered his transfer to house arrest in Larkana. I travelled to Larkana with my cousins. A beaming Mr. Bhutto, immaculately dressed in a dull, bottle green suit greeted us at the porch. Air Marshal Asghar Khan who had accompanied us on the flight to Mohenjodaro arrived with us. It was obvious that jail had not dampened the Shaheed’s spirit.... only made him more defiant and confident of success. This was an immensely exciting time. The Shaheed had unleashed a tidal wave of protest against oppression and with the students forming the spearhead, demonstrations, rallies and marches were becoming, for the first time, a part of Pakistan’s political culture. And here we were with the man himself. It was exhilarating to be with hint. To hear him speak, to follow him.
The Shaheed called for the release of all political prisoners and for an end to the state of emergency. Towards this cud, he began a hunger strike. Through out the period of hunger strike lasting three or four days he sat out at the porch of Al-Murtaza in full view of the slogan chanting crowds gathered outside.
The mounting tide of public pressure compelled Ayub Khan to capitulate to the demands and the Shaheed was released. A victory march through the streets of Larkana followed as huge enthusiastic crowds sang and chanted “Jive Bhutto” and “Khati aiyo khair san Ho jamalo”. It was a moment of sheer magic. The apotheoses rendered have been reserved in history only for saints. The Shaheed Would bring his fists together in simulation of hand cuffed hands of a prisoner and then tear them away to symbolize the breaking of the chains. The dramatic effect of this act sent the wild sea of humanity into uncontrolled frenzy. I was with my cousins atop the truck as it made its snail like passage through the narrow and congested Larkana streets and was completely mesmerized by this giant of a man who sent electric impulses through every vein, nerve and muscle. Suddenly, a man appeared before our truck, pulled out a revolver and aimed at the Shaheed. There was not a sign of panic or fear on the Shaheed’s face. His first instinct was to turn towards us to ensure our safety. In the meantime, quick as lightning, the angry mob had grabbed the would-be assassin and begun to render street justice. The Shaheed intervened and asked Katpar and Hayat Mohanuned Khan Sherpao who were accompanying us on the truck to save the Juan from the wrath of the mob. Ayub Khan’s last desperate bid to stop the Shaheed in his tracks had failed and now the end was nigh.
The Shaheed decided to return to Karachi by train and I was thrilled that I could accompany him together with my cousins. We boarded the Bolan Mail bound for Karachi and were all in the same compartment through one of history’s greatest train journeys. In between the stops, the Shaheed kept us riveted with his anecdotes and his hilarious mimickery of Ayub Khan. All through the night and into, the next day, the train would screech to a halt at every small, wayside station and at very stop the scene was much the same. Whether it was Dadu. Sukkur, Kotri or Hyderabad, people turned out in their multitudes to greet their leader. The Shaheed would emerge from the compartment to mesmerize them with his theatrical oratory and they would go into wild unrestrained rapture. It was a spectacle of messianic incantation that Lenin could not match during his own historic journey back home following the Russian Revolution. During the course of the journey we were joined at various intervals by other PPP leaders among whom I can recall Mumtaz Bhutto and Hafeez Pirzada.
We finally arrived at the Karachi Cantonment station where a human avalanche had already struck. Old men and young, women and children had gathered in their thousands to catch a glimpse of their political messiah. The air was rent with “Bhutto Zindabad” and “Ayub Murdabad” slogans. The Shaheed led a massive procession through the streets of Karachi, at each stage throwing down the gauntlet to Ayub in defiant speeches. Things began to move at a very rapid pace and finally Ayub Khan succumbed to relentless street pressure and handed over power to Yahya Khan. An election date was announced and soon the Shaheed was on the hustings touring the remotest corners of Pakistan long forgotten and forsaken by the Country’s rulers. As a youth, I recall attending each and every public meeting addressed by him in Karachi.
A few days prior to the general elections, I went to Larkana again with my cousins. Finally, the day itself arrived and as the results began to come in, they surpassed all our expectations. It was a resounding victory for the PPP and many a feared and famous name fell before its electoral juggernaut. The Shaheed sat in the lounge of Al-Murtaza listening to the results on the radio and accepting the greetings of people who were steadily streaming in. The PPP had swept the polls in West Pakistan and the Shaheed had confounded the establishment, the political pundits and commentators who had forecast no more than a handful of scats for him.
The Shaheed’s emphatic victory at the polls was followed by a dark and sordid period in the country’s history precipitated by the ugly machinations and Byzantinist game play of the military junta. After the fall of Dhaka a defeated and dispirited junta handed over power of the truncated Pakistan to the Shaheed. What followed was an epoch making period for Pakistan already recorded in history and signed by the Shaheed in his own blood.
5th July 1977 was to be Pakistan’s blackest day. Like a thief in the dark, General Zia overthrew the popular and democratic PPP government, followed by a kangaroo trial and the judicial murder of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto in one of history’s most sordid and vindictive court room plays. I was in London throughout most of Shaheed’s incarceration as were Mir and Shahnawaz. In the last week of March 1979, Mir asked me to visit Pakistan with the purpose of meeting his father to convey certain messages. At this time we were also busy organizing an international jurists conference in London to review the trial papers and expose the farcical nature of the entire trial. My task was also, therefore, to gather all the legal material available and bring it back to London.
With some trepidation, I finally arrived in Rawalpindi and following my application to the interior ministry, was given permission to meet my uncle on 27th March. I arrived at the Pindi jail at the appointed hour. On a long and winding walk passing through many steel gates to his cell, my heart was heavy and I could feel my entire body in a state of nervous affliction. It was like going to see a lion caged. Through out the walk towards the cell, Yar Mohammed, the police inspector in charge of the prison kept nagging me to persuade my uncle to ask Zia for mercy. Mercy plea will save his life, he assured me. We finally arrived at the Shaheed’s cell and before stepping forward. I asked Yar Mohammed to unlock the cell gate. I did not wish to greet my uncle from across the prison bars. My uncle overheard my protestations and greeted me with the sharpest scolding of my life. “Why are you pleading with this man? Do you think he will be so kind as to let you in to embrace me after the manner in which they have mistreated and tortured me? I do not want any concessions from them.” A chair was brought out for me as I sat across the bar facing the Shaheed shadowed by four security men leaning over to eavesdrop on the conversation. To make amends for the rebuke I had received, my, uncle grinned broadly and said. “Is that a Turnbull & Asser shirt you are wearing?” “Yes.” I replied. “You are very smartly dressed,” he said with a smile and then warned me to be careful in what I say as the cell was heavily bugged. He then asked me about myself and enquired about Mir, Shah Nawaz and Sanam. He was extremely keen that they concentrate on their studies. I was appalled to notice that the lavatory facilities were placed by the cell door in full view of the jailers. He noticed my eyes wander in that direction and with a wry smile said. This is placed here to humiliate me. After all I have done in the service of this nation this is the way I am treated. Even the Nazi concentration camps were better than this.” I had read in the papers about the squalid conditions, the fetid smells and the callous treatment meted out to the former Prime Minister. I had read how he had been reduced to a skeleton. Here I was a witness to that gruesome reality. He looked frail and physically emaciated, though his spirit was unshaken. He was caged in a tiny cell no more than 6 feet by 12 ---not enough room for an animal, leave alone a human being. He had no bedding and was forced to sleep on the hard floor. “This is the way they treat the duly elected Prime Minister of the country.... one who restored the dignity of the nation and its armed forces, brought back 90,000 prisoners of war and retrieved miles of lost territory without conceding an inch. To this day the Egyptians and the Syrians are trying to get back their lost territory from Israel. This is how they treat the Chairman of the Islamic Summit. This is their way of thanking the man who nursed a defeated and dejected nation back to life and gave it a place of honour among the comity of nations.” It was clear to me that he had reconciled himself to death and was inwardly preparing for it. He was concerned only about his place in history and how he would be remembered by his people. “What do the foreign countries and newspapers say about me?” He asked. “They say that you are innocent and the trial was a farce,” I replied. “I know, I know,” he snapped with an extravagant wave of the arm. “What do they say about my achievements, my brains, my place in history?”. I was in the presence of not a man, but a phenomenon. Here was a man staring death in the face, constantly persecuted and harassed by his jailers in a stinking, suffocating cell ... yet, he was looking beyond his death cell at the world in all its expansive dimension. He was in his mind surveying the canvas of history and its fine print and his place in it. “I will live in the hearts and minds of the people. I will become a legend, people will write poetry about me. They will sing songs about me,” he said with a remarkable prescience.
My allotted time was 30 minutes and time was rapidly flying away. Mindful of the paucity of time, I moved closer to my uncle to whisper in his ears in order to circumvent the human and electronic bugs. There were many important messages to convey and his reply and directions to be absorbed and retained. Just as the time was over, I conveyed Yar Mohammed’s message regarding the mercy petition.
What a mistake that was. I should have known the Shaheed better. The word “Mercy” did not feature in the lexicon of this man of destiny. He flew into a rage and screamed “My life belongs to God not to Zia. And my name belongs to history. They are angry and frustrated because they can rob me of my freedom but not my spirit. They cannot cheat me of my place in history.” On 1st April I was granted another meeting. After a rigorous body search I was taken by the same police officer to the Shaheed’s cell, He smiled when he saw me and remarked, “they seem to be crowding all my meetings on the same day, Benazir and your aunt were here a little earlier as well.” Little did I know then that this was in preparation of the impending murder. We sat across the bars, huddled in whispers. He asked me about what the talk was. “All indications are that they will go ahead with the execution.” I replied grimly. His countenance betrayed neither shock nor alarm. He simply nodded stoically. I felt rotten for having said that. I was desperate --- I wanted to do something anything. “Why don’t you give a call for the people to rise, instruct the PPP leaders to give a call on your behalf and take them to the streets,” I pleaded. He stared out into vacant spaces and said. “The PPP leaders asked me if I wanted them to give a call. Forget it I said, don’t bother, I and too big a man to tell them to go out and risk their skin for me. Life is precious but not at the cost of one’s honour and dignity. Surely they were only half hearted in their offer otherwise why ask me. What guidance can I give them from a death cell. Damn it if they really wanted to do something, they should have gone ahead and not come like babes in the wood to ask me what I want.” I was determined not to let it pass. “Then authorize me to go and tell then to give a call. I will tell them these are your instructions.” He thought for a few seconds and said. “What’s the point? I have prepared myself for death now.” “That may be so but it is your right and you must exercise it.” I insisted, “Alright you can tell them in a round about way ---tell them it is your duty to go out and fight for your leader”. Tell them that Mr. Bhutto is not preoccupied with the idea of saving his life and will, therefore, not ask you to put yourselves at risk,” he said. From somewhere I found the inner reserves to continue arguing with my uncle. “No.” I replied defiantly. “Either I tell them categorically that these are your direct instructions or will say nothing at all. If I say anything in a round about way they will give their own connotations to the message.” He thought again for a moment and grasping both my hands in his said “You know I and glad you came to see me. You are right --- O.K., go to them and tell them categorically that they should give a call. Tell them these are my instructions. But go first to see Benazir and your aunt at Sihala and apprise them also of what my directives are for the party leaders.” We huddled in whispers again to exchange messages of confidence. I was to fly out to London the following day and some of the messages, particularly those for Mir were too vital and sensitive not to be completed in the given time. We were in mid-stream when Yar Mohammed suddenly interrupted to say. “Your 30 minutes are up.” “Just one minute one more minute.” implored the Shaheed with his index finger pointing upward. Folding his arms together, Yar Mohammed replied “Alright” with a generous smirk. Suddenly and without warning the Shaheed got up from his chair and kicking it aside screamed. “Go Tariq. I do not like this man’s patronizing attitude. I am still the elected Prime Minister and do not want any favors from them.” He said that and took my hands to bid me farewell. That was to be last time we would ever meet again. The following morning I flew back to London with the trial documents and joined Mir and Shah in the helter skelter activity of organizing the international jurists conference.
I was with Mir and Shah in their apartment till late on the night of 3rd April. Sonic encouraging news had arrived and certain developments had taken place that caused us to be more content and complacent than in a long time. I returned to my own flat and in the hope of an easy, undisturbed night’s sleep went to bed at around 2 am I was awakened at around 3.30 by the ring of the telephone. Still half asleep and disoriented, I lifted the receiver. It was Mir on the line. They had killed Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. And along with him they had killed a little bit in all of us.
There was not a poor man’s child anywhere whose eyes did not well up in tears. In the early hours of the morning of 4th April, we bowed down towards Mecca in prayer. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto will no longer be with us. Mr. Bhutto my uncle is gone but the legend survives. His voice is heard no more but as he had predicted songs of praise and poetry are recited in even corner of Pakistan where the poor put their feet clown. His memory is enshrined in history’s most dazzling corridors. No tank no jackboot can ever crush a legacy that lives in the hearts of the people. Bhutto belonged to the sweat and sorrow of this soil. His soul has mingled with the soul of the multitudes who cry out in their sorrow and their pain “Jeay Bhutto. Jeay Bhutto”. They cannot bring him back but his name with every beat echoes in their heart and his face mirrored through their tear soaked eyes carries a sad reminder of their anger and their shame. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto possessed vital magnetism which he transmitted to the people. He could touch the raw nerve of their emotion to generate sheer ecstasy or intense anger. He held their pulse in his hand. They would laugh with him and cry with him. He loved them and they in turn loved him. In his own words, it was his greatest love affair....his romance with people. To see them together, the messiah and the mesmerized in the fields and in the streets in such compelling chemistry, with such charge of electricity.... it was poetry in motion. He would never die for them and they would never forsake him.
And I thank God for him and I thank God that the ideal of millions is my uncle.