An Eyewitness Remembers Benazir Bhutto’s Last Day

Benazir Bhutto’s Last Day – On December 27, 2007, Pakistan stood at the edge of a future it would never reach.

Liaquat Bagh, Rawalpindi, was filled with the familiar roar of a Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) rally—slogans, flags, and a sea of supporters who had come to see Mohtarma Benazir Bhutto, newly returned from exile, defy threats and reclaim her place in the country’s turbulent political landscape.

Despite repeated warnings and credible threats to her life, Benazir Bhutto had refused to cancel the public meeting. She had also been advised earlier not to travel to Peshawar. Her response was characteristically defiant and deeply personal: “What do you mean I should cut myself off from the people? That is not possible for me. I do not care if I lose my life, but I cannot stay cut off from the people.”

That decision would define her final day.

A Rally Charged with Hope

I had arranged transportation for a large number of party workers to attend the rally. From banners and placards to vehicles and publicity material, every effort had been made to mobilise supporters. I was also invited to sit on the stage and found myself seated directly behind Mohtarma Benazir Bhutto.

As speeches by various leaders concluded and she prepared to address the crowd, Naheed Khan, seated close to her, turned back toward me. She acknowledged the organisational effort, remarking on the size of the rally and the preparations. As she spoke, Benazir Bhutto herself turned, met my gaze, and responded simply, with a quiet dignity: “Thank you.”

It was a small moment, but one that remains indelible.

As her speech progressed and neared its end, I moved closer to the front of the stage. The crowd listened intently as she spoke—confident, composed, and unwavering in her belief that Pakistan’s future could still be shaped through democratic struggle.

The Steps That Changed Everything

Suffering from knee pain, I decided to leave the stage a few minutes early. Temporary wooden stairs had been erected at the back of the stage, where arrangements had been made for Benazir Bhutto’s departure. A driveway and parked vehicles stood there, including the car in which she was to leave.

Near the vehicle, Amin Fahim was standing. We spoke briefly about the upcoming elections and his inability to visit his constituency due to being constantly by her side. He remarked that she insisted on keeping him close, and he could not refuse her.

Moments later, Benazir Bhutto descended from the stage and approached the vehicle. The usual seating arrangement was discussed, and she chose to sit in the middle of the back seat. As she prepared to get in, Amin Fahim and I greeted her. She acknowledged us.

At that moment, something struck me. Her face appeared unusually radiant—almost luminous. Without exaggeration, it seemed as though the light was emanating not from the vehicle or the surroundings, but from her face itself. It was a fleeting impression, but one that would haunt me later.

The car began to move slowly.

A Suspicious Pause

My own car was parked across the road near Akbar Hotel. I began walking on foot, intending to cross Murree Road. Her vehicle moved at such a slow pace that we were briefly side by side—she in the car, I on foot.

Just before the road, a small group of around 15 to 20 people holding placards stepped in front of the vehicle, shouting slogans. The driver did not stop; the car continued slowly. In the middle of the road, another group appeared—eventually totaling around 60 people—also holding placards.

This was unusual. Placards were not part of PPP’s rally culture; party workers typically carried flags. The scene appeared orchestrated, as though designed to bring the vehicle to a halt.

When the car stopped, people began pouring out from different exits of the rally venue. Seeing the vehicle stationary, they rushed toward it. At that moment, Benazir Bhutto stood up through the sunroof and began waving to the crowd.

The atmosphere transformed instantly into a moving rally.

Sensing danger, I stepped back. Instead of crossing directly, I moved onto the footpath, planning to cross the road a few yards ahead.

The Shot, Then the Blast

I had taken only a few steps onto the footpath when I heard a sound resembling a revolver shot. I turned instinctively. Benazir Bhutto was no longer standing; she had sat down. I assumed it was a shot fired into the air to clear the way.

I continued walking.

Four or five steps later, a powerful explosion ripped through the air.

The blast occurred on the Raja Bazaar side—no more than ten feet from where I stood. Had it occurred on the Murree Road side, I would not have survived.

Chaos followed. People were injured. Some were martyred. Yet in those first moments, no one realised that Benazir Bhutto had been shot. The gun, it seemed, was silenced. Many believed she had merely sat down voluntarily.

Her vehicle began moving again, slowly. Later, it emerged that the tyres on the driver’s side had been punctured.

There was still hope—false, fleeting hope—that she had survived.

From Confusion to Loss

Unable to retrieve my car, which party workers had sent to Islamabad, I left with a colleague via inner roads. As we drove, calls began to arrive. First, reports of injury. Then appeals for prayers. Finally, confirmation of martyrdom.

The roads were sealed. We could not reach the hospital.

At home, we watched the tragedy unfold on television.

The following day, we drove toward Sindh. By evening, we reached Sukkur. From there, we went to Naudero, where Benazir Bhutto was laid to rest beside her father.

We offered Fatiha at her grave.

A Leader Without Replacement

Benazir Bhutto was, without exaggeration, Pakistan’s greatest leader after Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. She was courageous, forthright, and guided by merit. She possessed not only the vision of a national leader but the stature of a global stateswoman.

She respected party workers, remembered names, and honoured service. She connected all four provinces and commanded respect across political and ethnic divides.

Her assassination was not merely the killing of an individual—it was the assassination of a possibility.

Nearly two decades later, the questions remain unanswered: Who planned her killing? Who executed it? Why has the truth remained buried?

That uncertainty is Pakistan’s enduring wound.

She chose the people over her life.
And Pakistan lost a future it never got to see.