RENEE MONTAGNE, host:
This is MORNING EDITION from NPR News. I'm Renee Montagne at NPR West.
STEVE INSKEEP, host:
And I'm Steve Inskeep in one of the largest cities in the world. We're reporting this week from Karachi, Pakistan. It's part of the Urban Frontier, the name we've given our series on changing cities, and we're about to see that change at it looks to two of Karachi's leading citizens.
Both have found ways to speak out, even in times of military rule and political violence. One of them bears Pakistan's most famous last name. She's Fatima Bhutto.
Ms. FATIMA BHUTTO (Writer, Columnist): Karachi is a city unlike any other I've ever visited. This is a city of immense importance, but it's also a very sad city because of what's happened here, because of what continues to happen here.
INSKEEP: Fatima Bhutto met us in the home office that her late Aunt Benazir once used. Her grandfather, another prime minister, used the same office until he was hanged. Her grandfather appears in a huge painting on the wall, shouting to a crowd. His granddaughter does her shouting in print. She's a writer. Read some of her newspaper columns, and it becomes clear that she was a vocal opponent of her own aunt's government. She says the reason was a series of killings here in Karachi.
The other column that struck me may be difficult to talk about, but it was the one that you wrote after your aunt Benazir Bhutto was killed, in which you attempted to remember her fondly but made it clear, as I recall, from the first line, you never agreed, or you did not agree with her policies.
Ms. BHUTTO: No. Benazir Bhutto's interior minister, a man named Nassir Lababer(ph), who most notably heralded the Taliban in Afghanistan as my boys, launched, really, I mean, an operation of ethnic cleansing against this city, against a city that through troubles, through violence and through danger, has always managed to survive, has always coexisted with its differences.
INSKEEP: Because you wrote about your unhappiness while she was alive, I wonder, did you ever talk with her about that?
Ms. BHUTTO: Well my father, my father Mir Murtaza Bhutto, was killed during her last government. On his way home from a public meeting, his car was stopped. There were 70 to 100 policemen outside out house. Some were in trees in sniper positions. They fired. They fired at the men. Seven men died that night - two, including my father, from point-blank injuries. My father was shot on the side of his face besides receiving other injuries.
By the time my mother and I left the house to go look for him in the hospital -we left about 45 minutes later because the police didn't let us leave earlier -the streets were clean. You know, we didn't see any glass on the roads. We didn't see any blood because they'd washed it up. You know, the police were not arrested. The police were, they were cleared, honorably cleared in an internal review and restored to their posts, whereas the witnesses were all arrested and spent several months in jail.
And I did - I mean, I last spoke to my aunt about that. I called her when I found out that the witnesses had been arrested and the police reinstated, and I asked her why that was. And she told me - I was 14 at the time. She told me that I was very young and I didn't understand the intricacies of the law, and it's not like the movies. We do things differently here.
So I don't feel really that she answered my questions in any way that was meaningful. I wish she had, because they are questions - these are questions that resurfaced after she was killed.
INSKEEP: That's Fatima Bhutto, one of the leading citizens of Karachi, Pakistan. She is often asked if she'll follow her famous relatives into public office. She's dismissed the idea so often that when we visited, we didn't even bother to ask. And then we got to wondering if that was a mistake. The local newspaper showed her working a rope line of admirers as her mother talked about placing her in the National Assembly. It was Fatima Bhutto's birthday party. She's 26.
That same day, we listened to a very different independent voice in Karachi. He's a man who's been involved in Pakistan's politics for decades. In fact, he was briefly imprisoned in the 1970s by Fatima Bhutto's grandfather. You reach him by crossing a brilliant green lawn. It's surrounded by trees and a stone wall. Then you step into a cool, stone house where you meet a white-bearded man.
Without so much as a hello, he leads you directly to the bar.
Mr. ARDESHIR COWASJEE (Columnist, Dawn Newspaper): (Foreign language spoken)
INSKEEP: The man pours himself a glass of orange juice and quinine. His name is Ardeshir Cowasjee. He's a columnist for the newspaper Dawn. He recently referred to Pakistan's founder as that man of great perception, and then added there were no others to follow him.
When you were born? Where you born? And say your name.
Mr. COWASJEE: Karachi, 1926. I was born here, I lived here, I grew up here.
INSKEEP: You must remember a very different, much smaller city.
Mr. COWASJEE: Oh, yes, a very nice city. There was discipline. There was law and order. Nobody would kill. I mean, a chap got killed once in two years.
INSKEEP: Cowasjee is 82. He grew up in this port city. His family owned cargo ships. He still keeps paintings of two ships on his wall.
Unlike other non-Muslims, Cowasjee stayed in Pakistan after it was formed as an Islamic state. He stayed even after the government nationalized his family's shipping firm.
Why did you decide that?
Mr. COWASJEE: Where you want - why should I leave my home? Who the hell are you?
INSKEEP: Is there something that you love about this city?
Mr. COWASJEE: I'm 82. Where do you want me to end up, in an old people's home in America?
INSKEEP: I would like to tell you that Cowasjee is as elegant in person as he is in print. It's better to say that he's the keeper of his own style. He greeted us at the door wearing shorts and a bathrobe. He invited our producer to remove her scarf - and also, if she wanted, her shirt.
People in Karachi know that he acts as he wants, but they take his columns seriously. He's the kind of writer who's willing to compare some provincial official to an out-of-touch French king. He's also become involved in one of Karachi's central issues: the use of land. He joins lawsuits to stop developers from misusing land. He fights to preserve open space, though he says he wins no more than one time in 10.
In spite of losing nine out of 10 cases in your view, is there something essential about this city that is left to save, that is worthwhile?
Mr. COWASJEE: You see the trees in my garden? You see the little plot outside my garden? It's constant war all the time for the last 50 years.
INSKEEP: Constant war over his garden. He is gesturing toward a strip of land just outside his wall. It was marked off years ago for development, but Cowasjee planted trees there and has managed to keep it green ever since.
Is there a way, then, that all this time that you've been writing about this city and its development and its government or mis-government, that you've been basically defending your own yard?
Mr. COWASJEE: My own bottom. What sort people don't understand about that? I'm looking after my own backside.
INSKEEP: Well, thank you very much for taking the time to speak.
Mr. COWASJEE: Have lunch and get out.
INSKEEP: Ardeshir Cowasjee stands up, he gestures into the next room and says that's my library. He's looking at a floor-to-ceiling window that shows his lawn and those trees. His dining-room chair is positioned so that he can look out of that window whenever he takes his meals alone.
Our stories from the urban frontier are collected at npr.org, and you can find some of Cowasjee's columns there, as well. We are reporting all week from Karachi, one of the world's largest cities, on MORNING EDITION from NPR News.
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