The Power of Mud

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I was deeply saddened when I read about the suicide of Adm. James Boorda, the American chief of naval operations. What disturbed me so greatly was that, according to reports, his act was precipitated by an investigative article that the admiral believed might lead to personal shame or dishonor.

So he chose to end his life rather than face the scandal that he saw coming.

What was the scandal about? It boiled down to whether Boorda should have worn a small bronze star that costs less than a dollar. He already had a chestful of medals to prove his valor and service — he really didn't need one more.

His supporters said he was entitled to wear the star. Others said that, technically, he was not. Although Boorda called it an "honest mistake," whether he was entitled to wear it or not is now irrelevant.

I remember reading about a French prime minister who took his own life over a scandal about unproved charges of obtaining a loan through a political favor. And apparantely, Vince Foster, a White House lawyer, committed suicide because he could not cope with the pressures of his public life in Washington, D.C.

These deaths demonstrate that intense public scrutiny leading to a public trial can cause immense damage. It can cause stress, shock, trauma, shame and even the desire to end it all.

A public trial, or especially a trial in the court of public opinion, is neither fair nor detached. It takes place in a highly charged atmosphere with accusations and counter-accusations coming so fast that the details are blurred. The public is confused, and the image is tarnished.

Wasn't it Joseph Goebbels who said that if you throw enough mud, some of it will stick? I should know. During my first term as prime minister of Pakistan, from 1988 to 1990, I was the target of a sustained campaign of character assassination aimed at unconstitutionally undermining the people's belief in the government I had formed.

I went blue in the face protesting my innocence, to no avail. As soon the government I led was dismissed in a 1990 civil coup d'etat, I was sent a chilling message: "Leave the country or your husband will face the same fate as your father." In other words, he would face a death sentence on trumped-up charges.

Simultaneously, a diplomat was sent to my father-in-law by the new regime: "Tell your son to divorce his wife and leave the country, or he will have to face terrible consequences," the messenger informed him.

But my husband and I refused to leave.

For us, it was a matter of honor to prove our innocence. But the threats we received proved not to be idle. I was hauled up on seven charges of "misconduct." My husband was charged with seven separate counts, ranging from abuse of power to kidnapping to murder.

We were called "corrupt" daily in the press and on the TV and radio. And, although the legal charge against us was not corruption, this became the label the press used to attack us.

I was glad that my children were too young to understand what was going on. They couldn't read what was said in the papers, and they had not yet started going to school, where they would have had to suffer the taunts of schoolmates.

Even my own relatives and friends seemed to get a skeptical look. After all, the saying goes that where there's smoke, there's fire — and in my case, the press created a great deal of smoke. Every time I would meet with an acquaintance, I would have to explain all the facts yet again, so that they could face their friends.

That was the most terrible part: to be presumed guilty, no matter what we said or did.

But my husband and I stayed the course. I am proud to say that we both won all our cases in the courts and legally proved our innocence. More than that, we faced the court of popular opinion and were re-elected to office, politically redeeming ourselves.

Our honor was vindicated, as was the honor of my party and colleagues. We were able to hold our heads high throughout.

Leopards don't change their spots, however, and my adversaries continue to make totally unsubstantiated and wild charges of corruption against my party, my government and my family. They refuse to talk about the issues ... about the democratic process, demographic pressures and the debt trap that Pakistan faces. It seems their manifesto is mudslinging, and the truth is the first victim.

I read that an American first lady once said she didn't recognize herself in the way the press sometimes portrayed her. She articulated my sentiments exactly.

Of course the public has the right to know the facts. Of course the press has a right to sniff out a story. But the individual also has a right to a fair trial and the presumption of innocence until proven guilty.

Here I would like to state that journalists investigating the story cannot be held responsible for the admiral's suicide. But it is time that we searched for some sort of yardstick to guide us in terms of fair comment and good judgment.

I was always sensitive as a child, and I think I am still sensitive today. But I have built a wall around myself to protect me from sustained character assassination. Naturally, it still hurts at times, but I am pretty single-minded in my determination not to let the dirty tricks of my opponents deter me from fulfilling the public mandate I received.

My heart goes out to Boorda's widow and his family, who lost him because of an "honest mistake."

I can only repeat the words of President Clinton, "I wish the commander in chief had told him that this is not worth killing yourself for."

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