In a quiet, reflective tone, she posed a profound question: “With over a billion people and widespread poverty coexisting alongside isolated pockets of wealth, how can we move forward from this state of disarray?”
In her conversation, she touched on one of the most polarizing figures in Pakistan’s nuclear history: Abdul Qadeer Khan, the scientist widely credited — and criticized — as the architect of Pakistan’s atomic weapons program.
“When I first met him, he was a humble man,” she recalled. “His ego only began to show in the 1980s. I remember him visiting me alongside Munir,” she added, referring to Munir Ahmed Khan, the then-chairman of the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission. “Back then, they appeared as dutiful civil servants, ready to follow the government’s lead. The prime minister summoned them, and they came.”
Her recollections were careful, almost clinical — not colored by reverence nor reproach, but by the clarity of someone who had witnessed events unfold firsthand. The heroic narrative built around Khan, she indicated, emerged later and was shaped as much by political motives and national insecurity as it was by his scientific contributions.
This wasn’t a formal statement, nor a broadcast press event. It was an intimate discussion held during exile — candid, insightful, and now, historically resonant. In an era where nuclear rhetoric is once again escalating and global disarmament appears increasingly distant, her words sound an urgent warning.
Having held the reins of power herself, she understood all too well the heavy burden of responsibility that comes with it. Yet she also grasped, perhaps more intuitively than most, the sheer folly embedded in the doctrine of mutually assured destruction.
“Neither India nor Pakistan can actually use nuclear weapons,” she asserted. “Whichever nation launches one first knows full well — there’s no time, no safe zone, and the retaliation will come without fail.”
Decades later, her reasoning still rings true.
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