PAKISTAN'S welfare is my life's treasure. I love every particle of its dust. I am convinced that any step I now take to bring peace to the country will have an effect on its future and history." To millions of Pakistanis listening hushed around their transistor radios, the calm, measured voice of President Mohammed Ayub Khan seemed inadequate for the drama of his message. "In all my difficult times," said Ayub, "I have prayed to God for guidance." Then, in a striking echo of Lyndon Johnson's renunciation of the U.S. presidency last year, he declared: "I have decided, in the light of my faith, to announce that I will not be a candidate in the next election. This is my irrevocable decision and there is no possibility of my changing it."
Thus, after more than ten years in power, the 61-year-old President of Pakistan last week bowed to his conscience —and his critics—by declaring that he would step down at the end of his term next year. It was the decision of a concerned man, executed with the dignity and grace of the lifelong soldier that Ayub Khan is. Yet once again it underscored—in a world in which the people increasingly take to the streets—the fragility and vulnerability of all but the very strongest authority.
Candlelight Procession. The pattern of unrest in Pakistan had a familiar beginning in student demands for education reform, which sparked bloody rioting. By last October, however, when civil disorders began to erupt on a wide scale, the opposition to Ayub was pushing far more substantive complaints. One had to do with Ayub's system of "basic democracy," which was really little more than constitutional window dressing to ensure his stay in power. Another was the resentment of the people of East Pakistan, 55% of the divided country's population, over what they felt to be the neglect of their interests by the central government.
The crescendo of violence, of rioting and of police repression mounted over five months until the toll was more than 70 dead. Last week alone, in the five days preceding Ayub's radio surrender, at least 38 people died in disorders in West and East Pakistan. Most of the trouble was in the East, where mob rule shook Dacca, the largest city, and army troops with automatic weapons confronted demonstrators who shrilled: "Rise! Rise!" Scores were injured by bayonets and flying lathis, the steel-tipped bamboo sticks used by the police, and attempts at curfews proved useless. But when Ayub's message flashed across the country, the mood altered instantly. In Karachi and other cities, crowds poured into the streets to dance in jubilation at the news. In Rawalpindi, a candlelight procession took place.