February 8th 3:30PM

Islamabad—Yesterday the people of Pakistan mourned for their beloved martyr, Benazir Bhutto. It was the Chehlum, a Shi’a religious ceremony that occurs forty days after the martyrdom of someone. For the people of Pakistan, in particularly the people of her party the Pakistan People’s Party, Bhutto was more than just someone. Her name, Benazir, mean “matchless” or one who has no example; one who is unique, and to them she was just that. I visited the site of her assassination, Liaquat Bagh Park, in Rawalpindi where several hundred mourners gathered to remember their fallen leader. The ceremony was held in the same spot where Bhutto herself addressed a crowd on December 27, 2007 just moments before being killed. The security was extremely heavy. The road had been blockaded, and myself, was searched three times just on the street. I was searched another two times once inside of the fenced in area. Inside, the crowed was huddled beneath a large tent as rain fell flooding the ground in several inches of water. The ground was covered in blue tarps, which did nothing more than collect the water on top of them. Nobody seemed to even notice the water or rain as they stood clutching PPP flags and photographs of Bhutto, many with tears streaming down their cheeks. At times the speakers comments would send the crowd into cheers and chants. The sound at times was deafening. I moved with ease through the crowd. There were dozens of other photographers, although, most of them were squeezed into a small area at the front of the ceremony watching the speakers. As I often do, when faced with other members of the media, I chose to say on the outskirts of the crowd. I paced back and forth looking for the image no one else was seeing. After some time, I noticed two women on the side of the crowded stage. One was clutching a photograph of Benazir, the other, an elderly woman, was openly weeping. I moved closer towards them and began shooting. As the speaker spoke they became even more saddened. The elderly woman clutched a post for the tent crying and raising her hand to the sky. I needed no interpreter; I understood she was asking “why.” No long after that the rest of the media crowded over my shoulder. I felt I had what I needed and left them to elbow and jostle amongst themselves. Moving outside of the tent, I walked to the large open field where men stood beneath umbrellas, their hands cupped to the heavens in prayer. The field was muddy with puddles high above my boots. I didn’t mind. I walked right through the water. I was happy to be shooting real emotion. That was the one thing I had been lacking in my work here. I need to show how these people truly feel, the loss they have faced, and their hope for all that Benazir stood for to continue. The one thing for certain its that even after her Chehlum, she will not soon be forgotten and the mourning for what could have been will continue long into the future.