Unlike the religio-hyped, testosterone-charged suicide bombers who go their merry way for the sake of 72 virgins in paradise (who, they will never find out, are non-existent, since by definition they, too, will be in that non-state of affairs), Ms. Bhutto, or Pinky, as she is called in this nice remembrance, will be remembered as long as her country fights to emerge from the Dark Ages.

I heard a press conferance that she gave in Washington shortly before returning to Pakistan, and was struck then with her bravery, knowing, as she must have known all too well, the kind of zealots that awaited her there.

She was not perfect as a leader, having grown too cozy with the Taliban during her years iof power, and having helped spur her nation to acquire the kind of weapons the use of which can only be described as criminal.

Symbols are, however, by their very nature larger than life itself; and no one can doubt that Benizir Bhutto had indeed become one herself by the time she was struck down by an assassin's bullets. And while this was not the kind of blood that Thomas Jefferson thought the tree of liberty should be watered by from time to time, it can be said with certainty that hers was of a nobler type; and should the rights of humanity ever flourish in Pakistan and the surrounding regions, those who enjoy their exercise will owe their thanks, not to the marble giants on the Potomac, but to a full-hearted lioness who once went by the name of Pinky.