In
May, an interview with an Australian doctor, who performed late-term abortions on
Bangladeshi rape victims from the 1971 War of Independence, came to my
attention. The more I read, and the more I researched online, I found
countless testimonies, and even old news footage, providing
evidence to what Bangladeshis already know, but many still dispute: During
Bangladesh’s liberation struggle, a genocide occurred.
Alongside the systematic murder of our intellectuals,
a campaign of rape and terror targeted the women and girls of then East Pakistan to tear away the very fabric of Bangladeshi
communities.
When I wrote my piece, “1971 Rapes: Bangladesh Cannot Hide History,” I thought
I was providing closure to Bangladeshis on a violent and gruesome chapter of
our past. I cannot even count the amount of mail and comments this piece of
generated, namely from other fellow Bangladeshis. But it was one email
that led to the revisiting not only of the stories of the rape survivors of
1971, but to the overall representation of Bangladeshi women in the war that
gave birth to our country.
In 2009, while visiting Bangladesh, Dr. Nusrat Rabbee, an expert
in biomarker development in the biotechnology industry, and a graduate of
Wellesley College, Harvard University and UC Berkeley, was gifted the book “Ami Birangona Bolchi” (The War Heroine Speaks).
The book contained a compilation of stories of Bangladeshi women
during the 1971 War of Independence by Dr. Nilima Ibrahim. Dr. Nusrat
Rabbee’s father, Dr. Mohammed Fazle Rabbee, an eminent Bangladeshi
cardiologist, humanist and scholar, was martyred in the infamous intellectual
extermination by the Pakistani army. She herself is a survivor of the
war.
Dr. Rabbee got in touch with me after the publication of my
article in Forbes. After a series of emails, and a friendship
which ensued between us, we decided the next generation of Bangladeshis must
know not only the truth of our history, of the war that gave birth to
Bangladesh in 1971, but of the role women played in this struggle, as both
fighters and supporters of the war, but also as sacrificial lambs.
Birangona is Bengali for
“the blameless ones.” It is the title given to the roughly 400,000
women who were raped during the war by the Pakistani army by Sheikh Mujibur
Rahman, Father of Bangladesh, in an effort to respectfully reintegrate them
back into society.
Unfortunately, the gesture failed. Rape survivors in
post-liberation Bangladesh
Below is the fruit of the tireless efforts of Dr. Nusrat Rabbee,
who, with the editing help of childhood friend, Shehzia Huq, painstakingly
spent years translating Dr. Nilima Ibrahim’s book, “Ami Birangona Boclhi” (The War Heroine Speaks). A
biography of her father, the late Dr. Mohammed Fazle Rabbee, precedes the
series of war heroine narratives. Please note for the sake of space,
these narratives have been shortened by me.
New York-based Elizabeth D. Herman, a freelance photographer and
researcher, who recently returned from a year-long Fulbright scholarship in Bangladesh
I am honored to feature the series on Anushay’s Point, and hope the narratives contribute to
the vibrant women’s rights movement in Bangladesh
Dr. Nusrat Rabbee, A Daughter’s Point of View: I am very honored to summarize
a few of the narrations from the anthology compiled by Dr. Nilima Ibrahim about
the sacrifice made by Bengali women in the 1971 war. I believe the historic
details of the 1971 atrocities committed by Pakistani government and army
on Bangladesh Bangladesh
My father, Dr. Fazle Rabbee was born in Pabna, a northwestern
district of Bangladesh, then East Pakistan ,
and showed early signs of genius and a deep curiosity in medicine and healing.
He graduated from high school at the age of 13 and went on to attend Dhaka College in
science and then on to Dhaka Medical College
During the 1950’s, the government of Pakistan shot and killed
Dhaka University students while they were protesting the Pakistan government’s
decision that only Urdu (the language spoken in then West Pakistan) would be
the official language of the whole nation. Like many in his generation, Dr.
Rabbee was politicized during this time and stood firmly against the oppression
and discrimination of Bengalis by the Pakistan United
Kingdom London
There was a great deal of medical racism in Europe in
the post-war era – and non-white doctors were not allowed to treat white
patients. Since Dr. Rabbee had repeatedly shown an uncanny ability to diagnose
a patient’s disease and prescribe the proper treatment, his mentors sought him
out to treat the most difficult cases amongst white patients. Nevertheless, Dr.
Fazle Rabbee returned home on January 1st, 1963 and started an
enormously successful medical career in Dhaka .
His success and fame became both the hallmarks of his life as well as the
reason for eventual blacklisting by Pakistani army.
On the night of the March 25th, when the Pakistani army first
cracked down and killed thousands of students, faculty and innocent people
sleeping at night in Dhaka, Dr. Rabbee and his wife quickly moved to organize
medical and financial help for thousands of people injured by the atrocities.
Dr. Rabbee and his colleagues not only performed surgeries on bullet wounds,
burn victims, rape and torture victims, but also hid their Hindu and Muslim
friends, who were well known artists, bankers, faculty members from the
atrocities of the Pakistani army. Dr. Rabbee paid for many individuals and
their families to flee to refugee camps in adjacent India
Pakistani army surrendered on December 16th, 1971. But right before they
lost the war they lifted and later killed some of the most prominent
intellectuals who had the vision and capacity to build the war-torn nation
of Bangladesh
His wife arranged for proper burial with the honor of the
highest national hero. His body was covered with the flag of the brand new
country that he loved so much and made the ultimate sacrifice for. Thousands of
people attended his funeral in tears and shock. In a telegram addressed to my
mother, Dr. Mrs. Jahan Ara Rabbee, which arrived in January 1972 via India, his
mentor Sir Avery Jones wrote, “Mrs. Rabbee – I cannot describe in words the
loss I feel in the murder of your husband, Dr. Fazle Rabbee. I doubt that there
will be another physician of his caliber born in the Indo-Pak subcontinent in
the next 100 years.”
This is Meherjaan Speaking
This is Meherjaan. You may be delighted to hear my name thinking
that I am related to Gouharjaan or Nagarjaan. Sorry, I have never met them in
this life, but if I do meet them, it won’t be a surprise. Life is not a set of
straight and parallel lines. I do own my life, but what determines fate – did
you say, God? Are you mad? God directs the life of a Bengali girl? If that were
true, then what would the Mullahs be doing for a living? Or for that matter,
who would the politicians be lecturing to? These are my own convictions, not
merely complaints.
I am very much aware and deeply believe that I am a war heroine.
My country has given me that acknowledgement, my father and mother have
embraced me with open arms, but I could not go back to them because of the
terror and violence of my own society. I have understood the essence – that
above everything I am a female. I have seen the lusty, cannibalistic nature of
man, tolerated his rape and torture for eight long months. Every moment I thought
I am a woman but not less! Born as a female, we are given the power to create
life and to feed the newborn our milk. That is why I am also the mother of a
child. I did not get the affection of a husband, a happy family, but I still
stand tall on my two feet with self-respect.
I am not as self-righteous as the way I am talking to you all.
Actually I never got the opportunity to express myself. I grew up with my head
bent, occupied the lowest place in my family and was surviving under the radar
as a member of my family. But later I met a woman who was like a mother to me,
and she told me that I was an amazing woman, a hero. I may not have the body of
Joan of Arc, but I have sacrificed what is most precious to me – my womanhood,
for my country. But you will never see our names engraved in a tower. The
reason for this omission is likely their own shame. They could not protect me
from the hands of disaster. In what face would they applaud the fact that I am
a war heroine? I have been ridiculed and shamed in cruel and heartless ways,
but somehow a power greater than me has helped me keep my head high.
I was born in a village called Kapasia near the capital city of Dhaka Bangladesh
All of four of us kids were attending school.
One of my brothers was in high school and he used to live in Narsingdi with my
father. My mother, two brothers and I were living in Kapasia, a village close
to Narsingdi market. The situation gradually heated up. Injured and defecting
members of the E.P.R. (East Pakistan Rifles)
started to take up shelter in nearby houses. Most likely this news was not kept
a secret. The Razakars had not yet revealed themselves openly in our
village at that time. One day in the late afternoon, there was a scream: the
military had arrived in our village. Everybody ran to his or her own home. All
of a sudden it appeared that the entire village was being engulfed in fire. There
was noise of intermittent gunfire. My father and elder brother were not in the
house, they were busy repairing their badly burnt store in Narsingdi. At home,
it used to be my mother, my two young brothers Lalu and Milu, and myself. Lalu
had gone earlier to see a football game in the field and did not return yet. Ma
was walking in and out of the house anxiously.
At that moment, an olive colored military jeep came to the front
of our house and stopped with a loud jerk. My mother picked my brother Milu in
her arms, held my hands and entered the bedroom. Someone was speaking to the
officers in Bengali, “Yes, Saab. This is the home of Meherjaan. She is a very
beautiful girl.” I felt paralyzed in fear! A loud kick was felt on our bedroom
door. On the second kick, the door broke open. A few Bengalis wearing Lungis
were standing in front of the army. We were pulled out from the bedroom. I
resisted their pulling me as much as I could with whatever little strength I
had in my small body.
They lifted me up into the jeep by my hair. My mother gave out a
deep scream. The bastards pointed their guns at my mother and Milu and opened
rounds of fire! When they were pulling me to go with them, I saw that my
mother’s bullet ridden body was still shaking on the ground. When the jeep
started, I saw that Milu opened up his eyes suddenly and then fell over to the
other side. I knew that my mother and Milu had passed on. I let out a scream
from my heart and immediately got an obscenity hurled at me, “Shut up, you
whore”! How could they address me like this? I am from a decent family, a
student of the eighth grade. Suddenly I became kind of wooden. This mental
stagnation would leave me after a very long time. I changed places and captors
many times since that afternoon. Sometimes I was alone, sometimes with other
girls. Sometimes I would wonder if my father and elder brother escaped death.
How about Lalu? Was Lalu able to escape the village on his own? I would think
of myself as a bodiless entity or as a skeleton, or a ghost, but still I could
not end the life in this body. Every two months they would allow us to shower
for their own needs. We were only allowed to dress in Lungi and a T-shirt.
We were not allowed to wear saris.
I thought that if they hated the Bengali saris, they could at
least give us shalwar and kameez. There was a college student with us, an Apa
(an elder sister or friend) from the Mymensingh
College
For some reason I never thought about dying. I thought that the
country would become free and I will return home. I would see my father, mother,
my elder brother, Lalu and Milu. We would laugh and talk again. But I did see
Milu and Ma die! But is it not possible that after the military had left, the
villagers saved Ma’s and Milu’s lives? And then they found my father and gave
him the news? There is a possibility I thought. There was no end to my
thoughts. The difference between day and night was based on physical conditions
only. During the first part of the night there was torture by those animals;
the rest of the night was suffering, pain, and physical discomfort. I prayed to
Allah so many times, maybe Allah listened otherwise how is it that I am still
alive?
Sometimes there were days without the news of someone’s death,
disease or physical torture. There were many girls of different ages and
backgrounds amongst the prisoners. The girls ranged from fourteen or fifteen
years old to about forty years. Some would always cry, sometimes quietly and
sometimes with a mild sound, but never loud. Sometimes they appeared to be
mute. Sometimes they would share a few stories, even laugh! Sometimes we would
feel a faint tremor of hope in such a hopeless life!
Food was served on a tin plate. Most of the time it was bread,
daal, and sometimes a vegetable mix which was pretty tasteless. They never gave
us rice to eat. The woman who brought food said that they never gave us meat
since they did not know if we were Muslim or Hindu. I laughed since I read Sri
Kanta by Sharat Chandra. In the book the author wrote that it’s easy to share a
home for twenty years but to share a kitchen is a much harder task! The beasts
didn’t have any qualms about raping us, but they did not want to offend anybody
by offering meat! No, I used to think the Pakistanis were heartless, but
actually that could not be true. Otherwise, how could they be so magnanimous
and show us sensitivity by not offering us meat? Whatever! Please keep your
religion and caste to your own selves, but as far as your body is concerned, it
was going for the consumption of the big man.
At first, we did not get any news from the outside. But when I
arrived at this place, the female janitor used to whisper all the news from the
outside world. First she told us that this place is called Mymensingh! There
was a big battle going on with the freedom fighters in a nearby town of Kamaganj
Suddenly one day we were ordered to get into a jeep and were
driven somewhere at dawn. There were some tents where we arrived and a
makeshift toilet made for us with bamboo. From the gaps in the bamboo, you
could see a lot of light! I could finally tell day from night. It was so quiet
in that place. There was hardly anyone around during the day. But the cook told
us not to even think about fleeing. We would lose our lives. The army was
nearby in camouflage under the trees and bushes. That was where they returned
the gunfire from. I wondered if the headquarters had fallen and went to the
freedom fighters. Those days I would feel cold in the morning and at night. At
nighttime, I had to use a blanket. It must have been November or December then.
I could not believe how many months had passed. I went there in May. And now
the year was ending. How much longer?
The gunfire and bombings had almost stopped. Every night I heard
the sound of heavy tanks. I felt that they were moving things from that camp.
Where were they going? Crushing all my hope, I saw planes dropping bombs from
the sky! Who was bombing us here? That was not war, since only one side was
dropping bombs from the sky.
No news can remain secret. From mutual whispering, I was informed
that the Indian Air force was bombing! But why the Indians? Were we going to
fall into the hands of the Indians now? There was an older Habildar (caretaker
soldier) in the camp. He was nearly sixty. Even though he was a Pathan, he
seemed to have a heart and a soul. I didn’t know why he was always pleasant to
me. Even though I was being raped and tortured, he would always express sorrow
for me.
But on this day I saw that he was sad and very pensive. I gathered
my courage and asked him, “Khan Sahib why are you like this today?” He said,
“Piyari (my loved one), the war has come to an end”. Happily I said, “You will
return to your country then? Aren’t you happy it is over? But where will you
leave me?” Layek Khan shook his head and said that he was not going back home.
He said, “No Begum. We have lost this war. We will be buried here in your
country as defeated soldiers. In a few days we will be killed. Or we will be
prisoners of war. If we fall in the hands of the freedom fighters, there is no hope
for survival for us.” Even though I was ecstatic at the news of the victory, I
still had my senses about me. I said, “Khan Sahib, marry me. I will save you
from the hands of the freedom fighters”. Layek Khan was not stupid. He shook
his head and said, “That will not be possible Bibi. They will not keep a single
one of us Pakistanis alive”. Then the Pathan man said with a lot of sorrow,
“You will survive. You will marry one of your own. You will make a new home and
you will be happy. You are a very good girl. You will see that my words will
come true”.
But I became very stubborn. I insisted that he marry me. I knew
that if I did not do this then, there was no telling in whose hands I would
fall next. I knew perfectly well that my society would not accept me. Because
the day the animals caught me in my village, not a single person came forward.
Today no one would come forward for me either. Suddenly I saw that tears were
rolling down my cheeks and my father like friend, Layek Khan, was wiping away
my tears. He took me close to him and said, okay. Now the war was over. If the
Moulvi (priest) of the camp agreed then he would marry me. Nobody else must
know just him, the Moulvi and myself.
Just before sunset the Moulvi conducted the Nikkah. Thus we were
wed. The Moulvi said, “it’s a good thing for you. Khan Sahib will not desert
you”. The next day everyone was running around and shouting. There were still
some gunshots in the distance. All the civilians were running in freedom, but
the Pakistani soldiers were standing with their weapons. I wrapped myself
around my new husband’s waist. But I was so surprised that he did not push me
away. Suddenly a loud instruction came over the speakers. All the soldiers
dropped their weapons to their feet. Some freedom fighters and some soldiers
from the overseas came around. The foreign soldiers spoke in Hindi. They
proclaimed that the girls in the camp were free. Since they had experience,
they had brought with them some saris. Everyone put on the saris and fled in
different directions.
I put on the sari but did not give up Layek Khan’s hands. Now I
understood that the Hindi speakers were Indian army soldiers! One of them told
me, “Ma, do not be afraid. If you want, I will take you to your home.” My
husband looked at me with pleading eyes. I said that I didn’t have a home, and
that was my husband. A Moulvi had married us properly. “Wherever you take him,
I will go there”, I said. The soldier laughed. He took me in the truck with the
other prisoners of war. There were no officers in the truck. The Pakistani
officers understood what was coming and had fled the scene earlier. However, I
did hear that some of the officers were caught by the freedom fighters and paid
the price for what they did. The freedom fighters took revenge of the cruelty
they suffered from the officers during the nine-month war. But the Indian army
took prisoners of war instead; they did not kill anyone since the war had come
to an end. They did not kill the prisoners of war afterwards. This was
apparently the rules of the war. I didn’t know any of this before; I heard it
all from Khan.
This time we headed straight to the Dhaka
cantonment. Later many more trucks and jeeps joined our motorcade. We reached
the Dhaka barracks. All the officers were
resting comfortably in their houses. The soldiers got to stay in the barracks.
Khan got his own room because of me. I was relieved. I could not believe how I
survived.
Layek Khan started to offer the namaaz prayers frequently. He
never believed that his life would be spared. He kept saying repeatedly that he
was saved because of me. Now that he was alive, he said he would return to his
homeland for sure and be united with his wife and kids. My heart was shaking as
I pondered where would he leave me then? He assured me that as a Muslim he took
a vow with me that he intended to keep. This was not a time for debate, since
the present brought a pile of danger for me. Otherwise I would have told him
what came to the tip of my tongue, “how many women have you taken vows with and
how many have you left to do?” But I kept my mouth shut.
The next day they came to record my name and address. There were
two very educated women from Rajshahi university and Mymensingh college amongst
us. There were about thirty of us there altogether at this time. We would talk
and strategize our future together. The Apas told us that we must give our
names and addresses properly. That people of Bangladesh
After four days, my father arrived! They called me over and sat me
down in a private room. I could not believe my father’s appearance. He looked
like a raggedy old man. Half his hair had turned grey. For a few seconds, we
fell into a deep silence. Then I ran to my father’s lap like a little girl. For
some time, we were both crying. I learned that after two hours of my abduction,
my father had returned home. My elder brother never returned! He went to join
the freedom fighters. When Baba came back he found Lalu crying
uncontrollably. He took Ma and Milu to the hospital. Due to Almighty’s
blessings, Milu recovered slowly. But Ma died in the hospital. Despite the
disasters, Baba had to wipe his tears and get up to feed his family. He had to
find the strength to go to Narsingdi to open his store.
My father said, “Let’s go back to your own home, Ma!” I
became very weak in my resolve. I felt like rushing back home with Baba to that
happy home where Lalu, Milu and my elder brother were still waiting for me
today. But no, I could not hurt this man anymore. I told my father, “Please go
back. I am doing well with the rest of the women. The authorities will make
arrangements for our rehabilitation”. My father refused to listen to me. He
said, “I don’t want the mercy of anybody. You are my daughter. You will live
with me just like you have for all these years. With a painful heart, I refused
to accept my father’s offer and he returned empty handed. We all sat down and
decided our fate together. As war heroines we all knew that not only were the
Pakistanis our enemies, but also were the vicious Bengalis who were taking
advantage of our predicament. What will eventually happen to those who gave us
shelter now? Not only did we go through our misfortune, but also we will create
more difficulties for those kind people who are like the living dead at the
moment from all their sufferings.
Still I could not resist the temptation to return home. I still
remember that Shiuli flower tree in one corner of the house which I could
see from my bedroom. My mother would water it every morning at its roots with a
pail of water after she finished her Aju. This is December. The flowers must
still be on the tree. The neighborhood girls, Hena, Rabu and others would come
to collect the flowers in this season. I asked my father if they were still
around or if they got lost like me. I could never touch those flowers again. I
am an untouchable to everyone now. I remembered that we used to sit on the
floor of the kitchen and eat our meals together. Mother would serve everyone
and then sit down to eat herself. After taking my meal, I would get up to do my
homework and study. My mother and father would continue eating for a long time,
taking the time to chat and catch up with each other.
The light of the lantern would shine on one side of my mother’s
face. The flickering light of the lantern would dance on my mother’s face.
Suddenly I gave out a deep howl. I said, “Maago”! My comrades comforted me. But
there was no limit to the doubts and conflicts inside my mind.
Then one day three Apas came from Dhaka University Pakistan Rajshahi
University
Suddenly that day my father also came to see me. In our group,
most of the women were married. Their husbands had come to visit them. Some
kept talking to them some brought saris as gifts for them. But they had clearly
let them know that they could not take the women back with them. The reason was
that they had to live in the society with other people who would not accept the
men.
They simply could not introduce their raped and tarnished wives
back into that society. The husbands said they really wanted them back; it’s
just that they had no recourse given the circumstances. From these
conversations I understood where I stood in the picture. If a husband could not
take his wife back, then which prince will come to make me his princess?
Therefore, “No”, I said, and remained adamant in my decision. I knew I was
young. I asked them, “You are asking me to stay back here, but where will I
go?”
Banga Bondhu returned to Bangladesh
Maybe I did not get the nation’s flag, maybe I did not get the
golden Bengal – but I had fulfilled the wishes
of the nation’s father. I had touched the Bangladesh
This is Rina Speaking
This is Rina speaking. I hope I don’t have to introduce myself in
any great detail. You made such a big raucous about me once that thirty
thousand Pakistani war prisoners must have thought that Helen of Troy was being
kidnapped from Bangladesh. The Indian authorities were not very surprised.
Because they had seen just a few others who had the same good fortune as I! The
Pakistanis were not taking us by force this time. We went with them on our own
accord. When members of the Indian Army pulled me from my bunker, I was barely
clothed and half dead. There were several Bangladeshis standing around me with
so much hatred and disgust in their eyes towards me – which I could not even
look at them for a second time. They used the vilest language to make comments
about us. Thank God the foreign army could not understand their vulgar
language!
The Indian army pulled us out with great compassion and
transported us to nearby camps. We were given a chance to shower and put on
some clothes. They asked us, “Do you want to eat anything?” I shook my head and
refused the gesture. With their help I was able to get onto their jeep. I could
not put weight on my two feet. My legs were shaking and my head was spinning.
They quickly put me in the jeep along with three others. I understood that we
were going to Dhaka from their conversations.
But I could not figure out whether I was dead or alive. I never thought I would
be in this predicament. I thought maybe I would be lying dead in the bunkers or
the Pakistanis would kill us out of their necessity. I never imagined I would
go out amongst my people in my society and face their hatred and taunting remarks.
I actually thought that if the freedom fighters ever found us,
they would love us as their own mothers or sisters. We did not step on this
path by choice. They left us at home and went to join the liberation war; but
was it not someone’s responsibility to protect our lives? Did they think about
what would happen to us even once? In the excitement of joining the war nobody
thought about how we would survive! But there were simply no arrangements for
our survival or safe keep. Left behind were the pregnant wives, widowed
mothers, teenaged sisters, all but forgotten. The old parents lay dead now and
the wives perished with their unborn children inside their wombs. In their
deaths they became free. Many young wives and young sisters were forced to go
to bed with the Pakistani army officers. Now the moment of liberation and
independence has come, but the animals of this society are casting hateful
glances at them. There was only one way out for this girls and women and that
was death. Since they could not protect themselves, why didn’t they just die?
At least no one was blocking that path. But why should we die? I ask that
question still today. Since I chose not to die, I am still alive today like the
next person. I am doing well and I have no lack of earthly happiness. The only
thing missing is the respect of a war heroine. Instead I receive disgust and
disrespect hidden in stares and knitted brows.
When did this happen? How many days ago? I had a past, a father
and a mother, elder brother Assad and younger brother Ashfaque. My father was a
high-ranking official in the Pakistani government. My uncle used to shuttle
between Lahore , Rawalpindi
and Dhaka . My elder brother gave his B.A.
examination and entered the army. He was determined to end the disrespect and neglect
of Bengalis in the army. My father did not want him to enlist in the army but
did not resist his efforts. After he finished his training he remained in Sialkot
Ashfaque was a 2nd year student in engineering and I was in my final year
studying political science at the university. I was spending my carefree days
in happiness and joy. I sort of had an understanding with Ataur. We liked each
other. But before taking the final exams of my senior year I did not have the
courage to express my liking for him to anyone else. Ataur finished his
engineering bachelor’s degree and was headed to the US
We lived in an area quite far from the university. Sometimes I
used our car and at other times I took the bus to campus. The roads were not
overcrowded during those times. In the evening my father used to go to the
club; my mother and I used to study at home or we would watch TV or entertain
guests when they visited us.
Apparently I was exquisitely beautiful. People pointed this out to
me both inside the home and out. Sometimes I would inspect myself in front of
the mirror: No defects whatsoever! I had a trim body, fair complexion, a sharp
nose, deep, beautiful eyes and thin red lips. Much like the actress of kalidas!
I was very conscious of my own beauty. I learned how to hold a captive audience
in a room with my own beauty. I seemed to have no shortage of money whenever I
needed anything. I used to get my own scholarship money; my elder brother gave
me a monthly allowance and there was always mother!
In this relatively peaceful and happy life, suddenly the restless
wind started to blow. Chaatra League and Chaatra Union became very active
on campus targeting the six-point movement of 1970. I used to belong to Chaatra
Union, but I did not fully agree with the six-point movement. The political movement
became more intense with the cooperation of the students. Right afterwards
started the Agartala Conspiracy Case trials. My father became concerned
about my elder brother because the trials led to the arrest of a few navy
officers. My father was aware of the political views of my elder brother.
Ayub’s conspiracy case failed as a result of the collaboration and combined
efforts of students, masses and political parties in then East
Pakistan . Sheikh Mujib got the unparalleled support of the masses.
Now, let’s change the scene. Ayub left and then came Yahiya Khan.
Next the general elections of Pakistan Pakistan East
Pakistan . There was not any lack of bad intentions from his soul.
His evil play prevented the Pakistan East Pakistan .
For one month there was a non-cooperation movement in Bengal (East
Pakistan ). The atmosphere was full of excitement. Then? Then came
25th March, 1971, a black chapter in the nation’s history. I got the news of Dhaka being under siege. We could not actually fathom how
bad the situation was there. Ashfaque planned to take my father and the rest of
us and head for the countryside for cover. He was talking on the phone to us
from Dhaka itself. He said that he is going to
the home of some relatives and he will be in touch soon. He told us that our
younger brother is doing okay. My mother and I became very anxious after this
phone call unlike my father. He felt since he was a high-ranking government
official, everyone respected him. What is the point of being scared?
He told me not to worry! I started to worry a lot because I did
not believe what he was saying. Everyone we knew began to leave his or her
homes one by one. Rahela’s mother, who used to be a domestic worker for us,
left as well. This means that the women working as domestic workers in nearby
households were packing up and leaving. She apologized and asked us to forgive
her for leaving us! Before leaving she said that if she were alive after the
war, she would see us again. I don’t know why but my mother gave her a lot of
clothes and gifts as she left our home.
Even though the days passed in a moderate pace as we stayed busy
with various activities, the nights dragged on. It seemed the darkness of the
evenings grabbed me by the throat. Abba did not go to the club anymore. Inside
the home we could watch TV. In fact any kind of noise scared us even more. The
curfew continued throughout the city. The university was closed.
Suddenly one day the tiger attacked Krishnadas and his cows. That
was right in the middle of the afternoon. It was about 1pm and my mother was
making arrangements for our lunch. At this time an army jeep arrived at our
doors. My heart was beating so fast that I could actually hear the sound.
My father went near the front door. The Pakistani army officers
entered through the door. He shook hands with one officer named Tamiz. My
father asked them to sit down but they refused. They asked where his son was.
My father said that he is the captain of the army, the same army as theirs, and
is now serving in the district of Comilla! Before my father could finish, they
gave a resounding slap on his face. My father was stunned. He asked, “Don’t you
know who I am? I am …”. Before he could finish his speech, they shouted “You
bloody dog” and kicked him so hard that he fell on the ground of the verandah.
My mother rushed to his side. They pushed her aside and said, “Get lost,
Buddi!” Then our khansama, Ali, came and they also pushed him aside. At that
point, they opened fire with a sten gun with the sound effect:
tah-dah-dah-dah-dah. The bloodied bodies of my father, my mother and Tahir fell
on the floor. I was in shock as I walked outside. Their angry faces lit up with
delight when they saw me. “Aiye, aiye,” they said as they pulled me with
their hands into the jeep. At that point I could not see or hear anything.
I am not sure I was even conscious. A bit later, the jeep shook
wildly and came to a stop. Someone extended a hand to pull me out of the jeep.
I gave out a blood-curdling scream: just a few moments ago this same hand
pressed the trigger on the gun that killed my father and mother! In a voice
full of affection, the murderer said, “Please don’t be afraid. We will keep you
alive and well here with a lot of care and affection.” I understood that I am
being taken to the nearby cantonment. Therefore I thought they would behave a
bit better in the cantonment. He got me to sit down on the sofa on one side of
the room. He repeatedly kept asking me, “Do you want to drink anything cold?”
Who knows? I just saw my parents not more than a few moments ago! Yet I could
not believe that my entire chest and throat were parched dry. Somebody took a
lot care to bring forward a cup of tea for me to drink. I took one sip after
somehow lifting the cup to my lips. Immediately my whole body lost control and
I vomited all over the beautiful carpet. It took all my strength to utter the
word, “sorry”. Upon the order of my captor gentleman, I was taken to an
adjoining room. It looked as if somebody stayed in this room since it had an
attached bathroom. In a little while a janitor woman brought in a set of
shalwar kameez for me. I had spoilt all my clothes with my own vomit. I entered
the shower.
The janitor told me repeatedly not to lock the door after me. I
could not still utter any words; I simply looked at them in silence. She said
that many girls had been in this bathroom and locked the doors so that they
could kill themselves. They had been punished very hard. I thought it did not
matter whether the door was closed or open. I thought sometimes even God was
scared of the naked. So who was going to scare me? I could scare a lot of
people. I put a lot of water on my head to calm myself down. No, I would not
die. If they killed me I had nothing left to do. But I would not try committing
suicide. I cleaned myself thoroughly. Water was dripping from my hair. There
was no comb or hair dryer, only a dry towel with which I dried my hair. Just a
little bit later, a comb and cosmetics arrived! Wow, I said to myself, what a
grand welcome indeed.
In the evening they called for me. I understood that I was to appear
at the officer’s mess. I was surprised that they asked me to sit and eat at the
same table. Slowly the conversations began. To be honest most of my life I have
been spent with my Bengali father in West Pakistan .
Therefore I could understand Bengali, Urdu and English. They asked for my
father’s identity and address. They did not look guilty even for a moment. They
asked about my elder brother. Most likely they didn’t know about my younger
brother. They wanted to know which faculty member in the university belonged to
which political party. They wanted to know which dormitories housed students
from which political parties. I do not remember today how I responded to their
questioning. What I do remember I messed up the truth every time I answered
their questions. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that the ringleader was the
Lt. Colonel who was about 45 years old. He had a very fit body and from his
accent I could tell that he was Punjabi. My heart trembled because my father
disked and distrusted this class of people. He used to say they there
uneducated, barbaric and stubborn. I was just playing with the food on my
plate. I don’t recall today what I was thinking.
Colonel Sahib came to me and gave me a lot of assurance: do not be
scared. You will be taken care of well here. But remember that if you want to
escape we will catch you and kill you. Don’t ever lock the door and the janitor
lady will sleep with you every night in your room. I had no answer to any of
his statements, nor did I want to. I went back with the women into the room. I
shut the lights and went to sleep. I have no regret to say that night I slept
like I had never slept before. I did not even think that I had no father, no
mother and that I was standing in the gates of hell. Why did this happen? I
think my consciousness was markedly reduced. From that day onwards I began to
love me in a new way. I used to sun bathe outside. One day the janitor, just
like my pet servant, gave me new toothbrush and toothpaste. I laughed because I
realized she is familiar doing these chores for the girls. As soon as I
finished washing my mouth, a steaming cup of tea arrived for me. Then she said
that the Sahibs are calling you for breakfast. I asked for my breakfast to be
brought to me. In answer my friend laughed and said whatever you wish. You are
in the top graces of Colonel Sahib. You will have the luxuries of a queen. What
I thought inside if this is my fate then why does it matter whether I was queen
or a janitor?
But I did take advantage of the opportunities being given to me. I
was looking for pen and paper. There was no paper in the room. They took all
the precautions. I realized I was not the only royal guest in this complex.
Before me many have come and gone. Allah, you reserved this for my fate, didn’t
you? I had so many colorful dreams about my future! In a few months I would be
in the US
Janitor Jaigun became my close friend. One day I asked her if the
Colonel is transferred then what would happen to me. She answered that I would
be the queen of whoever comes next. Why? Won’t he take me with him? She
vehemently shook her head, “No Way. I saw Begum Sahib. If she finds out about
you and then she will strangle both Sahib and you together”. I asked where
Begum Sahib was. Jaigun said sometimes in Dhaka and sometimes she was in Islamabad America Dhaka .
They were probably playing and when they saw military they stopped what they
were doing. I stuck my neck out and asked, “What are you, up to?” The youngest
boy said, “Bengali!” “Don’t talk to her…she is a prostitute!” The Colonel was
laughing with a big wide smile – all his teeth showing. The little boys ran
away. But I felt somebody had just thrown tar on my body. I still have not able
to extricate myself from that feeling. Just like Lady Macbeth. If you gave me
the most fragrant perfume from Arabia , it
would not take away the dullness of my interior. The disgust in the eyes of
that little child trampled all the trophies of my “queen hood”! A little bit
later the Colonel figured out that something was wrong with me. He understood
that the boys ran after saying something to me. He turned the jeep around and
went after those boys. I grabbed his hands on the steering wheel and made him
turn the jeep around again. I never dreamed for anything except the freedom I
wanted to experience with Ataur. That boy had labeled me wrong. My reality was
very different than that. Alas I had lost the ability to dream.
I didn’t remember which date or month it was. Most likely it was
June. That day was really very unlucky for me. The Colonel left his automobile
and came whistling into the inside quarters. There was lightning and thunder as
soon as he came in. A car of the G.H.Q. was standing in the carport. Somebody
very important had arrived. The Colonel motioned me to go inside through the
rear door. That was the last I had seen the Colonel, my lover, and that was the
end of our affair. Brigadier Khan had come from the headquarters. This was all
the news from the janitor lady. After the departure of the Colonel, my
carefully preserved and loved body was fed to the mad animals for gang rape. My
heart still trembles when I think about it.
They clawed me, bit me like wild animals all night. They almost
killed me. Only after I lost consciousness did they throw me away. I think I
did see one of the men after turning around. It was pitch dark after that. When
I went to wash my face the next morning I saw my whole body was filled with
bites and marks. I did not realize that a sexually addicted person could turn
into a wild beast and attack. When I saw my face I could not help but cry many
times. I did think about the word the tokai used to describe me: Prostitute
Lady! It is true I was. You could find the proof on my face and on my body. It
was a steady fall for me from this point onwards. I really was a war heroine
now.
I entered the prisoner of war camp in Dhaka
with great fanfare. The Pakistani officers and soldiers were in the most
jubilant mood. They were so happy celebrating the fact that they got off
scot-free after what they had done in Bangladesh
My life went on smoothly. Without any doubt I was happy. I had
three children; two sons and a daughter. In the meantime Nasir had the
opportunity to go to the US
I have achieved everything that a girl envisions for her life.
Still sometimes, a big sigh rises from my very depths. What did I want? What
was lacking? Yes there was one thing. My desire for it will stay with me until
I die. I wanted a young man or a young woman from this generation to stand in
front of me and say:
“Birangana, I bow my head to you. I give you a thousand Salam. You
are a brave freedom fighter. You have a stake in the national flag. You have a
voice in the national anthem. You have first rights to this land.”
I am still waiting for that auspicious moment.
You Want to Know Who I Am?
You want to know who I am? I am a 100% genuine Birangona; not just
in body and mind – but also in mentality and in my heart. So now you are
thinking if a Birangona possesses a soul or a sound mind? Yes I do. If you are
male, I don’t know if I can win in a physical fight with you – but if you are a
Bangali Muslim man who is over fifty – then you are inferior to me in mental
strength. Because I have faced you and I have seen you from head to toe. I even
had the misfortune to see your soul inside your body. The children of the
mothers of our country are either shaheeds or traitors. I hate those
who were living a life of luxury during the war. I have been spitting on your
face, on your whole body for the past twenty-five years.
You might be asking how a Birangona can be so bold! You have
helped make Birangonas. That is why to us you are also cowardly, greedy, base,
hated and useless beings. I am still a Birangona today and I reserve the right
to pity you even now.
Who am I? I am that proud Bangali woman whom you left behind
unprotected and fled by crossing the Padma river to India Pakistan
I am Shefa. My mother used to call me Shefali. But everyone used
to call me Shefa – starting from Baba to everyone else in our household
and neighbors. I used to have a formal name for my school. But I won’t disclose
what that is. I cannot know for certain whether you will abduct me and put me
away in some bunker again. The name I have shared with you is more than enough.
Those who had “helped me” by abducting me from the house know me by Shefa. I
grew up in a small town environment. However it was not really a village. There
were court offices, a judge, and a hospital, about seven high schools. Two of
these schools were for girls. There were also two good colleges for women. We
had a large, government hospital, and a big play field. We had clubs for
professional gentlemen, a European club, etc. My father was a lawyer and he was
intimately involved with politics and law.
I was in 10th grade when the non-cooperation movement
started in 1969. We continued our studies in the midst of attending protest
marches, political rallies and meetings. My mother scolded me much for
participating in the movement. She told me many times that it was not good for
a girl to be so outgoing. But I was my father’s favorite daughter and no one
had the power to touch me. In the meantime, my father was put in jail by the
authorities. He was freed from jail about six months later. I spread my wings,
shouted the slogan ‘Joy Bangla’ and immersed myself in the pro-Bangali activist
movement.
The events rapidly progressed in the nation. Sheikh Mujib ordered
the closure of school, colleges and offices everywhere. I was just about to
appear in my high school examinations (HSC- higher secondary school
certificate). I didn’t even touch my books during that time. We were all
waiting to be liberated as a sovereign country. I passed my days by
drinking hundreds of cups of tea in the living room, watching my younger
brother play, my toddler sister holding onto my mother everywhere. Somehow we
arrived on March 25th. Worn out from my mother’s
insistence Baba left for our ancestral home in the village. He wanted to take
me along but my mother prohibited my accompanying him. She was afraid that
something dangerous might happen to me as I was a growing girl. If she
had permitted me to go maybe I would have been martyred but I would not have
become a Birangona. We could not even exhale from fear during the two days that
passed. On the 27th of March curfew was lifted and
people started to move around in fear and panic. I could tell that many folks
were leaving for their village homes in the darkness of the night. I appealed
to Ma for escaping this imprisoned life and going to our village home. Ma
agreed this time. She was worried for her 17-year-old son and me. Apparently
the Pak army shot any student age they saw. My mother started preparing for our
departure. There was a judge living next door to us. Later we found out they
were collaborators of the Pakistani army. Their son, Faruq came over and
convinced my mother not to leave home. The next day the police came looking for
my father. They were yelling rudely at my mother. We decided that mother,
Sonali and myself would leave the house that night. Just like clockwork Faruq
came as the evening set in. He offered to go with us part way in our journey. I
didn’t know why but I think my heart stopped beating when I heard his proposal.
But it seemed that my mother was relieved at his offer. After going straight
for a while our taxi took a sharp left turn towards the cantonment instead of
following the first one where my mother and sister were riding. I asked,
“What’s going on?” “Why are you going this way?” Faruq snuggled up to me and
said “Some of the boys put up a barricade in the other direction”. I said “Why
then Ma and Sonali are going that way?” I felt extremely uncomfortable. I
screamed loudly at the driver to stop the taxi. Instead the driver increased
the speed of the vehicle. I tried to jump out of the taxi. But I could not
physically overpower the scoundrel next to me who forcefully kept me inside. I
sank my teeth into his flesh. The monster screamed in pain. Then he stopped the
vehicle and gagged my mouth with a towel. Then we headed straight for the
cantonment. I became a prisoner there. Faruq presented the Pak army with me as
his gift. Today Faruq is a judge in Bangladesh
I was allowed to sit down on a chair. I was offered a cup of tea.
I did not pay attention to anything and related the story of my abduction by
Faruq. I never did once mention about Ma and Sonali because I wanted to protect
them. The officer had a smirk on his face while listening to my story. He then went
to the next room and started to drink 100% pure, Pakistani, Muslim whiskey
according to him. He asked me repeatedly to join him. He started telling me
stories of Pakistan and
asked me if I had ever been to Pakistan Karachi
Another beast arrived the next night. He was very chatty. He was
so happy that I knew English. He even sang a few gazals to set the mood.
Afterwards he performed his duties of rape. I could no longer taste food. The
bread and lentils remained untouched. I understood that each day would bring a
new guest. What kind of hell was this? No, I had much time before I saw real
hell. I kept on getting transferred from one facility to another. Sometimes I
was taken with a group of girls – different ages and tastes – and sometimes I
was transported alone to the destination. Sitting alone in a dark room day and
night, it was hard to tell the time. Sometimes I would ask out loud what date
it was. Sometimes I wondered if my family was still alive.
I could hear the sound of bombs and explosions in the distance. As
a prisoner I wondered where is the battlefield? Who was fighting this war?
Sometimes they cursed the Mukti Bahini and called me horrendous names like
whore at night. Sometimes I heard the janitors and the security guards talking
and whispering amongst themselves. I put up my ears and listened intently. They
were afraid that if the Pakistanis lost then the Mukti Bahini would unleash
bulldogs on them so that they would be mauled to death. Suddenly I felt alive.
This means these servants were also thinking about the potential victory of
Mukti Bahini. I prayed to Allah for mercy on Shantu’s life. I prayed for Baba’s
safe return home. Ma and Sonali…suddenly tears were trickling down my face. I
didn’t know what I was thinking! Suddenly that same day, five or six of us were
taken away in a truck. I thought surely we would be killed. I no longer had any
passion or interest for living. I wanted to escape from the prison of my body.
But still somewhere somehow I had a big hope to see my country free and the
chance to say ‘Joy Bangla’ with all my heart. The truck was covered with canvas
but I was freezing.
Two soldiers dropped blankets on our bodies. The truck was
speeding off to an unknown destination. At one point the driver turned off the
lights of the truck. I think I must have dozed off to sleep when the vehicle
came to a stop at a very dark spot. Somebody ordered in a heavy voice, “Get
inside the bunker”. Like chased dogs, we hurried into the bunker. So this was a
bunker! There were tarpaulin mattresses; a few cots; a pitcher of water and two
glasses; piles of blankets. I wondered whether I would be buried alive here.
But why was there water? They must wanted us alive still. Otherwise who was the
water for? My memory failed me for the next several days. There was simply too
much torture. Sometime food came, sometime it did not. One day they came and
ripped and snatched away even the tattered clothes and rags we had on. We were
completely naked. Nobody could look at anyone else. During the day some light
would come in through the entrance of the bunker. I realized however that it
was winter. There were not enough blankets so 2-3 of us would pile up under the
same blanket to stay warm. But our nightly visitors had become even more
bestial. Sometimes they didn’t come at night at all.
I could understand that the end was drawing near. Suddenly I felt
I could hear ‘Joy Bangla’ at a distance. This was the most desirable slogan I
could hear! But I did not believe it. I heard this a few times before but later
understood that my mind was playing tricks on me. But wait…I heard the footsteps
of many people running away! Were the Pakistanis fleeing? There was much more
sunlight coming in through the bunker entrance now. The sound of ‘Joy Bangla’
was getting much louder. I thought maybe Shantu had come to rescue me. But how
could we go to the entrance? We were denuded.
Suddenly we could hear lots of people at the entrance and their
screams and conversations. Someone put their head into the entrance and
shouted: “Koi Hai Edhar Aao!” I think we all started to wail simultaneously.
But the language terrified us! We did not know whether it was the Pakistanis
again! Then some folks spoke in union in Bangla, “Ebare Ma, aapnara baire
ashun. Bangladesh
I embraced the Sikh army officer and started howling in pain. The
gentleman put his hand on my hand and told me everything would be fine. We were
taken in a jeep to a nearby hospital. I saw there were sores all over my body
and I was filled with lice. I heard that people got lice in their head –
but not in their flesh. One by one the ward nurses came and bathed us with soap
and water. I asked them to cut the hair off my head. The nurse was about my age
and asked me very affectionately, “You have such beautiful hair, why do you
want to cut it Didi? I will shampoo it every 2-3 days and untangle your matted
hair. It’s just dirt and grime in your hair, that’s all. ” I was shocked to
hear a human being speaking with such compassion in the voice! I realized
that I was living with beasts the past few months – not humans. I have
forgotten the language and manners of the civilized people. My primary care
giver was a nurse. The doctor came to see me on the third day. I said myself
“Doctor I think I am pregnant”. The doctor was somber and replied, “You are
right indeed”. I took the doctor’s hands in mine and said, “Please save me!”
The doctor said in a compassionate voice, “No, don’t worry at all. You are in
the preliminary stages. I will make all the necessary arrangements. You will be
fine. “
I became free of my problem in about ten days. I recovered and
started to breathe and live again. When would we leave the hospital? There was
not too much delay after this point. I needed to complete about a one-month
stay in the hospital. It turned out that many of the girls and women survivors
were sick from various diseases. Everyone got his or her individual treatment
plan. Finally I arrived in Dhanmondi, Dhaka at
the women’s rehabilitation center. This is where unfortunate women like me
first arrived! It is here that relatives were contacted to take us home or if
that was not possible we remained in the shelter of the government. They wrote
a letter to my father after getting the address from me.
I am happy to be alive and wanted to live for a long time. I had
total commitment to raise my children as upstanding citizens in the best way
possible. I was a mother and an extraordinary mother. My biggest identity to
the outside world was that I was a Birangana. I sacrificed my biggest gift, my
womanhood, for my country. I am not less fortunate or less sacred than a
martyr. They gave their life once – but I sacrificed myself many times. So many
people, including my husband, looked down on me. I felt sorry for them, felt
pity. One day I would take leave from this earth as a victorious woman. I would
reclaim my pride and dignity the day Jogi and Kunda would honor me and reveal
my heroic deeds to the society. This is my last prayer to Allah.
I Am Maina Speaking
The sun was setting on a cold winter evening. I was sitting on a
wicker chair with a news magazine on the inside verandah of the house. At one
point I considered going out of the house that day. It was Friday and a
holiday. But I felt lazy. My past and present were shattered on either side of
me. Many people go through a traumatic experience. But at some point they move
on – they become free of their past. I felt that I was an exception to the
norm. I loved my new place. It was quite a feat to be able to escape the
bricks, concrete, wood and steel of Dhaka . I
could at least breathe in this small town. I found this tiny place – a bus ride
and a quarter mile walk away from the hustle and bustle of Dhaka .
After a long day’s work this was a haven of peace.
The trouble was that none of the exceedingly honest and religious
landlords wanted to rent a room to a woman without a husband. I had to suffer a
lot. I lived in a hostel for some time. But the woman who was the building
manager was so curious about me that I left on my own. It took six months to
find this place with the help of Asif, my coworker. Asif’s uncle owned this
house. It was a three-story building. The upper two floors were already rented
out. They are getting twelve thousand from rental income. Asif’s uncle and aunt
lived on the ground floor. The wife insisted upon meeting me and approved my
application afterwards. They had two sons; one lived in New
York and the other lived in Finland
Suddenly the doorbell rang. Chachi stopped the conversation
she was having with someone in the living room. She parted the curtain a few
moments later to my room and said, “Maina someone is here to see you! It’s
a lady.” I broke my laziness and entered the living room. I was taken aback and
said, “Apa. You have come here! How could you find this house?” Apa said, “I am
a world traveller and you think I cannot find this house?” I said, “No, I am
not saying that. Where did you get my address?” Apa said, “Don’t you remember?
You gave it to me!” I wanted to take Apa into my room. But Chachi intercepted
us and insisted that we sat in the living room. She said she would be serving
us some tea. Apa mentioned that she was just coming back from a lunch invite
and being so full she must refuse tea at that time. If she stayed and talked
with me for a while, she would ask for a cup herself. Chachi replied
there was hardly anyone left in the house to serve tea and reminded us again to
ask for tea when we were ready. She left through one door and Apa and I left
through the other towards the inner verandah where I was sitting. Apa
complimented me on my choice of living space: “what a beautiful, serene place.
Maina you have good taste.” I said it was not my taste; but really good fortune.
It was just like having a good friend like Apa. She also recounted her
blessings in having good landlords like Chacha and Chachi. I asked Apa to sit
down on the wicker chair and sat down on a nearby stool myself. I placed
my two arms on Apa’s lap and lowered my head on her hands. Apa slowly stroked
my hair. She then said, “Maina I have come to talk with you and you have
started to cry instead. If you continue crying I will leave”. I jerked myself
off of her lap and said, “No no Apa. I will not cry anymore. I am not going to
cry in front of anyone anymore”.
Maina: “Apa I am not from an area too far from you. Actually I am
a very close neighbor of yours. I am a girl from Chasharar, Narayanganj.
Everyone knew me as the troublemaker girl! I passed 10th grade from Morgan high school and got admitted
into high school (I.A.) diploma classes. I was not good in studies but they all
loved me somehow. I used to be very active in student politics.Days were going
on like just that before the war. I also had keen interest in sports. That is
why I would hang out with the boys more than other girls. Many people did not
think I was really a proper girl! Then again…the society was backwards like
that at that time”.
I passed the I.A. exams in second division. My father was a doctor
of homeopathy. We were managing all right as a middle-class family. My elder
brother passed his B.A. exams and got a respectable job at the Dhakeshwari
Cotton Mills company. We exhaled in relief as a family. My parents were hoping
that if I passed my B.A. exams with distinction and got a job as a
schoolteacher then they would have an easier time to find me a husband. We were
two brothers and two sisters in total. My younger brother was getting ready to
take his 10th grade examination; my younger
sister was in the 8thgrade. My mother earned some
extra cash from sewing. We did not have any lack really.
The military crackdown and torture on Dhaka
on the night of the 25th March 1971 was not spared for Narayanganj
either. Everyone left their houses and went in different directions. We left
our house too and headed for the countryside. In about a month or so we
realized we jumped from the frying pan into the fire. In the country side there
was no Pakistani military – yet the local Razakars were doing all the misdeeds
themselves! They lodged false charges of land and property grabbing against the
men – brought the police to the houses and had them arrested. They were
harassing and torturing the women. They would take away people at dusk when the
light was dim, blindfold them and drive them straight to the cantonment. One
evening I was caught in their net just like that. My brothers fled the
house earlier. They had taken my father to the cantonment and beat him up
severely. When we got the news, Ma and I rushed to see him. They let him go but
kept me as ransom. When I was finally presented to the Pakistani army for
torture, I had already been raped and abused by these Bangali men. The Razakars
had sacrificed me. The army did not keep me in the countryside but brought me
to Narayanganj instead. I knew all the ins and outs of that town! But I was
surprised that the Narayanganj where they brought was completely devoid of
life, sound and human presence. It was an abandoned ghost town! In fact I could
not recognize the place the beasts had brought me even after trying for seven
days. One day they asked us to get into a jeep. There were six of us here for
the first time. We were blindfolded and I could not understand if we were going
to Dhaka or elsewhere. We stopped somewhere at
dawn. We were pushed into a room after our blindfolds were removed. I rubbed my
eyes and saw that I was standing in a very large room. It was a long room.
Perhaps it was a school. There was a long line of girls who had already come
and taken their throne in their beds on the benches with blankets on top. I
went closer to one of the girls and asked where we were. She shouted at me and
said, “Shut up. If they hear us talking they will kill us”! I became
frightened. It seemed that it was almost morning. They had closed all the doors
and windows shut with nails in that room. The main door was open and the
sunlight entered the room through the door and through the cracks of the other
windows just then. It was really hot already. I wondered how the girls were
under the heavy blankets in this temperature! Later I would also lie like that.
When an abused dog lies at the door playing dead and waiting for the next round
of beating – they were doing just that.
Actually they cannot sit up straight much less walk – after the
intense physical torture inflicted on their bodies all night. Most of them ran
a fever and needed the blankets for chills. My later experience taught me all
these things. In a little time a very strong, obscene looking young woman
entered the room. She was wearing a sari and looked obviously like the janitor
of the facilities. She motioned us to use the two bathrooms on either side of
the room and asked to finish all the ablutions. She said breakfast was coming
soon. I was so tired from the journey overnight. The only thing I was peaceful
about was the fact that the bathroom was clean. Later I would laugh at the way
I reasoned. What was the point of being in a clean bathroom when my body was
desecrated? I did not know how I would shower and not risk getting my sari wet.
The janitor solved my problem by taking my sari away. She gave me a small Lungi
and warned me not to make any sounds in protest – otherwise she would call the
soldiers. We were not allowed to close the bathroom door ever. I swallowed all
my shame and dignity and put on the Lungi and a Genji. Of course these were
provided courtesy of our captors. I came out of the bathroom and looked at
everyone. Of the six of us who came here, four were still sitting wearing their
saris; one was in the bathroom showering. Of the six who were under the
blankets were already in Lungi and Genji. Their Lungis were filled with blood
and grime. Nobody washed those clothes for them. They had to wash those clothes
and dry them on their bodies.”
A young man brought in food. He was given a fancy title, cook! All
he brought were two pieces of bread and a cup of tea for each of us. It was
incredible how eagerly everyone was eating that concoction! But I knew that
extreme hunger accentuated the taste in one’s mouth. We were served bread and
lentils in the afternoon for lunch. As soon as evening descended, they dropped
off some unidentifiable vegetable stew and bread for us and locked the doors.
The door was open during the daylight hours with two sentries on either side of
the entrance. There was a lamp turned on in the room in the evening – but no
one could see the faces of the others. I would understand the reasons in a few
days. Apa you have seen mass killings on the streets of Dhaka in the war; you
have seen mass graves in Jagannath hall, but you have never seen the mass rape
scenes we have experienced first hand.
Every night 3-4 soldiers would rape each of us; each would enjoy
the misdeed of the soldier before him. They would say the most obscene,
horrible denigrating things to us and to each other. We would stare at them
with empty eyes and hear their words in fear and anxiety. The only sound we
could hear from ourselves was the beating of our hearts. Sometimes I would hear
the lub-dub sound in my ears. I wondered why I was not dying despite being
dead! I could not think about the world or any of its problems! The only thing
on my mind was how to escape this prison!
After about 15 days, I honestly thought I would explode or lose my
sanity from the extreme physical and mental torture. I had a nightmare about
Sheikh Mujib’s dangling body after being hanged! I touched my own throat and
found there was extreme pain there. I did not know if I was losing my sanity
and the ability to speak. I tried to remember my parents – but could not. One
morning I was just sitting in the room. I saw a man walk by the door. He had a
red towel and a green cap on. Suddenly I lost my restraint, screamed “Joy
Bangla” and ran outside the door. I heard a few gunshots being fired. I felt a
baton hit my leg quite hard. Then I felt a jolt to my head and I fell down to
the ground. Actually Apa, I wanted to die. I was praying that they would shoot
me so I could escape this hell once and for all”.
When I regained consciousness I saw I was lying in a small room in
a cot. On the bed next to me there was a male nurse dressed in white. We used
to call the male nurses “brother” in the medical college hospital. I saw that
he was reading something very intently. I could not tilt my head. There was neck
pain of indescribable proportion. I must have uttered a sound. The man jumped
up and came close to me and said “Thank god. You are alive!” I gathered all my
physical strength to speak and asked “Are you Bengali?”
The sun flooded the room the next morning. A female nurse came.
She was happy that I had regained my consciousness. It seemed she was
Bihari from her Urdu. She cleaned my face and fed me some bread dipped in
milk. Later she gave me my medicine. Since I could not speak Urdu I spoke to
her in my broken English: “What is wrong with me?” The nurse was so happy to
hear me speak in English. She said, “Bahin, don’t talk too much. You have a
broken leg. Once that is healed you can go back to normal life. I was stunned
to hear her reference to normal life! The doctor who came later was a Colonel
in the army. He was polite and mild-mannered. He conversed with me in English.
He did not say anything outside my illness.
One day he seized the opportunity to ask me why I acted the way I
did on that fateful day. I looked directly into his eyes and said that I wanted
to die in fact. I wanted freedom. The doctor touched my head with his hands. He
said, “Do not to worry. All of you will be free”. He emphasized the words “all
of you” very much. I was scared that he might be trying to get some information
out of me. I could not trust anybody these days. But it was true that with all
the rapists and murderers, sometimes I would see one or two good men. Most of
the Punjabis were like beasts. The men who were different were either Pathan or
Sindhi. Let’s face it – I did not have the mental space or environment to do a
thorough analysis of this at all. When I was in the hospital the door and the
windows were kept wide open. Right near the window there was a guava fruit tree
and a Nim tree. The winds would dance on the leaves of the Nim tree and enter
my room. When I observed the color of the leaves, I realized it was either
August or September. The leaves were catching a yellow-reddish hue. There were
many crows and shalik birds that sat on the tree branches. They were
always eating.
Nearly one month passed in limbo. Montu,my younger brother,
returned. They had to amputate from his left wrist down. Amma wept tears of joy
and sorrow all mixed in together. Montu had returned with his life intact.
There was a lot of happiness in seeing his whole being present as well as some
sadness for the loss of his hand. The financial problems of the family began to
surface. My father’s dispensary did not have as much business as before. The society
was in financial ruin, stress and exhaustion after withstanding the extreme
torture of the ten-month holocaust. Even if someone was dying they could not
afford a doctor or medicine now. My oldest brother, Mil was not doing
well. Those who were coming in power in our town were beginning to take away
everything gradually from our house: from the furniture to Mil’s tools.
The real freedom fighters had to conceal their identity and those
who were the opportunists and collaborated with Pak army were doing their best
to hold onto power in the town through dirty politics. Mil was looking for a
job. I was restless. I felt that I could start teaching even in a primary
school and earn 300-400 Taka per month. What if I trained myself to become a
nurse? But there was no way my father could arrange the deposit necessary for a
nursing school. When the situation became so dire, my father went to Harun’s
father for consultation. Both our families knew about the nature of the
relationship between Harun and myself. They also knew the final destination of
our friendship. My father had gone to Harun’s father in the hopes that they
would consider setting a date for the wedding.
By this time my father passed away, so my mother spent most of her
time with me. This helped me out a lot. I started to think about Gautam’s
future very seriously. I went to visit Mymensingh Cadet School Dhaka and
rented it out. The rental income was sufficient to carry Gautam’s expenses. I
had little expense of my own. My mother had died by this time. My
parents-in-law had died earlier; they could not take the shock of their son’s
passing.
Today I am standing on the streets of this big city. I am a
Birangana. The ones who wanted to make me a Birangana and break me – also
murdered my husband. But I have survived as Gautam’s mother. Gautam would be a
freedom fighter since he was the son of one. His father freed this country.
Gautam would clear the debris of this land and build a new Golden Bengal .
I Am Fatema Speaking
Do you want to know who I am? I don’t have any dignity left today
to introduce myself to you. The neighborhood boys and girls used to call me
Pagli with affection. Actually I was quite sane. Those who tried to make
me go insane were the ones really screwed up. They did not know this truth
themselves.
My parents gave me the name of Fatema. I was my parents’ first
born. My Dadi spoke a blessing at my birth, “This is the daughter who will
make this family proud one day – you will see”. I learned that Hazrat
Mohammed’s daughter was Bibi Fatema. When I grew up, I understood the greatness
of my name. I was a little bit proud to have my name. Our house was situated in
a town called Shonadanga, near the industrial town of Khalishpur
in the outskirts of Khulna
Anyway, we grew fresh vegetables in our garden; gourds, squash,
beans, peas, greens – everything. My father was a farmer but did not work on
anyone else’s land. He could feed his family with his own produce. His land was
located about 5-6 miles from the town center. Baba was very hard working. He
employed a few farm workers to help with the work on his own land. He also
bought fruits and vegetables locally at a discounted rate and went to the town
market every Tuesday and Saturday to sell the produce at the fair market price.
He bought all our weekly groceries including salt, chilies, soap, hair oil etc.
from his profits.
We were five brothers and sisters. I was the oldest, then there
were three brothers and our youngest sister was last. Everyone used to call her
Aduri. The most senior member of the family was Dadi. But I never met her. She
had died before I was born. My father was her only child. We had no uncles or
aunts from my father’s side. We had a very neat and clean family.
We all attended school with the exception of Aduri. We would eat
rice mixed with milk upon returning from school and then run outside to play. I
played with all the girls of the neighborhood. Our favorite game was jump and
skip. On holidays we jumped into the pond and swam from one side to the other.
Did you say there was a tear in my eye? Ladies you know that whenever I think
back to those joyful days I cannot hold the tears back! Sometimes Baba would
take us into town to see a movie. We saw movies at the Ullashini Cinema and Picture Palace
Life was going on peacefully and smoothly. The political unrest
started the year I was to appear in my matriculation examination. We all became
inspired by the principle of the non-cooperation movement. We would not remain
in servitude to the Pakistanis. Why were the Bengalis working so hard only to
have the profits of our labor be taken away to West
Pakistan ? They were exporting our jute abroad and building
luxuries and excesses in Islamabad India
and conspiring to destroy Pakistan
It was a judgment against Mujib. It was incredible how many
meetings, protest marches and slogans were going around at that time. We forgot
our normal life. Baba stopped going to the market to sell his produce. He used
to tell Ma, “What would be the use of living if they hung our beloved Mujib?”
One day we were jubilant when we received the news that Sheikh Mujib was freed
from prison. Everyone welcomed him back and put garlands around his neck. It
seemed Khulna
A few of the elders in the neighborhood told me, “Fatema you
should restrain your activities a little bit. Girls should not be so outgoing
and wild. You are catching the attention of the police and the military. One
day they might arrest you – then you will be full of regrets”. I smirked at
them and defiantly said, “It is not easy to outsmart Bibi Fatema! Just take
care of yourself, don’t worry about me!” My younger brother’s name was Shona
Mia; he was 14. The next brother was called Mona and my youngest brother was
Pona. They were all two years apart. Like me, none of them were going to
classes any longer. All day they ran behind much bigger boys on the streets,
carrying the national flag. Gradually everything settled down and we got back
to a normal life. We all started going to school again.
However, we started to feel a bit uneasy. The nearby town
Khalishpur was filled with Biharis. They were always very arrogant and behaved
rudely with us. They would look down on us at every opportunity they got. Once
there was a riot around this type of behavior – many people died in that riot.
The riot was concealed within the laborers of the different industries. We all
had to be careful after this incident. Then came the general elections of Pakistan Khulna Gandhi Park
The elections took place on the designated date. Banga Bandhu
became the Prime Minister of all of Pakistan
The exams lay ahead of me. Maybe when Banga Bandhu took office we
would not have to take exams and simply take a year off to celebrate! But the
parliament could not be formed! Bhutto was making excuses for cancelling the
parliamentary session. Everyone understood that the situation had turned dire.
We could hear gunshots in the distance over many days. Banga Bandhu declared
the non-cooperation movement during this time. Everything was closed down. Only
hospitals, water & electricity plants and banks remained open. Banga Bandhu
asked us to starve off West Pakistan by
shutting down production of goods and services. Bhutto came to meet with Mujib
with all his party officials. Having failed to convince Mujib to give up his
aspirations of becoming the Prime Minister, he left East
Pakistan forever.
On 25th March 1971, Pakistan Dhaka through our town telephone connection. The rest was
all rumors. Later I learned that the rumors were pale by comparison to the
extent of killings that actually took place in Dhaka .
They took Banga Bandhu prisoner. They flew him to West
Pakistan for court marshal. I gnashed my teeth while listening to
the speech made by Yahiya Khan on the radio. The Biharis of the nearby town
flexed their muscle after the speech. We decided to leave our house
immediately. The students had left their college dormitories already. The
Biharis killed some of them while they were in the midst of fleeing.
The Pakistani military was on its way to our town. We could hear
the infamous, frightful slogan by the Biharis, “Nare Takbir Allahu Akbar!” We
grabbed whatever we could see in the house and headed towards the deep
countryside. But Pona and I could not escape the hands of Nasir Ali! I was
running carrying Pona in my arms and was the last in the queue. Nasir Ali
caught me. But I was pretty strong and put up a fight. Because I struggled he
grabbed Pona and threw him on the ground with all his force. Pona’s skull split
open and his brains oozed out. I cried out loud. Nasir Ali motioned 2-3 people
to help him carry me to his house. Everyone was standing and watching the fun.
Some were even cheering him on. I was the only one standing completely
speechless. I often wondered if there were any Bengalis amidst them. I am sure
there were. Otherwise who else would do such harm to our family?
Apa, Fatema died that day – right there in that very slum. Did you
ever hear of a father and a son taking turns in raping a girl? That was what
they did to me. I was not the only one either. The Biharis brought several
Bengali women from our Shona Danga village and among them there was a mother –
daughter pair who was raped side by side in each other’s plain sight. Where was
the Pakistani army to “protect us”? When the army came to rape us, the Biharis
had already forsaken us. We were brought to Jessore in an open truck
after 4-5 days. We sat in the truck with our faces covered with our hands.
People were laughing at us. I could not see but I think I also heard female
voices in the crowd. I know you would not believe me. How could you? You have
never faced such a thing.
Today, my identity is that of a hapless, crazy Pagli. We were
brought to Jessore and sold to Pak army at nominal value. What I mean is that
Nasir Ali and his friends got a few medals and pats on their backs for our
capture and abuse. I had already suffered physical abuse at their hands. I used
to be frightened of Pakistani army men but I found out there were good and bad
mixed in amongst them. But Nasir Ali was a real bastard, a complete traitor.
One good thing Apa is that Shona and his fellow Mukti Bahini men chopped Nasir
Ali into pieces later. They got a dog to come and enticed it to eat the flesh.
But they regretfully told me that the dog refused to eat it. You know Apa even
a dog has taste; he discriminates between good and bad. That is what
differentiates a dog from the base human that we are. Thank God they have their
senses.
They used to feed us at the army cantonment. Lunch and dinner
comprised of lentils, bread, bhaji. We had bread and tea for breakfast. Apa, I
had often refused to eat rice and milk that my own mother would serve with
affection and yet I would eat this horrible jail food with much appetite. I
decided to live. I had to live to take revenge for the murder of my brother,
Pona. They had taken everything that belonged to me except my beating heart. I
had to keep myself alive for my brother Pona. I promised to find Nasir after I
was released and kill him with my bare hands. Somehow I had an inner faith that
Bangladesh
But when I understood that my family and society would not accept
me – that I would not be able to go see Banga Bandhu again – I would cry and
wanted to die. But Apa in reality I did see him! Shona took me to Dhaka and managed to show me Banga Bandhu from a distance
one day. I noticed the fire that had burned so brightly inside him once dimmed
a lot. Perhaps since the country was free he needed to calm down for everybody.
Shona joined the Bangladesh
We were held prisoners in a long rectangular room, possibly a
barrack in Jessore. There were no fewer than 20-25 girls there. They were not
all from Jessore. Some were from Barisal
I don’t think even psychologists know how many perverse ways
sexual violence could be inflicted on a female body! There were so many girls
there together. It seemed we had all overcome hatred, fear and shame in the
end. One day a very ugly incident happened. Apa I am not even sure how I would
tell you the details. There was a soldier who was especially cruel to me. I
didn’t know the reason behind this. I think perhaps he could see the loathing
in my eyes. If I had to walk past him he would kick me. Or he would slap me on
the head. I had to take this cruelty silently – there was no alternative.
One day he came to our room completely drunk. I thought Muslims
were prohibited from drinking. Only the weak minded Bengali Muslims must be the
ones following those strict rules and regulations. I saw the Pakistani soldiers
drunk many times. The officers were drinking both at home and in the clubs. The
soldiers would talk about it.
Anyway, he got drunk one day, entered the room and jumped on me.
He was not satisfied even after he took off my clothes, bit me and clawed my
skin. He put his penis down my throat. I didn’t know what to do so I bit into
it with my teeth with all my strength. The man screamed as loudly as an animal
that had been shot. I knew that would be my last day alive. He dragged me and
then tied the Lungi I was wearing before, to my hair. He then made me stand on
a chair and tied my hair to the ceiling fan and turned on the switch. I
remember screaming a few times and then I lost consciousness.
The girls later told me that the monsters first started to laugh
at me rolling with the ceiling fan. But since the girls started to scream and
panic, they got scared. Another soldier came in and turned off the fan. The
news got out. The beast was court marshaled. I never saw him again. I was in
the hospital for 3-4 days with extreme pain in the head and neck. As soon as my
fever decreased they put me back in the barrack. The monsters left me alone for
a few days. Afterwards the abuse, torture and rape continued as usual.
I never got any news from the outside world. A boy of about 20
would come from the kitchen to deliver food to us. He would tell me, “Apa Moni,
please wait for a few more days. They are being beaten pretty badly by our boys
now – they won’t be able to hold on much longer”. But he could not say much
more than this from fear of retribution. Even the abused girls were not
abstaining from gossip. Apparently a girl from Magura betrayed the confidence
of a janitor. I was told the janitor woman was killed for this. Nobody talked
to that girl anymore. We were scared though that she would make up lies about
us! One day they took her somewhere else. We were all relieved. The monsoon
rain had stopped for many days now. We had to use a blanket in the early
morning. Perhaps it was autumn.
One day six of us were taken away from the barrack. I somehow felt
that they were just removing some of us from Jessore. It was too close to the
border with India
There were four windows in the room but they were really high up.
Light and air would enter the room through those windows, but we could not see
the outside world. Since the light came in we could tell night from day for
sure. We could fathom just a little bit about the surroundings. The men were
less vicious as compared to the last place and they did not come every night.
It seemed it was a military transit station. The soldiers would come here to
rest, receive instructions and then they were on their way. It was hustle and
bustle followed by a period of quiet. Some days the whole contingent would
attack us. They would perform acts of inhuman torture and cruelty on us all
night! They would leave only after delivering us in a semi-conscious or
completely unconscious state. Here we could talk with each other freely – but
we lost the courage to speak in a normal voice. I did not know whom to trust.
Anyone could betray any of us.
Armored trucks and jeeps full of Mukti Bahini and Indian army
officers arrived from Jessore. The Pakistani soldiers were taken as prisoners
of war into the vehicles. One officer from the Indian army took us girls in a
separate truck. Chapa and I sat huddled together. I said, “Chapa, I want to
take you to my home. Will you go? I told you that we are Muslims, right?” Chapa
said, “I don’t have any religion or class! I have died. This is Chapa’s corpse
you are looking at. Whoever gives me shelter will be my benefactor.” We came
straight to Khulna
With 100 Taka in my hand, I took a rickshaw and came straight to
my house in Shonadanga with Chapa. My father was there. He burst into tears
when he saw me. I said, “Baba I could not save Pona and I have brought another
young one in his place.” Chapa bent down to touch Baba’s feet – but Baba pulled
Chapa to his chest. We showered, changed our clothes and ate a huge meal of
Muri and Gur. Baba said Shona had gone to bring Ma – they would arrive any
minute. Shona had returned home the previous day.
Author’s Note: Out of all the Birangonas I have met, Fatema has
been the most tortured and abused. Perhaps it is her name keeper that saved her
in the end. Today Taher is a well-established, rich businessman. Fatema’s
daughter Chapa is in high school. She is following in the steps of her aunt
Chapa who is a nurse; and has her eyes on becoming a doctor. Fatema’s son wants
to be a journalist. Fatema does a lot of volunteer work in social welfare
agencies. She is really a brave, proud Bibi Fatema and a woman who is well
deserving of Banga Bandhu’s title, a truly virtuous Birangana of Bengal .
I Am Mina Speaking
Many people knew me from this neighborhood. I am speaking in past
tense because that was twenty-two years ago. I left the neighborhood after my
wedding in 1968. If you walked from Mouchak Market towards Rampura TV
station for seven or eight minutes, you would see quite a few narrow lanes
on either side of the road. We used to live on one of those lanes. Everybody
from the neighborhood knew me as Mina. Dhaka
city was not so crowded then. Everything was spread out. My father was from
Noakhali I don’t know if you are laughing at this or not. People always
made faces upon hearing about that region. My mother was from Faridpur. How my
parents crossed such a long distance to tie the knot is a story of its own. My
maternal grandfather and my paternal grandfather worked at the same government
office in Dhaka . They used to live here in a
small single-story house for lesser rent away from the city. It was their
friendship that got my parents together. We were two sisters and a brother.
My elder brother was studying commerce at Dhaka University
The four of us in the family lived comfortably with the earnings
from his job. In 1970, my daughter Falguni was born – the first born in both
sides of the family. Waves of joy and happiness passed through everybody. My
father used to travel a great distance just to be with his granddaughter every
day. My mother-in-law was delighted to be able to see my father every day. My
father-in-law had passed away ten years before that. The baby used to stay with
her paternal grandmother. My husband and I had no shortage of time for movies,
the theater or other entertainment. Eventually, the cloud of misfortune covered
the lives of all in the nation. The civil unrest erupted like an explosive ball
of fire. Still we were still happy with anticipation that the country shall be
liberated.
On the night of March 25, 1971 all such dreams and hopes came to a
screeching halt. Everybody was confined to the house on March 26th with the curfew. My husband had not returned
from his work sine the night of the 25th. We heard that he
remained back in Gazipur where the ordinance factory was located. On March 27,
with all the rumors going around, I started to worry about my husband being
alive. My mother-in-law became sick from worries or her son. I had no news from
my parents; nobody dared to leave home to inquire about family and friends. My
brother-in-law was a young boy at the time but we were afraid that the Pak
military would shoot if they saw anybody of his age on the street.
During the daytime it was somewhat okay but at night it was very
scary. After the first months, gunshots could be heard every day from the
Farmgate area. Since we lived a little away from the thoroughfare in Indira Road Dhaka city. He had to live in Gazipur where the factory
was and if we wished to, we could accompany him. My mother-in-law was adamant
about not leaving and my husband got upset at his mother and left alone. I was
upset by my mother-in-law’s stand. I thought to myself that the lady only was
concerned about her younger son’s safety but did not have any consideration for
the older son who was the sole earning member of the family. He used to come at
the beginning of the month to give us the money from his salary, stay overnight
and leave the following day for Gazipur. We got sort of used to the sound of
firing by this time.
Around this time one day, the military broke into some houses and
took away all the young men from the families. That’s when our fear really set
in. On top of that, Falguni had been running a high temperature for a couple of
days. I could not call the doctor, as I was afraid to leave the house. On that
day, in the afternoon, she passed out. She was not even two years old yet. Like
a mad woman, I ran out the house, got on a rickshaw and went to the nearest
dispensary on the main road. Fortunately the doctor was there. The nurse took
my baby to another room. All of a sudden some shots were heard and a couple of
jeeps stopped in front of the dispensary. While the doctor was examining a
patient, some men pulled me by my arm. I screamed out loud. Before the doctor
could say anything, they dragged me into the jeep by my hair while kicking,
punching and slapping me. For the first couple of days I lay unconscious. When
I regained consciousness I wondered if my daughter was still alive. If only we
had left with my father in March, none of this would have happened. Just
because of my husband’s stubbornness my daughter and I were going to lose our
lives.
Then started the torture! Like the carrions tear away the meat
from the dead, they tore into us. Night and day we rotted away in that dark
hell. Sometimes they called us above ground, we would shower, change clothes
but then we would sent back to the dungeon. I cannot tell if the monsters that
tortured us were Bengalis, Biharis, Punjabis or Pathans. When someone got sick
they would take her away. I used to wish to fall sick so that I would be taken
out of that hellhole and to a hospital. I later learned that it was not to the
hospital the sick were taken. They were taken to permanent freedom –
unmercifully killed.
After the war many mutilated female bodies were found with their
stomach ripped and eyes gouged out. You could understand what kind of torture
was going on in those camps. I got there relatively later than many – in
August. We used to whisper with each other and listen to the horrific stories.
The only outside visitor was the janitor woman who would tell us stories mixed
with truth and rumors. She used to give us advice so that we didn’t get
pregnant, because if they found out about the pregnancy, they would eliminate
us in the cruelest way for sheer entertainment. Gradually I got accustomed to
the darkness in the dungeon.
Even in the faintest light I could see things, recognize faces. I
befriended a Christian girl named Mary. She was from Kola Kupa Bandura. She
used to be a nurse at the Chondroghonahospital. At mealtime, they used to turn
on a very bright light. We would cover our eyes in shock and would not be able
to see anything for some time. I used to see blue dancing balls and realized
that if it continued for much longer, I would become blind. Why did they keep
us alive like that! I later learned the army would being people from different
foreign embassies to the camps to prove that there weren’t any women being
tortured there, when all along there were many like us waiting for death in the
dungeon.
Suddenly, the sound of firing increased. The janitor woman said
that the war has spread all through the nation and the Pakistanis were
congregating in the capital city as they were beginning to lose the battles.
Even in Dhaka city, the freedom fighters had
infiltrated. By that time I was aware of the freedom fighters and what they
stood for. It was beyond my belief that the underfed diminutive Bengali young
men were fighting against the modern warfare of the enemy. I didn’t know what else
was taking place outside. All on a sudden the bombings began. The earth shook
with the sound of the bombs. I thought we would all be buried alive right in
that hellhole. Someday, someone would unearth our skeletons. Within five or six
days all the noise stopped. All day and all night, we could hear the sound of
heavy vehicles and a lot of activities above ground. Gradually all the noise,
commotion calmed down. Our guests of all hours stopped visiting as though their
interest in women just vanished. They were most likely worried about saving
their own lives. The janitor woman told us that the Pakistanis would surrender.
But what would happen to us? “Well, guess you all have survived,” was her
response. I asked, “Why didn’t they kill us? She responded, “There will be no
more killing. If the freedom fighters find out that they killed you they will
chop them to pieces. Have a little patience and you will all see the light of
freedom.”
True to her words, one day all were silent and we were called up
from the dungeon. But, where would they take us? That powerful light was turned
on again. Somebody said in Hindi, “Bahar aye Maiji! Come out mothers!” What did
I hear? Someone was addressing me as “Mother”, while I was a bitch, bastard,
worse than an animal for four months! Why all of a sudden were so much
affection and respect given to me? I had forgotten how to trust anyone. I
forgot that right from my home. I had no time to think. Some people almost
dragged our skeletal bodies out. Some started to scream and wail yet others
kept on laughing hysterically. We were taken to a room and asked to wash up and
change our clothes. By then we got used to following orders like the soldiers,
we behaved like pet dogs. We were then given bread, butter and bananas to eat.
We all ate somewhat in a trance. Then we were taken to another room where one
by one, all our names and addresses were noted.
The ones that had an address in Dhaka gave both their addresses in
Dhaka and in the village home. Some of the
girls left on their own. We remained there for a couple more days. Some of the
girls left with their fathers who came to take them. A nun came from
Tejgaon to take Mary with her. The nun hugged and consoled Mary just like
a mother would have. I saw Mary a few times afterwards. She remained in her own
profession of nursing at the Holy Family hospital. She got married to a male
nurse as well. I was daydreaming when a Bengali officer asked me where I wanted
to go. I was two months pregnant. I asked if they had any establishment for women
in my situation. He said, “Of course. Would you like to go there?” I nodded. I
said that I wanted to get out of these walls. I wanted to breathe the air of
freedom that was attained at such a high cost. I reached the women’s
rehabilitation center in Dhanmondi. There were doctors and nurses there. They told
me that I was pregnant and they wanted to do an abortion if I agreed.
Excitedly, I asked the doctor to do the operation right away. The doctor
affectionately touched my head and asked me to wait a few more days. He said
that I was still very weak and I needed to first eat and rest for a while then
everything would be fine. I told the doctor that I have a daughter at home
named Falguni. I asked him to have mercy on me.
The doctor assured me
of help and then called a nurse to cut and wash my hair. He said that my long
hair was tangled in dreads and I probably had infection on the scalp too. He
asked her to gently take care of me. I washed up and laughed when I looked at
the short haircut. I used to have really long hair. I remembered when one day
Hasnat decided to make a bun out of my hair. He fought with the comb, brush and
hair and stopped after tearing a bunch of my hair. It hurt my head just
thinking of that day. Would he get mad to see my new bob cut hair or would he
tease me for it? I smiled to myself. Ten days later my abortion was done. I was
at the end of my first trimester. If it were a few more days, the monsters
would’ve come to know and what would they have done to me then? I screamed in
fear from the thought and the nurse came running to me to ask what happened. I
wiped my tears and said that it was nothing. After seven days of resting, I
left for home. I was given some money as soon as I asked for it and was told to
return if I failed to find my way home. They would make arrangements for me. I
got off the rickshaw in front of my house but nobody even looked at me. I
knocked on the front door. My mother-in-law looked at me for a moment after
opening the door then held me in a tight embrace and started to cry.
Author’s Note: A few days ago I saw Mina at someone’s wedding. I
used to see her often at the Bailey
Road Bangladesh
This is Mrs. Nielson Speaking
Just like nature, human nature is also very diverse. In nature,
sometimes there are flat lands covered with lush forest and in other places,
there is barren desert where not a drop of water is found. On one side stand
the Himalayas , the greatest mountain range of
the world. On the other side flows the water of the great ocean. Somewhere on
this earth it is the hot and humid summer and in another place, there is the
cool wind of the fall or snowfall.
Sometimes I sit by myself and think that my life is also the same.
Just like the diversity in nature, I’ve had love, affection, romance, hatred,
shame, rage, and pity. I’ve been touched by everything in this life: sometimes
a gentle touch, and at other times, the hardest blow. I never thought I would
have the courage to express the depth of my feelings to another person. Since childhood
I have never learned to express this courage. I have always repeated to myself
that I am a girl, and I must tolerate everything. I’ve repeated this as often
as the multiplication table. I will be tolerating everything like Mother
Nature. There was only one way to protest, either through taking the test of
fire like Sita, or by entering the underground. Sita was a goddess. But as a
mere mortal, I could not do either of those two things.
When I heard shame, shame, shame around me, when the leaders of my
society and close relatives had said, “Why didn’t you die you wretched woman?
Have you come back to murder us with this black face?” I could not tell them in
return, “No, where did I get the chance to die? You couldn’t even make that
happen for me. You didn’t extend a hand to keep me alive, nor did you help me
to die. You couldn’t say these words through your mouth. Nor did you have the
honest courage to turn these words into action. You never did have the courage,
you don’t have this courage now, and you never will.”
I am not just surprised today, I’m filled with positive emotion
that a woman, who is my mother’s age, has come forward and shown me so much
compassion. But today, after 20 long years, I am standing on the present,
resting firmly on my two feet. In fact I no longer have a lot of aspirations
for the future. Using the strength of my determination and hatred, I have
forgotten my tainted past. What I once was very proud of was also the object of
shame, fear, and loathing by my family and society.
Author’s note: I remembered when we moved forward as a nation with
optimism and hope as tall as the mountain. Then one day all hope was
extinguished when a great life was taken from us. Once again people lost their
happiness and their dear ones. It seemed so many monsters had congregated
around me these days putting on the masks of human faces. For the past ten
years, I felt only my body was alive. My soul had died. I wondered at which
bend of the journey of my life did I meet this foreign woman, Mrs. T. Neilson?
My friend Shirley from Vancouver London Rehabilitation Center Rehabilitation
Center in Dhanmondi, Dhaka ,
matted hair, pale, reddish lips, and wearing a plain white sari with red
border. Standing with absolutely no fear or hesitation. Her name was Tara . I had gone to this girl so many times to ask: where
was she from, what happened to her, and got absolutely no response except yes
or no. Whenever I asked her a question, she just came close and snuggled up to
me – but didn’t say anything. I understood she wanted my touch, whether that
was a maternal touch, or the touch of her country, I didn’t know.
In 1971, I was in Rajshahi right before the Liberation War
started. My father worked as a doctor right outside the city in a small town.
He was a government employee at one time. After the 1952 Language Movement, my
father left his job and went back to the town where he was born, bought a
sizeable amount of land, and built a small house for us. My mother’s dreams
were fulfilled because now she could have her own garden. By this time, Dadi
had passed away. My elder sister Kali got married and went to live with her
husband in Calcutta , a neighboring city in India
My mother would be anxious and complain about his late returns.
Baba smiled and replied, “Didn’t you hear the call to resistance made by Banga
Bandhu, Sheikh Mujib? He said, “Whatever you have, in any way you can,
participate in the non-cooperation, resistance movement against the Pakistan
By middle of March 1971, there were already some scattered
incidents of violence reported in our area. We believed, however, that everyone
was well united in our town. We were confident we would be able to fight back
if we were to be beset by enemies. Then along came the black night of March
25th tearing down this tremendous confidence and changing our destiny. There
was a curfew the next day, but I saw several men circling our house. My mother
was praying to the Hindu gods to calm down her anxiety. Baba was pacing
restlessly. We were holed up in our place like rats on March 26th. On March
27th, as soon as evening descended, we got ready to go to our village home and
grabbed our handbags. But no car or rickshaws were to be found anywhere.
Suddenly, the local town chairman’s jeep came around and stopped in front of
our house. They asked my father to come and join them in the jeep. “Doctor,
please come with us,” they addressed my dad. “Where are you headed anyway? Come
with us and we will take you wherever you need to go.” Since Baba refused to go
with them, four or five men came inside the house and pulled me into the jeep.
There was no sound of gunfire anywhere. The jeep took off and I
didn’t know whether they took my father or mother later, or killed them. The
jeep sped forward with me to an unknown destination. For some time, I must have
lost consciousness. When I woke up I realized I was in the police station, and
in front of me was an army officer. He talked with me politely. I said they
brought me by force from my father and mother. The officer laughed and said,
“That’s for your own safety.” I saw two to three other girls my age crying,
sometimes screaming. They were scolded if they screamed. Couple of hot cups of
tea arrived, and even some bread and a few bananas. Nila Apa, that scene is
still crystal clear to me as if it was happening right now. The officer was
happy that I could speak in English with my small town accent. We spent that
whole day in the police station.
As evening descended the town chairman stopped by the station once
more. I understood everything but still got down to the floor and held his
feet. I appealed, “Uncle, please take me to my Baba. You have known me since I
was a little girl. I have played with your daughter Sultana together and went
to school together. Please take pity on me.” He pushed me aside and quickly left
the station. I knew he left me as a sacrifice to be devoured by these monsters.
I witnessed how in a moment a man can turn into a monster. I did not see
another human being again until after December 16, when Bangladesh
The officer took me inside the jeep. He showed a lot of interest
in me. After the jeep travelled a certain distance, he started to tell stories
about his military bravado. Not one word would enter my head. Suddenly, I
jumped from the moving jeep. The officer was in the driving seat, and I was
next to him. Behind us, seated, were two Jawaans, (Pakistani soldiers). I must
have instantly lost consciousness. When I awakened, I saw my head was wrapped
in a bandage and I was lying in a hospital cot. It was a small hospital. I got
a lot of care, but all the employees were male. They had brought in a village
girl by force just to assist me in a few physical necessities. The girl was
crying the entire time. In the evening the officer left. Before he left, he was
addressing me by honey and darling and said Khodahafez. I lay in bed three
days, and then I sat up. I knew I was feeling better.
We had the ingrained cultural value that a mule or an ox could not
be sacrificed to the gods if it had an imperfection. I was now ready to be
sacrificed. It was a Bangali officer who inflicted intense physical torture and
abuse on me during the first day. I lost my voice from the shock of the trauma.
Since I was already ill, my head was not working properly. I could not fight
back. I became the victim of a monster whose eyes were filled with greed and
lust. That night, so many people attacked my body. I could not tell you how
many, except there were probably six to seven men. In the morning, the
Pakistani officer came in and saw me in this condition and got very excited. He
even beat up a few people. Then he took me to the jeep again, and we went to
the third destination. I took the hand of the officer and said, “Please save
me. Now, let me go. You are my brother. I have an elder brother your age.”
Suddenly, he became enraged and changed from a gentleman to a
monster. His eyes lit up in anger. With his left hand he grabbed my hair and
said, “Tell me, where is your brother?” I didn’t know where my brother was.
Then he spat on my face and scolded me in words I didn’t even recognize. I sat
there in stillness. I sat there like a still mass with no feelings or emotions.
For many days my head didn’t work at all. I ate as if I was a machine. And I
got passed around to so many men and simply put up with their rape and sodomy.
When I could, I bit my lips with my teeth and screamed, “Joy Bangla.” I got
spat on or kicked most of the time for saying this. Where I grew up in the
village, there was a saying that the soul of a female is just like that of a
cat or the tortoise. No matter how much you torture, it still lives. It doesn’t
die. I doubt any males would survive the torture that my female counterparts
and I have survived on the way to death. But there’s a reason behind this. The
females who were being tortured in the war were an essential element for these
monsters to survive the war. We were the comfort women. So no matter how much
they tortured us, they kept us alive in flesh and blood so they could use us.
There were about eight to ten girls at this place where they kept me. Their
ages ranged from thirteen to thirty years or even higher. They were all from
the village. There was one educated girl from town. I got a chance to talk to
her a little bit. She was older than me, very beautiful.
She was apparently a senior at Rajshahi University Bangladesh
We were not allowed to wear regular clothes, like a sari or a
scarf to cover ourselves. Apparently, in another rape camp, one girl committed
suicide by hanging from the ceiling using her sari. We were dressed in tattered
Lungis and blouse. Sometimes they would go to the markets and get new
clothes in bulk and come back and throw the clothes to us one by one like we
were animals. You know how people give clothing to beggars at the time of Durga
Puja (Hindu festival) or Eid (Muslim festival)? When I would get the clothes
thrown like this at me, tears would well up in my eyes. I would remember Baba.
Baba would always ask me on special festivals, “Daughter what kind of sari will
you take on this occasion? I would say, “Whatever you give me, Baba.” With
affection he would put his hand on my head and say, “No matter which man’s
house you go to as a wife, that house will be filled with peace and happiness.”
Baba, did you know that your daughter was not born to go to any man’s house as
a wife? Her birth moment was the unluckiest of all? That she is cursed? That
she is a gypsy woman?
Suddenly, one day, I wondered how I would look after all this
torture and abuse? There was no mirror here, nor were there any glass windows
or doors in case we committed suicide. What they didn’t know was that I was
keeping my abused and disrespected body alive with a lot of love and tenderness
so that I could take revenge. You know that man that I used to call uncle and
who was the town chairman? Do you know what will I do to him when I get out? I
wonder where my beloved Shaman is now. Shaman appeared in the final examination
in engineering college right before March 25th, when the war started. He was
waiting in Dhaka for his results to be
published. Is he dead, or is he alive? Since he was male, he was most likely
dead. I had so many fantasies around Shaman. He was so handsome and his body so
muscular. He was very shy. When everybody was present, he would barely speak
with me. His sister, Kajali used to go to the same school as me. She used to
say, “Do you know that my brother loves you?” Upon hearing this, my ears would
turn bright red. Little beads of sweat would form on my forehead. It’s amazing
what human beings plan, and what becomes of their real lives! Where was Shyamal
now? Was he dead or alive? Maybe he has joined the freedom fighters to resist
the Pakistani army invasion. His elder sister, brother in law, father, and
mother were all in India
I suddenly laughed at myself and wondered about the futility of
thinking about Shyamal still. I was suddenly awakened from my daze by the yell
from Moti Mia (Mr. Moti). Moti Mia was supplying us with food and other
essentials. Sometimes he delivered some news in an indirect language. He always
gave the date and time under the guise of being meticulous. Mr. Moti informed
us this was now September. There were three more months to go in this year. The
Pakistani generals would not be here any longer than this. Yes, they would
return back to their country to their wife and kids after winning the war. I
understood that my freedom was imminent because these days, outside the rape
camp, I could hear loud sounds of gunfire and bomb explosions.
The officers and soldiers who came to this camp somehow seemed
very anxious and fearful. Sometimes news in Bangla would float to my ears. No,
not from Dhaka or Rajshahi (the town where Tara was from) radio stations, but
the accent is from west Bengal, from Akashbani (Bangla news chronicle from
radio station located in west Bengal ,
India
Suddenly the next day, a girl died amongst us. She was pregnant.
From the early morning, she was hemorrhaging profusely. She banged on her door
and screamed a lot for help, but nobody came forward. Nobody understood what
was going on completely. Her name was Moina (black bird). She was about
fifteen. She threw about her arms and legs like a slaughtered animal for a
while, and then slowly succumbed to sleep. Her face turned blue after she died.
An elderly woman called Sufia’s Ma, (mother of Sufia), came
and wrapped her in a small blanket since the army officers never gave us
sheets. That evening they came to take Moina’s body away. There was an
uncomfortable numbness that settled inside of me. It seemed that even these
monsters were running out of their need for females. That means they could kill
us. I was feeling a lot of discomfort in my chest. I said, “I can’t take this
pain any more, God. We have all been through so much. Please lift me up,
Bhagavan, please liberate me.” But I never prayed to be dead. I only wanted and
prayed so I could live.
The sound of guns and bombs were gradually decreasing. It was
quite chilly now. I grabbed a small blanket that was available and wrapped it
around my body. One day, as dawn broke, it seemed unusually quiet and silent.
Sufia’s Ma spoke up, “Have the bastards run away?” Suddenly her words gave my
body incredible strength. I got up and started to bang on the door. I started
to yell. Suddenly I heard, “Joy Bangla!” Joy Banga Bandhu (hail to the friend
of Bengal, Mr. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the leader of Bangladesh
At that very moment, a jeep pulled up, and in a very loud voice
the passengers yelled, “Joy Bangla!” We also screamed spontaneously, “Joy
Bangla!” Descending from the jeep came three men wearing Khaki uniforms and
another seven to eight men wearing Lungi (traditional Bangla male wear) tank
tops and pants. Everybody had guns in their hands. Their leader came forward. I
was so scared that I retreated to a very dark corner. I was instantly
transported to the scene of March 27th when I was abducted. One of the men in
uniform understood that I was very scared. He approached me and spoke to me in
the gentlest of ways, “Aiye…”
I don’t know what happened to me. I gave out an intense scream and
fell to the ground. Later I heard the men who liberated us were indeed both
Bangla freedom fighters and the Indian army. From the nearby village, the men
brought us clothes so we could cover ourselves. Since I was unconscious from
that point onwards, they delivered me directly to the nearby hospital in their
jeep.
When I had awakened, I found myself in a small hospital. From the
people in the hospital I understood that I was still in north Bengal .
I asked someone exactly what town I was in. I think I heard Ishwardi (a
district also in northern Bengal ). Since I
endured unimaginable torture and pain for so many days, my head did not work
properly. I did tell people repeatedly that I wanted to go to my father. But
when they asked me my father’s name, I just could not recall. I just sat there
and kept crying. It seemed I had lost part of my memory. As a result, I was
directly transported to the capital city of Dhaka Dhaka
I regained my consciousness. I realized I was in the women’s ward of the main Dhaka medical college hospital. I looked all around me
and realized that I had never seen so many people. I could not tell what time
it was, but they were delivering the afternoon meals. I got mine also. A nurse
helped me. I washed my face and pulled the plate of rice towards me, but tears
rolled down my cheeks and fell down on my plate of rice. The nurse put her hand
on my back and gave me a lot of affection. She sat there with me so I could
eat. I don’t know if I had ever encountered such terrific hunger. It was as if
I never tasted rice and curry before. It was like heaven in my mouth. I felt
like I survived! What I did not know is how many deaths would still await me.
After being there for three or four days, the doctor informed me that I was
pregnant. They asked me where I wanted to go. I bit my lips and said I had no
one. I told them to make the same arrangements as they had made for other
destitute girls. The female attending physician asked if I really had no
relatives. I shook my head. She somehow understood.
After about a month, I was transferred to the Women’s Rehabilitation Center
in Dhanmondi, Dhaka and I saw you (Dr. N.
Ibrahim) many times. When I was being treated at the Medical College Bangladesh Rehabilitation Center
I got the news that Baba was busy reconstructing the house that
was damaged in the war. He would come in a few days. I could only utter in
response, “Baba, you too!” When I now see any visitors, I just leave their
company. Finally I met a female, Polish physician and I asked her to teach me
some crafts or skills. She was simply delighted to teach me. So I gave up
all my worries and started to work with her in full force.
In the meantime, my abortion was arranged. With a strong heart, I
got prepared for this procedure. I finally understood my place in this society
and in my family. Nila Apa, you have seen how all the girls simply resisted
getting an abortion. Each girl wanted to keep her baby. Women have a tremendous
weakness because every woman has an innate desire to be a mother at least once
in their life. But where will I go with this child? Do you remember Marjina?
She used to wear a frock and was only 15 years old. She was like me and had a
son. She did not want the son to be taken away overseas. She used to scream
every time she saw you, thinking you would take her son away. In the end, they
did forcibly send her son away to some other country for adoption. You didn’t
come around anymore after that, Nila Apa! Why, Nila Apa? Was it too hard for
you to face Marjina? Dr. Ibrahim lowered her head and said, “One of the
toughest things in life was to send away Marjina’s son to Sweden Tara knew her plight and prepared to fight in this world
all alone.
Suddenly one day, Baba arrived. Baba looked like he had aged many
years. He held me tight in a strong grip and burst into tears. I remembered
that about seven or eight of us went to see Banga Bandhu in his executive
office one day not too long before. The trip was arranged through the Rehabilitation Center
He gave me a bag of fruits. I didn’t want to touch it, but I
didn’t want to become a laughing object by throwing it away either. Baba came
again, but never offered to take me home. Even my big brother came from Calcutta Tara . I was a proud Mrs. T. Neilson.
First published in ANUSHAY'S POINT,
July 17,
2012
Bangladeshi-born Anushay Hossain is an author,
commentator, writer and activist based in Washington ,
DC
