It is the man or woman who sits at the back of the bus who dies. Two weeks ago, I wrote about Masuma, a former student of mine, who was severely burnt in the bus near Shahbagh. She died a few days back. As the sky over me explodes in a spectacular firework display and the oohs and aahs of thousands who have gathered in TSC fill up the air, I must remember this girl, my student, who died in a different kind of firework less than a week back.
As I write this, the nation is celebrating its 42nd year of birth. The breaking news now is that the 18-party alliance has declared a 72-hour blockade from Tuesday. By the time this comes out in print, we will already be in the second day of the blockade and some more deaths-by-fire are likely to have occurred.
December 16 is being celebrated, sandwiched between a hartal on Sunday (December 15) and three days of blockades after (December 17 to December 19). One day to celebrate, and the siege begins again!
I live in what is probably the centre of Bangladesh, certainly the centre of Dhaka, five minutes from Aparajeyo from where, arguably, the initial impetus of the movement for the liberation of Bangladesh was initiated and then engulfed the entire nation of Bangalis, seven minutes from Suhrawardy Udyan where General Niazi and his defeated Pakistani army surrendered unconditionally to the freedom fighters and the Indian army 42 years back, ten minutes from the Shaheed Minar and Bangla Academy, Ganajagaran Mancha, and other important places around the DU campus. All roads lead to the campus, for this is where you descend to show your patriotism.
While I walked around the campus late at night on the 15th, and several times throughout the day on December 16, I thought of those days 42 years ago when I was a third-year university student. I clearly remember the euphoria of the day when Dhaka was liberated and a freedom-fighter friend of mine walked into our house in Dhanmondi, an LMG dangling from his shoulder.
I have never felt that kind joyousness again. I do remember feeling very elated the day Ershad fell from power twenty years later. Now Er-shad is back in the game of thrones, and shamefully for us, Jamaat has never been away from it.
I remember how later in the afternoon of December 16, 1971, a friend and I stood by the road outside Hotel Intercontinental (now Ruposhi) and watched long straggling lines of defeated Pakistani soldiers, their heads (and guns) hung low, humiliation writ large on their faces, walking slowly towards Race Course to surrender their arms and acknowledge defeat. That was an unforgettable sight and a moment of joy never again to be relived! Now I wonder what we have done with that victory.
Nevertheless, there was joyousness in the campus this December 16. Thousands of men and women, mostly young, milled around the campus, dressed in various shades of red and green, holding flags of different sizes. Loudspeakers blared patriotic songs and speeches throughout the day. This, perhaps, was the irrepressible optimism of youth, snatching a day of freedom from the endless claustrophobia of hartals and blockades, hoping something somehow will turn up.
This year, the national parade, a sacrosanct ritual, was cancelled for security reasons, while smaller celebrations, discussions, and semi-nars were held throughout the day. Important business people, normally in cahoots with this government or that, actually stepped down from their SUVs and came out in thousands the day before, waving their own white flags to protest the intransigence of both the political parties.
When the government (or the opposition) does not even care about appeasing business people, how much does it care about the peo-ple? When millions of dollars are lost every day in different business sectors, business people suffer, the nation suffers, and the man or woman at the back of the bus suffers even more.
For me, there was little joyousness as the nation celebrated its 42nd Victory Day. There were celebrations everywhere, but the mood was not celebratory. For me, not all the brilliance of fireworks or the noise and bluster of speeches and songs could drown the dying cries of Masuma.