Nation as narration, says one author, but nation is memory too. One can weave narratives, change them as per the contingencies of time and space, but certain truths remain recalcitrant, unbending.
Bangabandhu is not just a narrative, nor a memory. He is a living memory who inspired a nation and will continue to do so as long as Bangladesh lives, which is forever. Nations do not die, governments do, even states do under certain historical junctures.
Burning the Bangabandhu House, the iconic house of the founding leader of the nation, demolishing and desecrating the images of the Father of the nation will not end the love and respect of the nation for the leader whose clarion call moved a nation to act and fight for their liberation.
Demolishing a museum, a national treasure, shows a certain kind of sickness, a pathology of mind created by systematic campaigns of lies and carefully concocted falsehoods.
The inability of the authorities to prevent such a desecration, a national shame, will never be excused by history. One can try to “understand” that in a state of lawlessness coupled by “post-revolutionary” fervour terrible things happen. But there is always a “post-revolutionary” moment, when the authorities want and must try to calm down the revolutionaries lest allow them to be devoured by the revolution, to paraphrase a quote attributed to Georges Danton.
Responsible leaders and people have a moral duty to educate and take responsibility even in difficult times. Populism is going with the flow or the visible part of the flow. Leadership is not doing what is popular, but what is right. Leadership is not just seeing what is immediate but taking a longer horizon beyond the immediacy. How would one justify doing nothing, or allowing such a national tragedy to take place? Remaining indifferent, looking the other way, “seeing no evil, hearing no evil” are the tricks that do not work in the long run.
August 15, 2024 is different from the past. During the military rule imposed following August 15, 1975, the people of Bangladesh were silenced for a period of time, but not for long. One may ask, what do you mean by people? Did everyone in Bangladesh support the heinous crime, murder of the father of the nation, and his entire family? Is silence a proof of acquiescence or acceptance?
Silence can also be a form of resistance.
The memories of August 1975 are deeply etched in my memory. Many but not all were silent. I saw a vocal celebration of a handful of “Biharis” in Mohammadpur who were jubilant on Tajmahal Road chanting slogans in English (not in Urdu or in Bengali): “Sheikh Mujib is dead.” Their jubilance had a reason.
They were not celebrating the death of Mujib, they were celebrating the death of Bangladesh for they identified Mujib with Bangladesh. The small group -- 5 or 6 -- as far as I can recall, thought that Mujib was not just a person but an icon, a personification of the nation whose death equates with the death of the nation known as Bangladesh.
The post-1975 events, at least the immediate aftermath, proved them right. Bangabandhu was put in the deep freezer. Even the mention of Bangabandhu was prohibited in the national television and radio.
I remember an incident -- not the exact year -- when a Bangladesh TV producer was sharing his anxiety with me over an incident when a guest in a live televised show to celebrate the birthday of Hussein Suhrawardy mentioned Sheikh Mujibur Rahman as Bangabandhu.
Now who was the guest? Was he a “foolish,” “blind” follower of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman? The guest was no other than Kamal Hossain, the first law minister of Bangladesh and the chair of the Constitution drafting committee -- in other words, the father of Bangladesh’s Constitution, a part of Bangladesh’s history.
I had the privilege of escorting Kamal Hossain to a dinner hosted by a Bangladeshi professor in Singapore. As I picked him up from his hotel, I briefed him that the host is an anti-Mujib element, so we must be diplomatic. Kamal Hossain retorted with a why; saying we should be more emphatic removing the misunderstanding of people.
Some years later, when I visited the Bailey Road house of Kamal Hossain, by then he had fallen out of favour and virtually ostracized by then ruling Awami League, I saw the wall of his entrance bedecked with the portrait of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman.
This is the same portrait I saw in the 1980s when Bangladesh was ruled by the military-backed governments or under military rule. Bangabandhu’s portrait or his spirit never left the world of Kamal Hossain.
A lecturer of history of Dhaka University, my friend HS Farooqi, who was my friend in the 1970s at Dhaka University, was a critic of many policies of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman during his tenure as prime minister. Sometimes, I found his criticisms too harsh. As a historian, Farooqi had a longer timeframe of history, and I too knew that no political leader is above criticism. And in a liberal democracy, criticisms (not cynicisms) are part of the rules of the game.
Soon after the coup of 1975, a mass removal of Bangabandhu’s portraits took place at Dhaka University. The professors and officials followed William Shakespeare’s wisdom: “Discretion is the better part of valour.”
Then, I visited Farooqi’s office at Dhaka University. I noticed the portrait of Bangabandhu hanging on the wall of his office. As I stared at the portrait, Farooqi pre-empted my question by his reply: he said, “I am a historian.”
By removing a portrait one cannot erase history.
Habibul Haque Khondker is a sociologist and a columnist.