There is no memory, however intense, that does not fade. I read this a long time back in a book whose title I have forgotten, whose story I don’t remember, but interestingly, these lines I still remember, and they resurface now, as I struggle to remember that night of March 25, 1971, 44 years back.
Some memories do linger, and it is important, even if ritually, to dredge these memories from time to time and pass them on to succeeding generations. I remember the night of March 25, 1971, when the genocide against Bangalis began when we dared to dream of a separate nation. When the gunfire started before midnight we sat huddled in the dark, in the large drawing room of our house in Dhanmondi, and we sat all night, more than a dozen family members, as machine guns crackled throughout the night.
This was the worst night in the living memory of over seven crore Bangalis. The next morning thousands lay dead throughout the city and in the outskirts. The Bangali nation was born that very night, although it took us nine months to achieve complete liberation of the nation. I cannot ever imagine these memories to fade.
The next morning I remember seeing the dead body of the Imam of Baitul Mamur Mosque on the corner of Mirpur Road and New Elephant Road. It lay sprawled inside his small bamboo-hut opposite the Science Laboratory.
He was shot down by a sharp-shooting Pakistani soldier just as he opened the door to wash himself before Fazr prayers. I remember him because I had my first (and last) Arabic lessonsat the hands of this Imam.
Later I remember, when the curfew was lifted, I walked to Iqbal Hall (now Sgt Zahurul Haq Hall) and saw about a dozen bodies of dead students laid out in rows on the grass. I heard there were more dead students in Jagannath Hall. My teacher Dr Jyotirmoy Guhathakurta had been dragged out of his university flat, shot, and left dying a pool of blood. Later he died in the hospital.
These memories and many more, and the memories of thousands of other Bangalis have now become part of the collective memory of the nation. It is imperative to hold onto these memories, if only to understand how far we have deviated from our original dream of building a nation free from communal violence, a nation based on principles of democracy, justice, and freedom.
I had one small private dream in those days besides the larger dream of nationhood. As a third-year university student during the nine-months after the crackdown I had a few options open: To take up arms and join war that began almost immediately; to escape to a village or go to India (some actually went to Pakistan); or to stay put in Dhaka, not knowing how long the land now free only in our dreams would really be free of occupying Pakistani forces. I stayed put.
I remember reading Dr Zhivago, and reading about Zhivago reading a book in a park, a free man in a free land. My small private dream was to read a book in a park as soon as Bangladesh became a free nation. Nine months later I was able to realise my dream.
Now, 44 years after independence,in March 2015, we feel imprisoned within our own free nation. Continuous hartals and oborodhs by one party and its affiliates have attempted to paralyse our national life, close down schools, colleges, and universities, forced postponement of SSC exams and hundreds of other exams, shut down mills and factories, hampered inter-district movement of trucks and buses, and disrupted normal life in a way that defies rationality. It is absurd to dream of reading a book in a park when the thought of petrol bombs being hurled at you is constantly there at the back of your mind. All this is done in the name of democracy.
We all know what the problems are -- thanks to endless talk shows and op-eds -- but we just don’t seem to know what the way out is. When Professor Rehman Sobhan, generally an optimist and one who usually comes up with a solution to every political crisis, did not see any light at the end of the tunnel (in a Long form piece he wrote for this paper), my own generally cynic nature was only reinforced.
Now, a different kind of darkness envelops us, a darkness bred of intolerance, greed, violence and bigotry. Instead of a common dream of nation-building, we are driven by personal dreams of self-glory, self-aggrandisement, and visions of vast and lasting power.
But we must keep hoping that something will surely turn up. The tigers have started roaring and nobody gives a damn about hartals anymore.
