On December 14, 1971 -- 53 years ago -- leading intellectuals, physicians, journalists, and academics were taken from their homes by the Pakistani army, with active collaboration from their local henchmen, the "Al Badrs." They were subjected to torture and extermination. Did the murderers knock? Perhaps they did, sending a chilling message not only to the intended victims but also to the neighbours who witnessed the horrors unfold.
I recall a conversation with one of my teachers, Syed Ali Naqi, who was a neighbour of one of the victims. Years later, as a final-year student, Professor Naqi recounted the events of that deadly night to me. It turned out to be a case of mistaken identity. The assassins had come to pick up Maniruzzaman Mia, a political activist in the Geography Department. But by mistake, they took a namesake -- another professor, who taught statistics and had no known political affiliations.
My days as an undergraduate at Dhaka University are filled with many such conversations with people who were part of the history of Bangladesh. I, too, had a front-row seat to history. I entered Dhaka University as a freshman in late 1969. I distinctly remember Professor GC Dev, a philosopher known for his white dhuti and panjabi, his white moustache, and dishevelled hair, which gave him the unmistakable look of a philosopher.
I had come to Dhaka from Bagerhat for higher education. Growing up in a family of educated parents, I was familiar with philosophy and could name some prominent philosophers. The first time I encountered the term "philosopher" was while bathing in a pond near our Basabati house. Nimay, the son of a washerman and a sort of friend, was also in the pond. When I asked him how the water felt, I meant the temperature. He replied, "the water is wet." I protested, saying water itself can’t be wet -- it only makes something else wet when it comes into contact with it. A gentleman nearby overheard and said to Nimay, "you can’t argue with this boy -- he’s a philosopher."
Philosopher or not, the horrific atrocities, genocide, and cruelties committed by the Pakistani occupation forces and their collaborators left an indelible mark on my mind. Although my subsidiary subjects were English and political science, I attended Professor Munier Chowdhury’s Bengali class in a large lecture hall, Room 1056 (I think), on the ground floor of the Arts Faculty. What an extraordinary teacher he was. The classroom was usually quiet, except for the occasional burst of laughter following his humorous remarks, which shattered the otherwise silent atmosphere.
Professor GC Dev was an early victim of the genocide on March 25, 1971. But on December 14, many other intellectuals, including Professor Munier Chowdhury, were brutally murdered. One of the victims was Fazle Rubbee. His younger brother, Fazle Selim, was one of my closest friends during university. Fazle Rubbee was a role model to his siblings -- a brilliant cardiologist who taught at Dhaka Medical College. Tragically, the murderers took his heart, symbolizing the senseless brutality of their actions. Fazle and his family were devastated by the loss of a loving brother, while the nation lost a brilliant heart specialist.
I remember my friend Bhutto, whose full name was Zulfiqar Ali, expressing his anger on December 14, 1972, in the corridor of the Arts Faculty. He said, "What is the meaning of this 'Shahid Buddijibi Dibosh' (Intellectual Martyrs' Day) when we cannot even bring the perpetrators of these heinous crimes to justice?" In late 1972, 93,000 Pakistani prisoners of war were still in India, and the following year, the Delhi Accord allowed the repatriation of tens of thousands of Bangladeshis stranded in Pakistan, in exchange for the release of the Pakistani POWs.
Bhutto was a freedom fighter, and I could understand his anguish. I also came to know Professor Stock, a dignified elderly lady, when I offered to carry her bag on my way to SM Hall from the Arts Faculty. Later, I met her again at her flat. I met a professor from England at my relative Waziur Rahman’s apartment who had come to Dhaka to collect information about the Liberation War and wanted to meet a freedom fighter. I immediately thought of Bhutto, who was fluent in English, as the ideal person for this conversation. Bhutto, Fazle, and I often conversed in English at Pedro’s teashop. I admired Yameen Chowdhury, a physics student and the son of a former Air Force officer, and Bhason, the son of Professor Munier Chowdhury, for their eloquence in English. Both were regulars at the teashop.
I accompanied Bhutto to Stock’s apartment on Fuller Road, where the professor from England was lodging. I witnessed the conversation between the visitor and Bhutto. Later, I learned that the visitor, a former professor, was a World War II veteran. Bhutto had trained in the Second War Course. The conversation was lively, and the professor gained a unique insider's perspective on the Liberation War.
Life in the post-independence days was chaotic, but never shallow. The loss of our teachers and intellectuals made us introspective and philosophical. We no longer saw history as a mere narrative; it became a matter of reckoning -- an enduring memory of the price we paid for our freedom.
Habibul Haque Khondker is a sociologist and columnist.
