In this exclusive, expansive interview, Rezwan Hussain talks to Julian Francis, OBE, about his remarkable life and career
COLLECTED
Rezwan Hussain
Publish : 28 Dec 2021, 12:29 AMUpdate : 28 Dec 2021, 12:29 AM
What first brought you to this part of the world?
I first came as a volunteer, to Bihar, in 1968. There had been a severe famine there in 1966/67, and Oxfam had run a big relief program. Afterwards, they placed technically trained volunteers from Britain in four Gandhian ashrams in Bihar, which had been involved in the relief work. I was sent to the Samanvaya Ashram in Bodh Gaya, the very place where Buddha is said to have attained Enlightenment.
I had studied animal husbandry and general agriculture in college, and the plan was to do some agricultural development work in the villages. But I also had personal reasons for going to India. My mother had an uncle who worked in Burma, so she had spent some time there, in the 1930s, when it was still under British rule.
The visit left a lasting impression on her. One day, in 1966, I was chatting with her as she lay in her hospital bed. She was fighting cancer, and it was quite advanced. She asked me what I planned to do after graduation. Had I thought of spending a couple of years in India as a volunteer? That turned out to be the last time I ever spoke with my mother. She passed away the next morning. So going to India became a lot more meaningful.
So you had ties to India?
Longstanding ties. My great uncle spent 30 years in Assam and Burma, doing business before the Second World War broke out. My mother’s family had a history of missionaries and priests. My mother’s great, great uncle, Henry James Matthew, served as a priest in a series of military barracks, in Delhi, Allahabad, Calcutta, and Simla, in the 1870s, eventually becoming the Bishop of Lahore.
What were your first impressions of India?
The heat! Gaya at that time was considered the hottest place in India. I had to learn, quickly, how to function in that environment. What to wear, what to eat, the rhythm of daily life, how to assimilate and interact with locals.
So, contrary to advise, I lived in a mud hut in the village for the first few months. They built the hut a little taller to accommodate me and added an attached latrine. I used a hand pump for water, and showered with a bucket and a lungi, just like everyone else. The villagers taught me the best foods and fruit to eat during the heat, what sorts of clothes to wear. The only luxury items I had were a battery-powered torch and a transistor radio. That must have made an impression, however, because one day the village headman brought home a radio, for the entire community.
What are your memories of Bihar?
There are so many! I remember one day sitting at the main Buddhist temple in Bodh Gaya, feeling very despondent. I felt that I was having no impact on the lives of the villagers. One of the monks saw me and walked over. You have good ideas, he said, but have you ever asked the villagers what they want? I hadn’t. No one did. Members of the untouchable castes were regarded as uneducated; no one listened to them. They spent their lives being bullied and shouted at. So I went to the ashram leader, a follower of Vinoba Bhave, and asked him if we could call everyone to a village meeting. At the meeting, we were told that nothing could be done until their local village shrine had been repaired. Nothing would work until it was fixed. The shrine was very small, and so we spent only 500 rupees to have it repaired. We had a little ceremony and a blessing. Then all of a sudden, people started paying more attention!
That must have been an eye-opening experience.
Yes, it was. I had no idea this little object on the ground was a major obstacle to my efforts to improve animal husbandry. When you come from another culture, you may have no idea how local people actually think.
Another time, we were digging wells, and our civil engineer had an idea: Wedge shaped bricks would fit snugly, and you wouldn’t need to use any mortar. The wells could be bigger. We thought this was a great idea. But a few days later, when we came back to check, the work had stopped. The landowner was in charge of the workers building the well, and he didn’t think it was a great idea at all. We were puzzled. Why not build a bigger well, if there was a choice? Because, he explained to me, if I have an argument with my wife, it’s going to be easier for her to throw herself down the well if it’s bigger. I was speechless.
Sometimes it’s mentality and beliefs; at other times its just habits that present obstacles. A cow will make more milk if water is available when they want it. But it was a struggle to get villagers to keep a bowl of water next to the cows. As far as they were concerned, cows drink water when they are brought to the water. Why? Because that was the way it had always been!
Were you in Bihar when the Liberation War broke out?
Yes. Oxfam’s office in Ranchi in Bihar, which then covered Eastern India and East Pakistan, received news of thousands of refugees coming across the border. In April 1971, it was clear there was a huge refugee crisis in West Bengal, so Oxfam asked me to go to Calcutta and assist relief operations. So I got in one of the Oxfam famine relief jeeps, and drove down from Bihar to Calcutta.
We set up an office in a hotel on Little Russell Street. The hotel had three phone lines, which was very useful, and it was minutes away from a 24-hour telegram office, a Grindlays Bank branch, and a Catholic Relief Services office, that had a telex machine we could use.
Most of the other foreign aid organizations were flying in foreign personnel, but we consulted our Gandhian friends and decided that more expats were not required. This proved to be a very good decision as, shortly afterwards, the Indian government prohibited foreigners from going to the border areas. We hired young Bengalis as staff. Many of them were former pupils of St Placid’s school in Chittagong. They had learned that their former principal, Raymond Cournoyer, was with Oxfam in Calcutta to help the refugees. They didn’t have any contact information for him; they just turned up in Calcutta, to look for him!
Raymond Cournoyer must have been a charismatic figure to inspire such loyalty.
Yes, he was. Raymond Bhai, as everyone called him, was a French Canadian, Catholic Brother of the Holy Cross Order. He had taught in various schools in East Pakistan from 1958 to 1965, before joining Oxfam. By the time the refugee crisis erupted, Raymond was responsible for all Oxfam operations in Eastern India and East Pakistan, out of the Bihar regional office. It was Raymond who sent me down to Calcutta to help set up the relief operations. Oxfam’s head office protested that I might be too young, but Raymond Bhai insisted.
When Oxfam head office wanted to fly in more expats from the UK, the better to generate publicity and donations, it was Raymond who led the resistance. He told them we could manage without. Personnel who couldn’t speak the language were simply not that useful. One of Raymond’s former pupils that we hired was Uday Sankar Das, who went on to have a successful career in journalism.
What are some of your memories from the refugee camps?
November 1971 sticks out in my mind. That was when the two sides started shelling each other, across the border. The refugees were very close to the border, so it became dangerous for them. Hundreds might have been killed in the shelling. Not that the Pakistan military command cared, of course.
I remember once I was talking to the officer commanding in a huge tented compound, near Hili, in West Dinajpur, when there was an explosion nearby. Nobody batted an eyelid. But after the meeting, I realized the jeep I was sitting in just a short while ago had taken a direct hit!
The Indian military decided to move the camps farther away from the border. That was partly for safety, and partly because they wanted to lay landmines along the border. So the camps were moved.
The official arrangement was that the Indian government provide shelter and basic food rations. All else was to be provided by aid agencies. However, unofficially, the Indian army medical corps tended to the refugees near that particular border, and Oxfam sometimes provided basic health care for Indian soldiers.
And sometimes, the donations may not be what is really what is needed. Did that happen in the refugee camps?
Oh yes! I remember somebody in Britain had donated an experimental amphibious vehicle. Made of fibreglass, with balloon wheels, which doubled as paddles. It had a little trailer, which floated, and it could carry 250 kilograms, apparently. It was named the “Amphicat.” I don’t remember it lasting very long.
We would also receive unsolicited donations of clothing that were simply not useful. One day, we took delivery of hundreds of ladies’ shoes with long, stiletto heels! Absolutely useless in this part of the world. But it turned out that the heels were valuable. Made of titanium, or something like that. So we broke all the heels off and sold them! We made quite a bit of money from those heels.
Another time, we got a shipment of women’s brassieres. Again, not wanted at all. I was so angry, I snapped one into two pieces. After I did that, we discovered that the individual cups, which had metal wire frames in those days, made excellent rice scoops! So the bras turned out to be useful in the kitchen, at least.
How did people react to this problem?
Everyone was aware of the problem of donations not matching needs, but it was difficult to do anything about it. I remember one extraordinary meeting in the middle of December, just before Victory Day, where Tajuddin and the other members of the government-in-exile called the aid organizations in and said there were going to be changes in how the aid organizations could operate in liberated Bangladesh.
But it’s always difficult to tackle this issue. I remember in January, 1972, the head of the UN mission in Bangladesh tearing his hair out. They were inundated with blankets, when what they really needed was food.
How did you get along with Tajuddin?
Very well. He was a charming man. I first tried to get a meeting with him after we received 50 tons of protein supplements from Canada. Dehydrated mashed potato, fortified with vitamins, minerals, and milk powder, to be mixed with other food. A good idea, but it was too sophisticated for us; we didn’t really know what to do with it.
Tajuddin’s office in Theatre Road was close to our Oxfam office. I arrived as arranged, but he had been called away to an important meeting with some officials from the government of India. The next day, I received a beautiful handwritten note from him, apologizing for missing our meeting. I understand, he said, you walk home quite late at night to your apartment in Auckland Square. Please drop by for a cup of tea when convenient.
Tajuddin had met with some of the doctors and medical students in the camps. He had learned that they could address the medical issues, but that they were struggling to help the refugees deal with depression. The medical people had suggested that music might help, and Tajuddin had agreed. So now he had a proposal for us. Could Oxfam help to procure musical instruments for the camps?
I also thought this was a good idea. So we bought harmoniums and tablas, hundreds of them, and distributed them. Since the camp inhabitants dreamt of returning home, they sang songs about the beauty of their homeland. The songs in turn helped them to visualize going home. It lifted their spirits.
I entered the cost of the musical instruments into the books as “medical supplies.” The Oxfam accountants back in Oxford wanted to know what the heck was going on! So I obtained letters of appreciation from the medical staff in the camps, verifying that music had actually lowered the costs of caring for the refugees, by helping them better cope with the trauma they had suffered.
Speaking of doctors in the camps, Jon Rohde, the American physician, was working at the Cholera Research Laboratory, now known as icddr, b, at the time. Were their medical interventions useful in the refugee camps?
Very much so. Orsaline had recently been developed, but not yet put to widespread use. So Jon’s colleagues did trials of the solution at the camps. They found that 30% of the inhabitants in one camp had diarrhoea. In another camp, where they distributed and prescribed Orsaline, the incidence of diarrhoea dropped to 3%. One tenth as much. So it was immensely beneficial.
Jon himself was not in the camps initially; he and his wife Candy were evacuated from Bangladesh in early April 1971. I believe they were on a list of people that the Pakistan military wanted to apprehend. Jon and Candy had given refuge to some leading Bangladeshis in their Gulshan bungalow. More importantly, they had driven around Dhaka after the military crackdown, taking photographs of the death and destruction in Old Town and at Dhaka University. The regime wanted their hands on those photographs.
Did you get visitors to the camps?
Oh, yes. We had a number of visits from British and European MP’s and American Congressmen. One memorable visit was that of Richard Wood, who was the British Minister for Overseas Development at the time. A big man, probably in his fifties. He didn’t have a noticeable infirmity, but he did walk stiffly, and he carried a walking stick.
As we traipsed through a muddy camp, we noticed Wood wasn’t wearing rubber boots. The Indian government officials became increasingly concerned. Were the Minister’s feet not uncomfortably wet? Finally, Wood laughed and banged his stick against his leg. A metallic clang rang out. “Don’t worry old chap,” he said, “I don’t feel a thing.” During military action in the Middle East in the Second World War, he had lost both his legs.
Another time, I remember we were invited for drinks at the American Consulate to meet delegates from Washington. It was on Harrington Street, near the British Consulate. In the middle of the reception, one of the Americans collapsed. He was rushed to the hospital, where he was diagnosed with malnourishment. Apparently, he was terrified of getting sick from the food in Calcutta, and had been living on nothing but imported Coca Cola since landing in India!
At the time, some wondered whether Bangladesh was headed for a long-drawn out war of insurgency, similar to Vietnam. What did you think?
To many of us, it was obvious that the Mukti Bahini was going to triumph, and that it wouldn’t take long to do so. No more than a year. The Indians were arming, training, and supporting all the Mukti forces, right around the border. Meanwhile, the Pakistan military supply lines were a thousand miles away. The whole situation was a losing proposition for the Pakistanis. Even if the Indians had not got involved, I believe Bangladesh would still have become a reality. It might have taken a little longer, that’s all. Many thought the same way.
It’s easy to forget that once the fighting ended, hundreds of thousands of people had to be repatriated.
Yes, this was not a trivial task. The return of the refugees to Bangladesh had to be carefully organized, as orderly as possible. Because if you allowed a hundred thousand people to cross at once, you would have dangerous bottlenecks. Initially, the Indian army controlled the ferry crossings, in a low-key manner.
Oxfam’s partners were at the Benapole border, handing out blankets and food. I remember Hindu groups made packets of sweets to hand to Muslims; it was going to be Eid at the end of January 1972. There were a few Christians in the camps, and at Christmas, the Hindus and Muslims made a point of bringing something for them, also.
A wonderful gesture. How did Muslims and Hindus get along in the camps?
Very well. We never heard of any issues between them. Muslims were about thirty to forty percent of the camp population, and they typically lived in their own area of the camp, but there was no conflict between religious groups. Any problems that emerged were between the local population and the refugees. Don’t forget, most local Indians were poor also. And they watched as another group of poor people received free food and medical care, while they did not. This inevitably created some resentment.
Today, the tables have turned somewhat, and it is Bangladesh that is hosting refugees, from Myanmar. Have you noticed any interesting similarities or differences between the two refugee crises?
The number of expats! I believe there were up to 2,000 expats in Cox’s Bazar, working with the Rohingya, before the pandemic intervened in early 2020. A great waste of money. In the refugee camps in 1971, Oxfam managed a program for 600,000 refugees with only two or three foreigners! When I asked a senior Oxfam staffer not long ago why so many expats were turning up this time around, he said the donors insisted on it “because of the corruption.”
This, in my opinion, was a ridiculous comment.
After the Liberation War ended, did you meet Bangabandhu, Sheikh Mujib?
Yes, I did. It was in the last week of January, 1972. Tajuddin took me to visit Sheikh Mujib, on a courtesy call. There were hundreds of people milling around, most there just to receive his blessing. I didn’t expect to spend more than a few minutes with him, but he had obviously been briefed about Oxfam by Tajuddin. I asked him what Oxfam could do about the big problems faced by Bangladesh. He replied that I knew more about what needed to be done than he did. You drove here from Calcutta, he said, so what did you see?
I said I saw hundreds of villages burned out, homes destroyed, bridges and culverts blown up. Boats sunk in the river. I said we can help with housing, and that we had already spent a quarter of a million pounds to purchase corrugated iron sheeting from Hindustan Steel, for a CARE Bangladesh housing program. Ferries and bridges, I suggested, were better suited for bilateral, government-to-government aid.
Sheikh Mujib shook his head vigorously. Ferries are the lifeline of my country, he insisted. If you can’t provide new ferries, please try to help repair the existing ones. He turned to his secretary and instructed him to make sure I met with the Bangladesh Inland Waterways Authority to follow up.
As I rose to leave, he stood up, and put his arm around my shoulders. He had one more question. What was it like in the refugee camps? I told him that the conditions, particularly for women and children, were terrible. He nodded, and then thanked me very much for what I was doing for Bangladesh, and for coming to see him that day.
What did you do after the Liberation War ended?
After my short visit to Bangladesh, I was back in Calcutta to gradually close down Oxfam’s refugee relief program. Some people who had been running a 480-bed bamboo hospital to treat the wounded needed medical supplies, and so they “raided” our medical store in Calcutta. Later on the NGO, Gonoshasthaya Kendra, which Oxfam supported for a few years, was set up. It trained young women to be “barefoot midwives,” who rode on bicycles to tend to expecting mothers in villages.
This support was, to a large extent, due to Raymond, who was appointed Country Director of the new Oxfam office in Bangladesh. He was the obvious choice, and he had accepted the job, but on one condition. Send relief supplies to Caritas or Mother Teresa’s sisters, he told head office, not to me. I want to use Oxfam funds to support young Bangladeshis with vision, he said.
The other early beneficiary of this philosophy was a new NGO called BRAC. In February 1972, I handed over 300,000 rupees to its young founder, Fazle Hasan Abed, for village rehabilitation work in Sylhet.
Cyclone Bhola in 1970 played a large part in the origins of BRAC, did it not?
Yes, it did. Abed got involved with the cyclone relief operations started by some American expats and their Bengali friends in Dhaka, and that eventually inspired him to create BRAC. The expats that he met in 1970 during the cyclone relief work were a very well-informed and dedicated group of individuals, including Jon and Candy Rohde, Lincoln and Marty Chen, Richard Cash, among others. Abed sometimes turned to this “brain trust” for advice and consultation. They stayed involved with BRAC for many years.
How did Sir Fazle Abed fare during the War?
He had a narrow escape! Abed had returned from England in 1969, after 15 years in England, to work with Shell Oil. By the time war broke out, he had already been promoted twice. But after the military crackdown, he was transferred to Dhaka, where he was given his new assignment: Manage the fuel supply for the occupying Pakistan army. He realized he had to get out of there.
He took a flight to Karachi, ostensibly to visit friends. He went on to Islamabad where the authorities there got wind that something was up. They raided his hotel room, and took him in for questioning. Why had a Bengali from Dhaka suddenly turned up in West Pakistan? “To see friends,” he told them, and pulled out his return ticket. “If I am ordered to return to Dacca at once, I will,” he added. Of course, he had no such intention. As soon as they left, he took a bus across the border to Kabul, Afghanistan, and hopped on the next flight to London.
The return ticket was a good idea!
Yes, that probably saved him. That and his British passport, which doubtless gave the Pakistan security forces some pause, before taking him in or harming him in any way.
What, in your opinion, made him so successful in building BRAC?
Abed was a very attentive listener. He actually listened to the people that he wanted to help. Most don’t do that. But he did. He talked directly with villagers. There are recordings of him in the villages speaking to farmers.
In those days, few listened to farmers. They’re illiterate, so what do they know? Quite a lot, actually. They have indigenous knowledge. They know what grows in each area. They know about the medicinal qualities of plants. About 25 years ago, farmers in Sirajganj were telling us that the river was rising a couple of days earlier each year, because the snow in the Himalayas was melting a bit earlier each year. They knew what was happening with respect to global warming and climate change long before anyone else.
The other thing about Abed was that he was always looking to learn. He wasn’t interested in the good news; he wanted to learn from mistakes, things that were overlooked. That was unusual, at the time. So he would always ask me: What can we do better? So I would tell him. I don’t see many women in the program, I might say, or I don’t see any children with disabilities in the BRAC schools. And within a week, BRAC staff would be following up. Now, it’s commonplace for service providers to monitor and evaluate the impact of their projects. Abed and BRAC were doing that from the very beginning.
And one other smart thing that Abed did was to keep BRAC out of politics, as much as possible. A lot of other NGOs didn’t do that, especially in the 1980s. Even the umbrella organization, the Association for Development Agencies (ADAB), got caught up in the political situation. By the late 1980s, it had become a downright hostile environment, with acts of violence, even murder plots. At one time, Raymond Bhai and I were engaged in shuttle diplomacy, passing messages between NGO leaders, pleading with them not to resort to violence.
This state of affairs surely didn’t help the NGO sector?
Not at all. It hurt the image of NGOs as a whole in this country. But by staying out of it, BRAC emerged with its reputation intact, and in an even stronger position.
You spent most of the 1970’s in Oxfam’s office in Delhi. What are some memories from those years?
One memorable incident was the visit to India, in 1978, by Prince Charles and his great-uncle, Earl Mountbatten, who had been the last Viceroy of India. Indira Gandhi was out of office at that time, but she made a point to show up at the reception in Delhi. The British High Commission was worried she planned to confront the prime minister, Morarji Desai, her bitter political rival, and cause a scene. So they sent a first secretary to ask if I could intercept Gandhi before she could get to him.
I positioned myself in her path as she entered the reception room, and started chatting. As I talked, she kept looking over my shoulder, presumably to get a bead on Desai. It was only when I mentioned the 1971 War and the refugees that she suddenly switched her focus back to me. She was very interested to hear about that. Anyway, the evening went off without incident, so I suppose I played my part as a roving political operative!
You returned to Bangladesh in 1985. What was the main focus of your work at that time?
I returned here full time to run the South Asia operations for Canadian University Service Overseas, CUSO. This was essentially the Canadian version of the American Peace Corps, except CUSO also received government grants with which to fund projects. They were mainly managing projects when I got here.
Much of my work involved flood and cyclone relief and rehabilitation, more so after the 1988 floods and the 1991 cyclone. But advocating for the disabled was a particular focus of mine. Donor agencies had turned away from projects for the disabled in the 1970s to focus on “development,” and I became increasingly concerned about it. So by the end of the 1980s, I was banging the drum about disability every chance I got. Ten percent of the Bangladesh population had a disability, I would tell donors, so why don’t you allocate funds accordingly?
I helped write the first national policy for disability and was involved in drafting legislation regarding the disabled. It was finally enacted, more than a decade later, in 2001. I also realized that the various organizations that were working on different disability issues needed to coordinate better, so I assisted in the setting up of the National Forum of Organizations Working with the Disabled (NFOWD).
Disability has always been important to me, given my own personal circumstances. My older brother was born with Down Syndrome, and our elder son, Neil, who is now 46, has a severe learning disability.
My late wife, Sushmita, whom I married in Calcutta soon after the Liberation War, was a clinical psychologist, and we searched high and low for ways to help with Neil’s development. Our younger son, Rohin, is a cardiologist in London. I remember Raymond came to Calcutta for our wedding. He warned Sushmita, with a big smile on his face, that she was not just marrying me, but also Oxfam. In subsequent years, she often had cause to remember those words!
Speaking of disability, was Oxfam involved with the Centre for the Rehabilitation of the Paralyzed, CRP?
Yes, from the very beginning. CRP began with Valerie Taylor and a few Bangladeshi staffers in a small rented building in Dhanmondi. Oxfam helped her with the paperwork to eventually register CRP as a society and provided her with a guaranteed fixed amount for running costs for the first few years.
Valerie eventually moved to bigger premises in Farmgate. Later, CRP obtained a large plot of land in Savar, and the British aid program, ODA, paid for the construction of hospital buildings and running costs for some years. Begum Ershad, who had also taken an interest in Valerie's work, came to lay the foundation stone in 1990.
What Valerie and CRP have accomplished here is remarkable. They have been the driving force in establishing physical rehabilitation as part of health care for the general population in Bangladesh. Were you able to contribute in any way?
I was not involved with CRP in any formal capacity, but I would assist when and where I could. For instance, my organization was able to support the training of a number of their staff members in Indonesia.
I remember I first visited CRP in 1978. I was looking for suppliers of greeting cards for Oxfam at the time. I met one remarkably talented patient there, Madhab, who painted these wonderful watercolours of rural scenes, from memory. When I returned to Bangladesh in the 1980s, I would often go by in the evening and have dinner with Madhab, and one or two others. Valerie would still be at her desk, working late at night.
There were no trained physiotherapists in Bangladesh when Valerie first arrived here, in 1969. That, and her experiences treating the war wounded, motivated her to start CRP. 20 years later, there were still only seven trained physiotherapists in the country. Today, CRP runs degree programs for specialists for all areas of rehabilitation. Some even come from abroad to train here. The difference that she and CRP have made is astonishing.
I don’t suppose you had a great deal of spare time. But what did you do when not at work?
There used to be a theater group here, called Dhaka Stage. I took part in some of their productions. Usually not prominent parts, as I was often out of town. Two of my favorites were Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest and Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
We normally staged the productions at the American School, or at the International School, ISD. Although the first night might be a fundraiser at the Sonargaon Hotel, with the next two nights at the schools. Unfortunately, Dhaka Stage folded about 10 years ago. I also enjoyed singing carols outdoors in the American Club with our group. That brought back memories of my childhood.
You used to sing as a child?
Yes, music was an important part of my upbringing. Every morning during the school term we would sing in Westminster Abbey. The Abbey had its own choir, of course, including that of the well-known Westminster Choir School, and for special events my school choir would join them. One event I remember singing at was Princess Margaret’s wedding, in 1960.
That year was also the 400th anniversary of the founding of my school, by Queen Elizabeth I. So it was fitting that Queen Elizabeth II came to commemorate it, accompanied by Prince Phillip. Their procession was making its way slowly to the school hall, when Prince Phillip, who was a jovial, informal character, saw me standing at the side.
“What are you doing there,” he asked me. “Sir, I have to know what to do in case of an emergency, and where the fire extinguishers are,” I replied. “Where are they?” he asked. So I opened the door to a classroom to show him, and immediately somebody rushed over to pull him away! After the event, as they processed out, I was on the other side from him. So he shouted out to me: “Thank you for keeping us safe!”
I remember a boy called Peter Asher used to sit to my left in the choir stalls. He and another classmate, Gordon Waller, eventually formed a pop-singing duo, called Peter and Gordon. They had three number one hits songs on the pop charts, with music arranged by none other than Lennon and McCartney! They got connected through Peter’s sister, the film actress Jane Asher, whose boyfriend at the time happened to be Paul McCartney.
Most people today are probably not aware of Peter and Gordon.
Their musical careers didn’t last very long. Peter suffered a bit from polio as a child, and walked with some difficulty. So he and Gordon often performed sitting on high stools. This was around 1964, just as live music was becoming popular on TV, and the audience liked performers who could move and dance around and interact with the audience.
So pop stardom was never really on the cards for Peter. But he stayed in the music business, and moved to Los Angeles, where found success managing singers and artists. Gordon tried going solo for a while, before moving on to other things.
But there was another boy who joined the school choir, a few years younger than me, who did go on to have a very long career in music: Andrew Lloyd–Webber, now Baron Lloyd-Webber. I remember he was extremely self-confident and full of himself, even at that young age at school!
You distinguished yourself in other ways. You are officially designated a “Friend of Bangladesh.” Can you tell us more about this honour?
I think someone from the Awami League government came up with the idea, in the 1990s, as a way to recognize foreigners who had played some part in the independence of Bangladesh. The original idea was to have four different categories of awards, but then the whole thing was shelved. They revived the idea in 2008, but this time with only two categories: the Bangladesh Liberation Honour, for government leaders, royal family members, and such, and the Friends of Liberation War Honour, for everyone else.
They started with a list of about 600 individuals, and then whittled it down to 337. Most awards were made posthumously, and not everyone could come to receive their awards, of course. Marshal Tito’s son, for instance, received the award on behalf of his late father, and the same with a number of sons of former US Senators. A significant awardee was the late Archer K Blood, who was American Consul in Dhaka in 1971 and who had alerted the US State Department of the genocide going on at that time. His daughter, Barbara, received the award on his behalf.
Two members of the team of Russian naval divers who had cleared mines in Chittagong Harbour were present; the Russian Ambassador collected the awards on behalf of the other divers, including, obviously, the diver who lost his life in the operation.
I was in the first batch to receive the award, with about 80 others. This was late in March, 2012. After the official ceremony, there was dinner and a reception hosted by the Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina at the Sonargaon Hotel. It was very informal. I said to Sheikh Hasina: I’ve always wondered how you keep your sari in place on top of your head. She smiled and said she used a silver pin, one that once belonged to her grandmother.
Then in 2019, you received another honour, this time from the British government: the Order of the British Empire. How did that come about?
In a somewhat serendipitous manner, I think. One day, in the summer of 2018, I was invited to visit the PM, at Ganabhaban. I had been recommended for Bangladesh citizenship by someone who was close to the Prime Minister. She happened to be wrapping up a meeting with the British High Commissioner, Alison Blake, and British MP Rushanara Ali, who is of Bangladeshi origin, while I waited to be ushered in. When Sheikh Hasina learned that I was next to see her, she turned to them and said: Oh, it’s Julian! Then the two of you should stay.
So the high commissioner and the member of parliament formed an impromptu audience as I received the certificate of citizenship from Sheikh Hasina. A few months later, I got a phone call from the high commissioner. She had a question for me: Would I be willing to accept an OBE, for “services to development in Bangladesh?”
Did you go to Buckingham Palace to receive the award?
Yes, in June, 2019. Actually, you are given a choice of dates and locations for the award ceremony, and that was the one I chose. At the Palace, as I was waiting in line to be received, I heard a voice behind me that I recognized. It was Michael Palin, of Monty Python fame, who was to receive a knighthood. “And what are you here for,” he asked. So I told him. He said: “Well, at least one of us deserves to be here!”
Prince William officiated that day. He asked me how Bangladesh was doing. I replied that the country is facing challenges, such as the Rohingya refugee crisis and climate change, but that there had been some remarkable development over the years.
You have been an eye-witness to the entire history of Bangladesh to date. What are your thoughts now, as the country celebrates 50 years of independence?
I remember after the initial state of euphoria 50 years ago, reality set in quickly. Many seasoned officials were not optimistic about the new country’s future. In March 1972, Oxfam’s overseas aid director, Ken Bennett, submitted a report in which he concluded that, unless food supplies were ensured, and infrastructure rapidly improved, it was doubtful that Bangladesh could survive as a nation state.
A couple of years after Bennet’s report, thousands died of starvation, in the famine of 1974. Then came the turmoil of 1975. It certainly didn’t look good for Bangladesh in the 1970s. The pessimists appeared to be right.
But then the country turned a corner. Agricultural production went up. Investments in infrastructure picked up. The country returned to democracy in 1990. Of course, Bangladesh would have done better without the confrontational politics, and the corruption that followed. And there is now an ever-widening gap between the rich and poor, which concerns many of us.
But the progress has been remarkable. Today, starvation would simply not happen. Local communities, the public at large, would not allow it. And the development continues apace.
So I am very happy that the pessimists of 50 years ago have been proven wrong!
Julian Francis, OBE, Friend of Bangladesh, what an interesting life you have led. To echo the words of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujib all those years ago, thank you for what you have done for Bangladesh. And thank you for taking the time to tell us about your life and experiences.
It was my pleasure. As I have often said, I just happened to be in the right place (India) at the right time (1971) and my life unfolded after that.
Rezwan Hussain is a writer and researcher in Dhaka.
Julian Bhai, friend of Bangladesh
What first brought you to this part of the world?
I first came as a volunteer, to Bihar, in 1968. There had been a severe famine there in 1966/67, and Oxfam had run a big relief program. Afterwards, they placed technically trained volunteers from Britain in four Gandhian ashrams in Bihar, which had been involved in the relief work. I was sent to the Samanvaya Ashram in Bodh Gaya, the very place where Buddha is said to have attained Enlightenment.
I had studied animal husbandry and general agriculture in college, and the plan was to do some agricultural development work in the villages. But I also had personal reasons for going to India. My mother had an uncle who worked in Burma, so she had spent some time there, in the 1930s, when it was still under British rule.
The visit left a lasting impression on her. One day, in 1966, I was chatting with her as she lay in her hospital bed. She was fighting cancer, and it was quite advanced. She asked me what I planned to do after graduation. Had I thought of spending a couple of years in India as a volunteer? That turned out to be the last time I ever spoke with my mother. She passed away the next morning. So going to India became a lot more meaningful.
So you had ties to India?
Longstanding ties. My great uncle spent 30 years in Assam and Burma, doing business before the Second World War broke out. My mother’s family had a history of missionaries and priests. My mother’s great, great uncle, Henry James Matthew, served as a priest in a series of military barracks, in Delhi, Allahabad, Calcutta, and Simla, in the 1870s, eventually becoming the Bishop of Lahore.
What were your first impressions of India?
The heat! Gaya at that time was considered the hottest place in India. I had to learn, quickly, how to function in that environment. What to wear, what to eat, the rhythm of daily life, how to assimilate and interact with locals.
So, contrary to advise, I lived in a mud hut in the village for the first few months. They built the hut a little taller to accommodate me and added an attached latrine. I used a hand pump for water, and showered with a bucket and a lungi, just like everyone else. The villagers taught me the best foods and fruit to eat during the heat, what sorts of clothes to wear. The only luxury items I had were a battery-powered torch and a transistor radio. That must have made an impression, however, because one day the village headman brought home a radio, for the entire community.
What are your memories of Bihar?
There are so many! I remember one day sitting at the main Buddhist temple in Bodh Gaya, feeling very despondent. I felt that I was having no impact on the lives of the villagers. One of the monks saw me and walked over. You have good ideas, he said, but have you ever asked the villagers what they want? I hadn’t. No one did. Members of the untouchable castes were regarded as uneducated; no one listened to them. They spent their lives being bullied and shouted at. So I went to the ashram leader, a follower of Vinoba Bhave, and asked him if we could call everyone to a village meeting. At the meeting, we were told that nothing could be done until their local village shrine had been repaired. Nothing would work until it was fixed. The shrine was very small, and so we spent only 500 rupees to have it repaired. We had a little ceremony and a blessing. Then all of a sudden, people started paying more attention!
That must have been an eye-opening experience.
Yes, it was. I had no idea this little object on the ground was a major obstacle to my efforts to improve animal husbandry. When you come from another culture, you may have no idea how local people actually think.
Another time, we were digging wells, and our civil engineer had an idea: Wedge shaped bricks would fit snugly, and you wouldn’t need to use any mortar. The wells could be bigger. We thought this was a great idea. But a few days later, when we came back to check, the work had stopped. The landowner was in charge of the workers building the well, and he didn’t think it was a great idea at all. We were puzzled. Why not build a bigger well, if there was a choice? Because, he explained to me, if I have an argument with my wife, it’s going to be easier for her to throw herself down the well if it’s bigger. I was speechless.
Sometimes it’s mentality and beliefs; at other times its just habits that present obstacles. A cow will make more milk if water is available when they want it. But it was a struggle to get villagers to keep a bowl of water next to the cows. As far as they were concerned, cows drink water when they are brought to the water. Why? Because that was the way it had always been!
Were you in Bihar when the Liberation War broke out?
Yes. Oxfam’s office in Ranchi in Bihar, which then covered Eastern India and East Pakistan, received news of thousands of refugees coming across the border. In April 1971, it was clear there was a huge refugee crisis in West Bengal, so Oxfam asked me to go to Calcutta and assist relief operations. So I got in one of the Oxfam famine relief jeeps, and drove down from Bihar to Calcutta.
We set up an office in a hotel on Little Russell Street. The hotel had three phone lines, which was very useful, and it was minutes away from a 24-hour telegram office, a Grindlays Bank branch, and a Catholic Relief Services office, that had a telex machine we could use.
Most of the other foreign aid organizations were flying in foreign personnel, but we consulted our Gandhian friends and decided that more expats were not required. This proved to be a very good decision as, shortly afterwards, the Indian government prohibited foreigners from going to the border areas. We hired young Bengalis as staff. Many of them were former pupils of St Placid’s school in Chittagong. They had learned that their former principal, Raymond Cournoyer, was with Oxfam in Calcutta to help the refugees. They didn’t have any contact information for him; they just turned up in Calcutta, to look for him!
Raymond Cournoyer must have been a charismatic figure to inspire such loyalty.
Yes, he was. Raymond Bhai, as everyone called him, was a French Canadian, Catholic Brother of the Holy Cross Order. He had taught in various schools in East Pakistan from 1958 to 1965, before joining Oxfam. By the time the refugee crisis erupted, Raymond was responsible for all Oxfam operations in Eastern India and East Pakistan, out of the Bihar regional office. It was Raymond who sent me down to Calcutta to help set up the relief operations. Oxfam’s head office protested that I might be too young, but Raymond Bhai insisted.
When Oxfam head office wanted to fly in more expats from the UK, the better to generate publicity and donations, it was Raymond who led the resistance. He told them we could manage without. Personnel who couldn’t speak the language were simply not that useful. One of Raymond’s former pupils that we hired was Uday Sankar Das, who went on to have a successful career in journalism.
What are some of your memories from the refugee camps?
November 1971 sticks out in my mind. That was when the two sides started shelling each other, across the border. The refugees were very close to the border, so it became dangerous for them. Hundreds might have been killed in the shelling. Not that the Pakistan military command cared, of course.
I remember once I was talking to the officer commanding in a huge tented compound, near Hili, in West Dinajpur, when there was an explosion nearby. Nobody batted an eyelid. But after the meeting, I realized the jeep I was sitting in just a short while ago had taken a direct hit!
The Indian military decided to move the camps farther away from the border. That was partly for safety, and partly because they wanted to lay landmines along the border. So the camps were moved.
The official arrangement was that the Indian government provide shelter and basic food rations. All else was to be provided by aid agencies. However, unofficially, the Indian army medical corps tended to the refugees near that particular border, and Oxfam sometimes provided basic health care for Indian soldiers.
And sometimes, the donations may not be what is really what is needed. Did that happen in the refugee camps?
Oh yes! I remember somebody in Britain had donated an experimental amphibious vehicle. Made of fibreglass, with balloon wheels, which doubled as paddles. It had a little trailer, which floated, and it could carry 250 kilograms, apparently. It was named the “Amphicat.” I don’t remember it lasting very long.
We would also receive unsolicited donations of clothing that were simply not useful. One day, we took delivery of hundreds of ladies’ shoes with long, stiletto heels! Absolutely useless in this part of the world. But it turned out that the heels were valuable. Made of titanium, or something like that. So we broke all the heels off and sold them! We made quite a bit of money from those heels.
Another time, we got a shipment of women’s brassieres. Again, not wanted at all. I was so angry, I snapped one into two pieces. After I did that, we discovered that the individual cups, which had metal wire frames in those days, made excellent rice scoops! So the bras turned out to be useful in the kitchen, at least.
How did people react to this problem?
Everyone was aware of the problem of donations not matching needs, but it was difficult to do anything about it. I remember one extraordinary meeting in the middle of December, just before Victory Day, where Tajuddin and the other members of the government-in-exile called the aid organizations in and said there were going to be changes in how the aid organizations could operate in liberated Bangladesh.
But it’s always difficult to tackle this issue. I remember in January, 1972, the head of the UN mission in Bangladesh tearing his hair out. They were inundated with blankets, when what they really needed was food.
How did you get along with Tajuddin?
Very well. He was a charming man. I first tried to get a meeting with him after we received 50 tons of protein supplements from Canada. Dehydrated mashed potato, fortified with vitamins, minerals, and milk powder, to be mixed with other food. A good idea, but it was too sophisticated for us; we didn’t really know what to do with it.
Tajuddin’s office in Theatre Road was close to our Oxfam office. I arrived as arranged, but he had been called away to an important meeting with some officials from the government of India. The next day, I received a beautiful handwritten note from him, apologizing for missing our meeting. I understand, he said, you walk home quite late at night to your apartment in Auckland Square. Please drop by for a cup of tea when convenient.
Tajuddin had met with some of the doctors and medical students in the camps. He had learned that they could address the medical issues, but that they were struggling to help the refugees deal with depression. The medical people had suggested that music might help, and Tajuddin had agreed. So now he had a proposal for us. Could Oxfam help to procure musical instruments for the camps?
I also thought this was a good idea. So we bought harmoniums and tablas, hundreds of them, and distributed them. Since the camp inhabitants dreamt of returning home, they sang songs about the beauty of their homeland. The songs in turn helped them to visualize going home. It lifted their spirits.
I entered the cost of the musical instruments into the books as “medical supplies.” The Oxfam accountants back in Oxford wanted to know what the heck was going on! So I obtained letters of appreciation from the medical staff in the camps, verifying that music had actually lowered the costs of caring for the refugees, by helping them better cope with the trauma they had suffered.
Speaking of doctors in the camps, Jon Rohde, the American physician, was working at the Cholera Research Laboratory, now known as icddr, b, at the time. Were their medical interventions useful in the refugee camps?
Very much so. Orsaline had recently been developed, but not yet put to widespread use. So Jon’s colleagues did trials of the solution at the camps. They found that 30% of the inhabitants in one camp had diarrhoea. In another camp, where they distributed and prescribed Orsaline, the incidence of diarrhoea dropped to 3%. One tenth as much. So it was immensely beneficial.
Jon himself was not in the camps initially; he and his wife Candy were evacuated from Bangladesh in early April 1971. I believe they were on a list of people that the Pakistan military wanted to apprehend. Jon and Candy had given refuge to some leading Bangladeshis in their Gulshan bungalow. More importantly, they had driven around Dhaka after the military crackdown, taking photographs of the death and destruction in Old Town and at Dhaka University. The regime wanted their hands on those photographs.
Did you get visitors to the camps?
Oh, yes. We had a number of visits from British and European MP’s and American Congressmen. One memorable visit was that of Richard Wood, who was the British Minister for Overseas Development at the time. A big man, probably in his fifties. He didn’t have a noticeable infirmity, but he did walk stiffly, and he carried a walking stick.
As we traipsed through a muddy camp, we noticed Wood wasn’t wearing rubber boots. The Indian government officials became increasingly concerned. Were the Minister’s feet not uncomfortably wet? Finally, Wood laughed and banged his stick against his leg. A metallic clang rang out. “Don’t worry old chap,” he said, “I don’t feel a thing.” During military action in the Middle East in the Second World War, he had lost both his legs.
Another time, I remember we were invited for drinks at the American Consulate to meet delegates from Washington. It was on Harrington Street, near the British Consulate. In the middle of the reception, one of the Americans collapsed. He was rushed to the hospital, where he was diagnosed with malnourishment. Apparently, he was terrified of getting sick from the food in Calcutta, and had been living on nothing but imported Coca Cola since landing in India!
At the time, some wondered whether Bangladesh was headed for a long-drawn out war of insurgency, similar to Vietnam. What did you think?
To many of us, it was obvious that the Mukti Bahini was going to triumph, and that it wouldn’t take long to do so. No more than a year. The Indians were arming, training, and supporting all the Mukti forces, right around the border. Meanwhile, the Pakistan military supply lines were a thousand miles away. The whole situation was a losing proposition for the Pakistanis. Even if the Indians had not got involved, I believe Bangladesh would still have become a reality. It might have taken a little longer, that’s all. Many thought the same way.
It’s easy to forget that once the fighting ended, hundreds of thousands of people had to be repatriated.
Yes, this was not a trivial task. The return of the refugees to Bangladesh had to be carefully organized, as orderly as possible. Because if you allowed a hundred thousand people to cross at once, you would have dangerous bottlenecks. Initially, the Indian army controlled the ferry crossings, in a low-key manner.
Oxfam’s partners were at the Benapole border, handing out blankets and food. I remember Hindu groups made packets of sweets to hand to Muslims; it was going to be Eid at the end of January 1972. There were a few Christians in the camps, and at Christmas, the Hindus and Muslims made a point of bringing something for them, also.
A wonderful gesture. How did Muslims and Hindus get along in the camps?
Very well. We never heard of any issues between them. Muslims were about thirty to forty percent of the camp population, and they typically lived in their own area of the camp, but there was no conflict between religious groups. Any problems that emerged were between the local population and the refugees. Don’t forget, most local Indians were poor also. And they watched as another group of poor people received free food and medical care, while they did not. This inevitably created some resentment.
Today, the tables have turned somewhat, and it is Bangladesh that is hosting refugees, from Myanmar. Have you noticed any interesting similarities or differences between the two refugee crises?
The number of expats! I believe there were up to 2,000 expats in Cox’s Bazar, working with the Rohingya, before the pandemic intervened in early 2020. A great waste of money. In the refugee camps in 1971, Oxfam managed a program for 600,000 refugees with only two or three foreigners! When I asked a senior Oxfam staffer not long ago why so many expats were turning up this time around, he said the donors insisted on it “because of the corruption.”
This, in my opinion, was a ridiculous comment.
After the Liberation War ended, did you meet Bangabandhu, Sheikh Mujib?
Yes, I did. It was in the last week of January, 1972. Tajuddin took me to visit Sheikh Mujib, on a courtesy call. There were hundreds of people milling around, most there just to receive his blessing. I didn’t expect to spend more than a few minutes with him, but he had obviously been briefed about Oxfam by Tajuddin. I asked him what Oxfam could do about the big problems faced by Bangladesh. He replied that I knew more about what needed to be done than he did. You drove here from Calcutta, he said, so what did you see?
I said I saw hundreds of villages burned out, homes destroyed, bridges and culverts blown up. Boats sunk in the river. I said we can help with housing, and that we had already spent a quarter of a million pounds to purchase corrugated iron sheeting from Hindustan Steel, for a CARE Bangladesh housing program. Ferries and bridges, I suggested, were better suited for bilateral, government-to-government aid.
Sheikh Mujib shook his head vigorously. Ferries are the lifeline of my country, he insisted. If you can’t provide new ferries, please try to help repair the existing ones. He turned to his secretary and instructed him to make sure I met with the Bangladesh Inland Waterways Authority to follow up.
As I rose to leave, he stood up, and put his arm around my shoulders. He had one more question. What was it like in the refugee camps? I told him that the conditions, particularly for women and children, were terrible. He nodded, and then thanked me very much for what I was doing for Bangladesh, and for coming to see him that day.
What did you do after the Liberation War ended?
After my short visit to Bangladesh, I was back in Calcutta to gradually close down Oxfam’s refugee relief program. Some people who had been running a 480-bed bamboo hospital to treat the wounded needed medical supplies, and so they “raided” our medical store in Calcutta. Later on the NGO, Gonoshasthaya Kendra, which Oxfam supported for a few years, was set up. It trained young women to be “barefoot midwives,” who rode on bicycles to tend to expecting mothers in villages.
This support was, to a large extent, due to Raymond, who was appointed Country Director of the new Oxfam office in Bangladesh. He was the obvious choice, and he had accepted the job, but on one condition. Send relief supplies to Caritas or Mother Teresa’s sisters, he told head office, not to me. I want to use Oxfam funds to support young Bangladeshis with vision, he said.
The other early beneficiary of this philosophy was a new NGO called BRAC. In February 1972, I handed over 300,000 rupees to its young founder, Fazle Hasan Abed, for village rehabilitation work in Sylhet.
Cyclone Bhola in 1970 played a large part in the origins of BRAC, did it not?
Yes, it did. Abed got involved with the cyclone relief operations started by some American expats and their Bengali friends in Dhaka, and that eventually inspired him to create BRAC. The expats that he met in 1970 during the cyclone relief work were a very well-informed and dedicated group of individuals, including Jon and Candy Rohde, Lincoln and Marty Chen, Richard Cash, among others. Abed sometimes turned to this “brain trust” for advice and consultation. They stayed involved with BRAC for many years.
How did Sir Fazle Abed fare during the War?
He had a narrow escape! Abed had returned from England in 1969, after 15 years in England, to work with Shell Oil. By the time war broke out, he had already been promoted twice. But after the military crackdown, he was transferred to Dhaka, where he was given his new assignment: Manage the fuel supply for the occupying Pakistan army. He realized he had to get out of there.
He took a flight to Karachi, ostensibly to visit friends. He went on to Islamabad where the authorities there got wind that something was up. They raided his hotel room, and took him in for questioning. Why had a Bengali from Dhaka suddenly turned up in West Pakistan? “To see friends,” he told them, and pulled out his return ticket. “If I am ordered to return to Dacca at once, I will,” he added. Of course, he had no such intention. As soon as they left, he took a bus across the border to Kabul, Afghanistan, and hopped on the next flight to London.
The return ticket was a good idea!
Yes, that probably saved him. That and his British passport, which doubtless gave the Pakistan security forces some pause, before taking him in or harming him in any way.
What, in your opinion, made him so successful in building BRAC?
Abed was a very attentive listener. He actually listened to the people that he wanted to help. Most don’t do that. But he did. He talked directly with villagers. There are recordings of him in the villages speaking to farmers.
In those days, few listened to farmers. They’re illiterate, so what do they know? Quite a lot, actually. They have indigenous knowledge. They know what grows in each area. They know about the medicinal qualities of plants. About 25 years ago, farmers in Sirajganj were telling us that the river was rising a couple of days earlier each year, because the snow in the Himalayas was melting a bit earlier each year. They knew what was happening with respect to global warming and climate change long before anyone else.
The other thing about Abed was that he was always looking to learn. He wasn’t interested in the good news; he wanted to learn from mistakes, things that were overlooked. That was unusual, at the time. So he would always ask me: What can we do better? So I would tell him. I don’t see many women in the program, I might say, or I don’t see any children with disabilities in the BRAC schools. And within a week, BRAC staff would be following up. Now, it’s commonplace for service providers to monitor and evaluate the impact of their projects. Abed and BRAC were doing that from the very beginning.
And one other smart thing that Abed did was to keep BRAC out of politics, as much as possible. A lot of other NGOs didn’t do that, especially in the 1980s. Even the umbrella organization, the Association for Development Agencies (ADAB), got caught up in the political situation. By the late 1980s, it had become a downright hostile environment, with acts of violence, even murder plots. At one time, Raymond Bhai and I were engaged in shuttle diplomacy, passing messages between NGO leaders, pleading with them not to resort to violence.
This state of affairs surely didn’t help the NGO sector?
Not at all. It hurt the image of NGOs as a whole in this country. But by staying out of it, BRAC emerged with its reputation intact, and in an even stronger position.
You spent most of the 1970’s in Oxfam’s office in Delhi. What are some memories from those years?
One memorable incident was the visit to India, in 1978, by Prince Charles and his great-uncle, Earl Mountbatten, who had been the last Viceroy of India. Indira Gandhi was out of office at that time, but she made a point to show up at the reception in Delhi. The British High Commission was worried she planned to confront the prime minister, Morarji Desai, her bitter political rival, and cause a scene. So they sent a first secretary to ask if I could intercept Gandhi before she could get to him.
I positioned myself in her path as she entered the reception room, and started chatting. As I talked, she kept looking over my shoulder, presumably to get a bead on Desai. It was only when I mentioned the 1971 War and the refugees that she suddenly switched her focus back to me. She was very interested to hear about that. Anyway, the evening went off without incident, so I suppose I played my part as a roving political operative!
You returned to Bangladesh in 1985. What was the main focus of your work at that time?
I returned here full time to run the South Asia operations for Canadian University Service Overseas, CUSO. This was essentially the Canadian version of the American Peace Corps, except CUSO also received government grants with which to fund projects. They were mainly managing projects when I got here.
Much of my work involved flood and cyclone relief and rehabilitation, more so after the 1988 floods and the 1991 cyclone. But advocating for the disabled was a particular focus of mine. Donor agencies had turned away from projects for the disabled in the 1970s to focus on “development,” and I became increasingly concerned about it. So by the end of the 1980s, I was banging the drum about disability every chance I got. Ten percent of the Bangladesh population had a disability, I would tell donors, so why don’t you allocate funds accordingly?
I helped write the first national policy for disability and was involved in drafting legislation regarding the disabled. It was finally enacted, more than a decade later, in 2001. I also realized that the various organizations that were working on different disability issues needed to coordinate better, so I assisted in the setting up of the National Forum of Organizations Working with the Disabled (NFOWD).
Disability has always been important to me, given my own personal circumstances. My older brother was born with Down Syndrome, and our elder son, Neil, who is now 46, has a severe learning disability.
My late wife, Sushmita, whom I married in Calcutta soon after the Liberation War, was a clinical psychologist, and we searched high and low for ways to help with Neil’s development. Our younger son, Rohin, is a cardiologist in London. I remember Raymond came to Calcutta for our wedding. He warned Sushmita, with a big smile on his face, that she was not just marrying me, but also Oxfam. In subsequent years, she often had cause to remember those words!
Speaking of disability, was Oxfam involved with the Centre for the Rehabilitation of the Paralyzed, CRP?
Yes, from the very beginning. CRP began with Valerie Taylor and a few Bangladeshi staffers in a small rented building in Dhanmondi. Oxfam helped her with the paperwork to eventually register CRP as a society and provided her with a guaranteed fixed amount for running costs for the first few years.
Valerie eventually moved to bigger premises in Farmgate. Later, CRP obtained a large plot of land in Savar, and the British aid program, ODA, paid for the construction of hospital buildings and running costs for some years. Begum Ershad, who had also taken an interest in Valerie's work, came to lay the foundation stone in 1990.
What Valerie and CRP have accomplished here is remarkable. They have been the driving force in establishing physical rehabilitation as part of health care for the general population in Bangladesh. Were you able to contribute in any way?
I was not involved with CRP in any formal capacity, but I would assist when and where I could. For instance, my organization was able to support the training of a number of their staff members in Indonesia.
I remember I first visited CRP in 1978. I was looking for suppliers of greeting cards for Oxfam at the time. I met one remarkably talented patient there, Madhab, who painted these wonderful watercolours of rural scenes, from memory. When I returned to Bangladesh in the 1980s, I would often go by in the evening and have dinner with Madhab, and one or two others. Valerie would still be at her desk, working late at night.
There were no trained physiotherapists in Bangladesh when Valerie first arrived here, in 1969. That, and her experiences treating the war wounded, motivated her to start CRP. 20 years later, there were still only seven trained physiotherapists in the country. Today, CRP runs degree programs for specialists for all areas of rehabilitation. Some even come from abroad to train here. The difference that she and CRP have made is astonishing.
I don’t suppose you had a great deal of spare time. But what did you do when not at work?
There used to be a theater group here, called Dhaka Stage. I took part in some of their productions. Usually not prominent parts, as I was often out of town. Two of my favorites were Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest and Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
We normally staged the productions at the American School, or at the International School, ISD. Although the first night might be a fundraiser at the Sonargaon Hotel, with the next two nights at the schools. Unfortunately, Dhaka Stage folded about 10 years ago. I also enjoyed singing carols outdoors in the American Club with our group. That brought back memories of my childhood.
You used to sing as a child?
Yes, music was an important part of my upbringing. Every morning during the school term we would sing in Westminster Abbey. The Abbey had its own choir, of course, including that of the well-known Westminster Choir School, and for special events my school choir would join them. One event I remember singing at was Princess Margaret’s wedding, in 1960.
That year was also the 400th anniversary of the founding of my school, by Queen Elizabeth I. So it was fitting that Queen Elizabeth II came to commemorate it, accompanied by Prince Phillip. Their procession was making its way slowly to the school hall, when Prince Phillip, who was a jovial, informal character, saw me standing at the side.
“What are you doing there,” he asked me. “Sir, I have to know what to do in case of an emergency, and where the fire extinguishers are,” I replied. “Where are they?” he asked. So I opened the door to a classroom to show him, and immediately somebody rushed over to pull him away! After the event, as they processed out, I was on the other side from him. So he shouted out to me: “Thank you for keeping us safe!”
I remember a boy called Peter Asher used to sit to my left in the choir stalls. He and another classmate, Gordon Waller, eventually formed a pop-singing duo, called Peter and Gordon. They had three number one hits songs on the pop charts, with music arranged by none other than Lennon and McCartney! They got connected through Peter’s sister, the film actress Jane Asher, whose boyfriend at the time happened to be Paul McCartney.
Most people today are probably not aware of Peter and Gordon.
Their musical careers didn’t last very long. Peter suffered a bit from polio as a child, and walked with some difficulty. So he and Gordon often performed sitting on high stools. This was around 1964, just as live music was becoming popular on TV, and the audience liked performers who could move and dance around and interact with the audience.
So pop stardom was never really on the cards for Peter. But he stayed in the music business, and moved to Los Angeles, where found success managing singers and artists. Gordon tried going solo for a while, before moving on to other things.
But there was another boy who joined the school choir, a few years younger than me, who did go on to have a very long career in music: Andrew Lloyd–Webber, now Baron Lloyd-Webber. I remember he was extremely self-confident and full of himself, even at that young age at school!
You distinguished yourself in other ways. You are officially designated a “Friend of Bangladesh.” Can you tell us more about this honour?
I think someone from the Awami League government came up with the idea, in the 1990s, as a way to recognize foreigners who had played some part in the independence of Bangladesh. The original idea was to have four different categories of awards, but then the whole thing was shelved. They revived the idea in 2008, but this time with only two categories: the Bangladesh Liberation Honour, for government leaders, royal family members, and such, and the Friends of Liberation War Honour, for everyone else.
They started with a list of about 600 individuals, and then whittled it down to 337. Most awards were made posthumously, and not everyone could come to receive their awards, of course. Marshal Tito’s son, for instance, received the award on behalf of his late father, and the same with a number of sons of former US Senators. A significant awardee was the late Archer K Blood, who was American Consul in Dhaka in 1971 and who had alerted the US State Department of the genocide going on at that time. His daughter, Barbara, received the award on his behalf.
Two members of the team of Russian naval divers who had cleared mines in Chittagong Harbour were present; the Russian Ambassador collected the awards on behalf of the other divers, including, obviously, the diver who lost his life in the operation.
I was in the first batch to receive the award, with about 80 others. This was late in March, 2012. After the official ceremony, there was dinner and a reception hosted by the Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina at the Sonargaon Hotel. It was very informal. I said to Sheikh Hasina: I’ve always wondered how you keep your sari in place on top of your head. She smiled and said she used a silver pin, one that once belonged to her grandmother.
Then in 2019, you received another honour, this time from the British government: the Order of the British Empire. How did that come about?
In a somewhat serendipitous manner, I think. One day, in the summer of 2018, I was invited to visit the PM, at Ganabhaban. I had been recommended for Bangladesh citizenship by someone who was close to the Prime Minister. She happened to be wrapping up a meeting with the British High Commissioner, Alison Blake, and British MP Rushanara Ali, who is of Bangladeshi origin, while I waited to be ushered in. When Sheikh Hasina learned that I was next to see her, she turned to them and said: Oh, it’s Julian! Then the two of you should stay.
So the high commissioner and the member of parliament formed an impromptu audience as I received the certificate of citizenship from Sheikh Hasina. A few months later, I got a phone call from the high commissioner. She had a question for me: Would I be willing to accept an OBE, for “services to development in Bangladesh?”
Did you go to Buckingham Palace to receive the award?
Yes, in June, 2019. Actually, you are given a choice of dates and locations for the award ceremony, and that was the one I chose. At the Palace, as I was waiting in line to be received, I heard a voice behind me that I recognized. It was Michael Palin, of Monty Python fame, who was to receive a knighthood. “And what are you here for,” he asked. So I told him. He said: “Well, at least one of us deserves to be here!”
Prince William officiated that day. He asked me how Bangladesh was doing. I replied that the country is facing challenges, such as the Rohingya refugee crisis and climate change, but that there had been some remarkable development over the years.
You have been an eye-witness to the entire history of Bangladesh to date. What are your thoughts now, as the country celebrates 50 years of independence?
I remember after the initial state of euphoria 50 years ago, reality set in quickly. Many seasoned officials were not optimistic about the new country’s future. In March 1972, Oxfam’s overseas aid director, Ken Bennett, submitted a report in which he concluded that, unless food supplies were ensured, and infrastructure rapidly improved, it was doubtful that Bangladesh could survive as a nation state.
A couple of years after Bennet’s report, thousands died of starvation, in the famine of 1974. Then came the turmoil of 1975. It certainly didn’t look good for Bangladesh in the 1970s. The pessimists appeared to be right.
But then the country turned a corner. Agricultural production went up. Investments in infrastructure picked up. The country returned to democracy in 1990. Of course, Bangladesh would have done better without the confrontational politics, and the corruption that followed. And there is now an ever-widening gap between the rich and poor, which concerns many of us.
But the progress has been remarkable. Today, starvation would simply not happen. Local communities, the public at large, would not allow it. And the development continues apace.
So I am very happy that the pessimists of 50 years ago have been proven wrong!
Julian Francis, OBE, Friend of Bangladesh, what an interesting life you have led. To echo the words of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujib all those years ago, thank you for what you have done for Bangladesh. And thank you for taking the time to tell us about your life and experiences.
It was my pleasure. As I have often said, I just happened to be in the right place (India) at the right time (1971) and my life unfolded after that.
Rezwan Hussain is a writer and researcher in Dhaka.
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