Badruddin Umar has passed away. Pneumonia had taken hold of his lungs. For several months, he had been moving between hospital and home. He could no longer cope with the strain.
Despite being in his nineties, he was full of vitality—like a fiery young man. His voice would sometimes rise to a crescendo while speaking. His memory was razor-sharp. He could effortlessly recite, word for word, what he had written thirty or forty years ago. He spoke fluently and without pause.
Toward the end, his hearing had deteriorated. He strongly disliked hearing aids. During conversations, we had to write down the topic.
I first encountered Badruddin Umar’s writings in 1970, after enrolling at the University of Dhaka. His three books—Sampradayikata (Communalism), Sanskritir Sankat (The Crisis of Culture), and Sanskritik Sampradayikatā(Cultural Communalism)—introduced our generation to secular thought. We were enriched by them.
In those books, we saw a masterful academic dissection of the reactionary opium that was being fed to us in the guise of Pakistanism during the 1950s and 60s. Had I not encountered those works in my youth, I would have remained unaware of many essential truths.
Soon after that, in 1970, the first volume of The Language Movement of East Bengal and the Politics of the Time by Badruddin Umar was published. It can be said without hesitation that academic-style historical research in this country began with him. In this field, he was truly a pioneer.
Sheikh Hasina was deeply displeased with him—because Umar used to say that, apart from spending five days in jail in 1948, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman had no real role in the early stages of the Language Movement. Statements like that were hard for Hasina to digest. But Umar was so well-informed and confident in his position that Hasina never dared to confront him. She tolerated him.
In our country, many people write. Many are involved in politics. In Badruddin Umar, these two paths converged. One could say that politics and writing merged seamlessly in his life. Until his final days, he remained active. He was both a political activist and an intellectual—what is known as an organic intellectual. That kind of figure is rare in our country.
At one time, Badruddin Umar wrote regularly for newspapers. He contributed frequently to Ganashakti, Holiday, and Gonokontho. I first met him through Gonokontho, when I was a university correspondent for the paper. His op-eds used to be published every Sunday. I would collect his pieces from his Shantinagar residence on Fridays and deliver his honorarium cheques in person. After that period, we had no contact for a long time.
About two years ago, I reconnected with him through a friend. After reading my book Bela-Obela, he praised it enthusiastically. Since then, I visited his home in Rupnagar many times.
I had compiled a collection of his op-eds and essays published in Gonokontho for Batighar. It included nine of Badruddin Umar's writings. I went to seek his permission. As soon as he saw me, he agreed without hesitation. I gave him several hefty books of mine. He asked, “You write this much?” I replied, “I’m trying to beat your record.”
Badruddin Umar left the secured teaching job at Rajshahi University to become a full-time worker of the Communist Party. He took on the role of editor for Ganashakti, the mouthpiece of the East Pakistan Communist Party (Marxist-Leninist). There was no fixed salary or allowance. He traveled extensively, from village to village, for party work.
What we mean by being “declassed,” Badruddin Umar truly experienced it. He lived and ate in the homes of poor farmers, relieved himself by the roadside. His experiences from that time were diverse and striking. I once told him, “I’m declassed now—I live in a village.” I showed him photos of my house. He was visibly excited and said, “I want to visit.” But later, considering his health, he dropped the plan.
Badruddin Umar had grown old. Through a mutual friend, I requested an interview. He acknowledged that at his age, anything could happen at any time, and said he wanted to share some final thoughts. So I visited him at his home, accompanied by my friend Muhammad Kaiyum. We recorded a three-hour interview—Kaiyum handled the video. But the conversation was far from over. I returned the next day and recorded another three hours.
The manuscript was based on those six hours of interviews and was published by Prothoma in August 2024. The book is titled “Bamponthar Surat-hal: Badruddin Umar-er Itihas Porikroma” (The State of the Left: Badruddin Umar’s Historical Reflections).
In the interviews, Badruddin Umar spoke with remarkable openness. I documented everything. Such interviews often include informal, candid discussions. Some people believe not everything should be published—but I don't share that view. If we constantly worry about how others might react, much would remain unwritten. In Western countries, there’s no such excessive caution.
In our society, there's an overwhelming fear of “what people might say.” But life is only one. I believe that whatever comes to mind—should be said, should be written. The problem lies with the “mob.” Often, when you write something, a swarm of drifters, the ignorant, or the immature jump in to attack. On the other hand, even the so-called “civilized” people form their own mobs, insisting, “This shouldn’t have been said,” or “That shouldn’t have been written.”
Badruddin Umar was active in politics, but his party never made it into the spotlight. As a result, many have dismissed him outright. Yet I never heard that he was bothered by this. Sometimes, you see a whole crowd rushing in one direction like locusts, while one person stands still—or walks in the opposite direction. But we tend to judge right and wrong based on numbers, as if success can only be measured by popularity.
We live in a country overflowing with hesitation, hypocrisy, and double standards. I know many people who seem to have revolution bursting out of every pore. Yet they work at public universities or in government institutions—and somehow, they never lose their jobs. They stay comfortably employed. How is that possible? In that regard, Badruddin Umar was different. He never betrayed his own beliefs.
Umar never accepted the Bangla Academy Award. He rejected both the Ekushey Padak and the Independence Award. A while ago, an institution offered him a lifetime achievement honour—he declined that as well. He had a principle: he would not accept anything from the government or the corporate world. He used to say, “Writing is my passion. I write for the joy of it. Why should I need an award for that?”
Badruddin Umar was a smoker—he used a pipe. His favourite tobacco was Erinmore. Once, I told him I would bring him some the next time I visited. I couldn’t find it in the market. He said, “It’s good you didn’t. Friends bring it as a gift when they return from abroad. I still have a six-month stock.” He liked sweets. And even at his age, he read extensively.
Umar often complained that many publishers had cheated him. He spoke to me openly about it—mentioning names. I’ve mentioned these incidents in my book.
Sheikh Hasina was deeply displeased with him—because Umar used to say that, apart from spending five days in jail in 1948, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman had no real role in the early stages of the Language Movement. Statements like that were hard for Hasina to digest. But Umar was so well-informed and confident in his position that Hasina never dared to confront him. She tolerated him.
There were things Umar never shared with anyone—but he shared many of them with me. If time and opportunity permit, I will publish them.
Badruddin Umar lived his life with a sense of authority. Many accused him of being arrogant. But he had little in terms of wealth. Thanks to his wife’s job as a banker, they built a small house in Rupnagar, Mirpur. He had a roof over his head—and the pride of knowledge and scholarship. That kind of pride is perhaps justified.
We often try to elevate someone’s stature by attaching lofty adjectives to their name. But Badruddin Umar doesn’t need that. Calling him a “legend,” “brave,” or “rebel”—what’s the point? His books alone will keep him alive.
The real question is: in a nation of the ignorant, the life of a serious essayist rarely lasts in public memory. But he now stands above all that.
I only pray that even a fraction of his courage may pass into me. I’ll hold onto that and carry it with me for the rest of my life—and remember him.
*Mohiuddin Ahmad is writer and researcher
*Opinions expressed are the author’s own.