The clanging of iron rods striking the lamppost across the street from our house was loud and discordant. The frenzied shouts were blood-curdling. We would sit in silence, in absolute darkness, on the stairs leading to the roof. Even our dog, sensing the danger, would not let out a whimper or a whine.
This was March 1971, and the location was our house in Pallabi, Mirpur, Dhaka. The tension across the city was palpable.
The die had been cast. It was clear that the Bengalis had made up their minds, they were determined to fight for independence: for economic freedom, for a sovereign identity, for justice, for democracy, for a map and a nation of their own.
But who were those who gathered every night, at the stroke of midnight, around the lamppost opposite our house? Who were those who so wrongly used religious slogans to invoke fear and to incite their accomplices into forming a menacing mob?
They were those opposed to the Bengalis, the collaborators of the Pakistan military, who were cracking down on the people of East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) to suppress any form of rebellion, revolution, or movement for independence.
Most of those gathering there each night were members of the Urdu-speaking Bihari community. (I would like to make it very clear that I have no intention of castigating the community as a whole. This is only about those individuals, in that place, at that time.) They would randomly raid the homes of Bengali families, looting and assaulting, and then prepare to do the same the following night.
To make this easier, they would use black tar to write “Allah hu” in Arabic on the walls of non-Bengali houses, so Bengalis could be easily identified and targeted (as if we were not Muslims because of our ethnicity). Our house bore no such “calligraphy,” and we were directly in the line of fire.
A Punjabi family lived next door, and they were lovely neighbours, warm and kind. The gentleman from that house took it upon himself to write “Allah hu” in black tar on our wall. But he also came over to warn us that this would not be enough to keep us safe. He told us, “Leave immediately, as soon as you can. Do not let anyone realise you are leaving. You may lose all your belongings, but furniture, clothes, and valuables can be replaced. Your lives cannot.”
We heeded his words and left Pallabi with only the bare necessities, moving to Dhanmondi. Our house in Pallabi was looted. A Bengali family later moved in. We heard they were attacked, the man of the house slaughtered, his body dumped in a pond.
As it drifted closer, we realized with horror that it was a bloated, bullet-ridden body, and the crow was pecking at the exposed flesh. Was it a freedom fighter? Or an innocent man caught in the crossfire, reduced to what would be called “collateral damage” of war?
This is one of my most vivid memories of 1971. I was a child then, but the scenes remain as clear as they were that year. I can still hear the clanging of the rods against the lamppost, the menacing cries. I can still feel the horror of those nights. And to think that we were among the fortunate ones, to have escaped alive and physically unharmed. It was a March to remember, a year never to forget.
Let me share another experience from that fateful year. I cannot recall the exact months, but tensions in the capital were escalating, and people said it was no longer safe, especially for young girls. My father was working at EPIDC (East Pakistan Industrial Development Corporation) at the time and was assigned to conduct an extensive audit of a jute factory in Ghorasal, which was on the verge of closure. He was given family quarters there, and he decided to take us along, as we had stopped going to school from 1 March.
There are three distinct memories I have from that time.
First, the area had become a stronghold of the Mukti Bahini, the freedom fighters. They would come regularly in the late evenings to our home, often sharing meals with us. We provided them with clothes and whatever supplies we could bring from Dhaka. There was a strong sense of camaraderie. I still remember their boldness, their carefree spirit. It was infectious.
The second memory is a scene by the river. Ghorasal was a beautiful, serene place, and my brother and I would often walk along the Sitalakhya River in the afternoons. One day, we saw a crow floating downstream, perched on a large, round object. As it drifted closer, we realised with horror that it was a bloated, bullet-ridden body, and the crow was pecking at the exposed flesh. Was it a freedom fighter? Or an innocent man caught in the crossfire, reduced to what would be called “collateral damage” of war?
The third incident occurred one night when the freedom fighters sent us an urgent message: we had to leave and return to Dhaka immediately. The army was expected to crack down at any moment. Sure enough, peering through the window, we saw soldiers moving in formations of three—one facing forward, one to the side, and one backward—taking no chances, knowing that freedom fighters were scattered across the terrain. That very night, we heard loud and intermittent gunfire. Stray bullets even struck our house.
Early the next morning, we boarded a bus back to Dhaka. Scattered among the passengers were young Bengali men, armed. It brought a sense of comfort, or so I thought. Then the bus was stopped at a military checkpoint. Army officers boarded and began checking passengers and their belongings. I froze. Would they shoot these young men on the spot? Would they kill us all? But the young men seemed unconcerned. To my astonishment, they stood up, shook hands with the soldiers, embraced them, and left the bus together. Then came the realisation and the horror. These were no freedom fighters. They were razakars, collaborators of the enemy, fighting against their own people. Many passengers spat in disgust.
These are only a few memories from 1971. Perhaps I will share more another day, another time. Eventually, December came and victory was ours.
It has been 56 years since we achieved independence. The journey has not been easy, but we are free. We are Bangladesh. And we always will be.