Fifty-three years is a long time. We have come a long way since those tumultuous days of strife and struggle during the liberation war of 1971. We've been through ups and downs, seen the desecration of democracy, the rise of fascism, hunger, corruption, crime and glory.
We've been relegated to the ranks of the most corrupt, we've been hailed as the most resilient, we've pocketed a Nobel, we've lived through blood, sweat and tears. But the July-August revolution is living proof that nothing, not even the most ruthless tyrant, can kill our spirit. Independence is our right and we gave our lives for it in the past, have given our lives now and will do so again if the need ever arises.
The youth of today, in their valiant fight against the repressive autocratic rule, rekindled that spirit of youth within us of the older generation. It took up back, like a time capsule, to those nine months of 1971. No, actually they took us further back, bringing a smile to our lips, a tear to our eyes and a faster beat to our hearts.
Those days or defiance
It was 1968 or 1969, I don't quite remember. I was a student of Class 3. But I do remember being in Chittagong at the time and from our school we were taken to the Chittagong Circuit House. We, along with students of a few other schools, were made to stand in a long line on either side of the driveway leading up from the main gate winding all the way to the front stairs of the Circuit House. We were handed bags of colourful paper confetti. President Field Marshal Ayub Khan was visiting East Pakistan (as this land was known back then) and we little kids were to throw the colourful confetti as his car drove past us to display how much the people of East Pakistan loved and revered him.
I had very little idea about what was going on, except that it was oppressively hot weather. The direct sun was making me dizzy, hunger was making me nauseous. Then, to top it all, soldiers suddenly came marching up, randomly piercing our bags of confetti with the tips of their bayonets. They were checking if there were any explosives in our bags, in case we were planning to launch an attack. That is how confident they were of our "love" for Ayub Khan! I fainted.
I actually fainted. I don't know if it was the heat of the glaring sun or the scare of the menacing bayonets, but I just fell unconscious. Not surprising, standing there hungry for hours under the relentless rays of the sun. How did our teachers allow this! Maybe they had no choice. I was taken to sit under the shade of a tree and revived with cold water splashed on my face. When I opened my eyes, it was only to see Ayub Khan standing tall on the stairs, delivering a speech. To me he was a fat man, red in the face, dressed in a black suit with a red rose in the lapel. Impressed I was not. Ayub Khan had been described as imposing, impressive. Not to my seven-year-old mind!
Flunkeys of the fallen fascists are doing all they can to thwart the efforts to firmly establish democracy, human rights and freedom. Those at the helm are new at the job and are bound to have hiccups along the way. But if their 'niyat' (intention) is right, it can't go wrong.
Years later, just before the liberation war broke out in 1971, I was sitting in our history class in Shaheen School, Dhaka. I was riffling through my history book when a sketch of Ayub Khan appeared on one of the pages. A sort of pent up fury arose in me. Was it because of that hateful day at Chittagong Circuit House? Was it because of what I had been hearing during conversations at home and all over? Was it because of the protests and processions I would see on the streets? I don't know.
But something within prompted me to take out my colouring pencils and colour his face bright pink, make grey smoke emit from his ears, orange flames from his nose and I even gave him a pair of horns. My teacher was shocked and furious, but when my "artwork" was shown to our stern and scary principal Mamun-Ur-Rashid (dear Mamun sir), he just gave an indulgent smile and patted me on my head, much to the chagrin of our history teacher.
That was a very small incident, but it gave me a massive sense of victory. Yes, I had defiled and insulted the mighty Ayub Khan and no one could do anything about it. I had won! The same sense of victory descended upon me on 16 December 1971. Our family roamed the streets of Dhaka that day, my brother and I in one rickshaw, my parents in another, not ever a stray bullet here and there deterring us from this victory jaunt. Exultant crowds jostled on the streets and the cry of Joy Bangla resounded throughout. The slogan had not been politicised and remained untainted by any crony connotations at the time.
Indian troops were on the streets and we waved. Alas, that sense of camaraderie has been lost, now the Indian forces being associated with border killings and India with the deposed regime. India had been a friend to Bangladesh and its people, not to just a party or a leader. Surely that can be revived again? We must and should be friends again, on equal footing in a win-win relationship for all. The sooner the better.
Fast forward>>2024
The post 2024 euphoria gave me the vibes of that 16 December of my long lost childhood. With a difference. Back then we won independence through a nine-month war. This time we were already independent, albeit repressed, suppressed and oppressed. But the fearless spirit was the same, the fearless spirit that made a member of the police report to his superior, "We kill one, but they simply keep coming!"
Our young men and women have given us a fresh breath of freedom. Democracy has become a reality again. The way ahead is not smooth, the path is rife with ruts and potholes. Flunkeys of the fallen fascists are doing all they can to thwart the efforts to firmly establish democracy, human rights and freedom. Those at the helm are new at the job and are bound to have hiccups along the way. But if their 'niyat' (intention) is right, it can't go wrong.
This is a brave new world. The spirit within us will never be subdued. We will never lose. Bangladesh had only one way to go -- forward. This is victory, for now and forever.
* Ayesha Kabir is head of Prothom Alo's English web