Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971: The Pain of Martyr’s Sibling
It is almost half a century ago my country, Bangladesh, was liberated as an Independent State. My family was displaced during the war and had to seek refuge to India. It was the afternoon of 16th December 1971, a truly tumultuous day, when the Akashbani Radio announced the surrender of the Pakistani Army to the Indian Army; The bloody war had ended. We packed our bags and bid farewell to India, with huge gratitude and homage for the people and Government of India for giving us shelter and saving us from the onslaught of the heinous, barbaric, Pakistani army and its Junta. Had India not given us the refuge perhaps I would not live to tell you my story. My father was a freedom fighter, operating in different sectors bordering Karimganj in Assam and Koilashshahor in Tripura. Our eldest brother decided to join as a Freedom Fighter; he was only 17 years old in the month of June 1971. After 3 weeks of training in Hapania-Tripura, Joy Bangla freedom fighters training camp, he was sent along with his group of 15 fighters inside the then East Pakistan (present Bangladesh). To carry out guerrilla warfare to dislodge the Pakistan Army’s line of communication and disrupt their supply routes. They were operating deep inside the enemy lines from June to November. Carried out patrolling, ambushes, raids, explosions for the next 5 months. No food supply, no medical supply, no clothing, no boots, no tents to sleep in, no communication with the base — operating on their own devices, with full of patriotism and the highest magnitude of determination. My brother was approaching his final exams until all hell
broke loose. The Operation Searchlight of the Pakistani Army was unleashed; 7000 sleeping Bengali citizens were brutally murdered, for no apparent reason. A premeditated, well-orchestrated, minutely planned, Hitler inspired attack began in the riverine sleepy landscape of Golden Bengal. It was a genocide, a racial annihilation, an ethnic cleansing that the Pakistani army perpetuated from that day, in the name of quelling our demand for a democratic Government. The Bengalis rose to the pinnacle of resisting their humiliation. They rose to restore the sanctity and the prestige of their mothers and sisters from derogatory, brutal rapes and sexual harassment. Operation Searchlight provoked the deaths of innocent Hindus, Christians, and Muslims. The world turned a blind eye but not India. India was the God sent messiah to save us from that crucial juncture. We, the Joy Bangla generation and Bangladesh as a whole ought to remain ever so grateful to India for all their help. The war was reaching its climax and a month before the end, my brother and his troops of Freedom Fighters were captured alive from their daytime hideout, hidden deep in mangrove in the middle of a confluences of three rivers. A rattan bush - a no-go area for any locals was their secret sleeping area during the day. They slept on the decks of country boats and go out for missions after dusk. The whole area was waterlogged like an ocean during the late infamous monsoon of Bengal. On the fateful day of the 11 th November, my poor brother along with his section of freedom fighters were arrested as prisoners of war. They were taken to the nearest Divisional HQ of the Pakistani Army in Brahmin Baria - Bangladesh (the then East Pakistan). An
eyewitness who survived to tell the tale, told us that they were inhumanly tortured; eyes were peeled out of their sockets. They had scorching hot water poured on their faces. Day and night, the Freedom Fighters endured rampant and continuous torture for 10 days under the open sky. Pakistan, a country founded and established by the principles of Islam, seemed to forget about its faith, as they carried out such sacrilegious acts in the holy month of Ramadan. It was Eid day, the day the valiant sons of mother Bengal, including my dear brother, were shot dead, killed with no hesitation or remorse. Those bodies of those golden sons were left to rot. Day by day, slowly and gradually, their remains became amalgamated with the soil of the land that they wanted to liberate from the aggressors; the Pakistani Army. The very next day, we returned to an independent Bangladesh. Hours upon hours, days upon days, we were waiting for the arrival of my brother, as scores of Freedom Fighters were coming back home to meet their nearest and dearest, yet there was no news regarding my Brother. Three weeks of frantic searching for him; no trace. It had reached a point in which we had a hunch about his fate, until it was clarified by the previously mentioned eyewitness, who revealed all of the terrors the Freedom Fighters and my brother had endured. I was an 11-year-old adolescent, realizing my world was slowly collapsing as I find myself lost without my mentor; without my best friend.
Decades have passed since the loss of my brother, yet the pain still reverberates within. Furthermore, the Neo Nazis; The Killers were scot free. How convenient. Where is the Justice? Where is the atonement? Where is the moral reparation?
Imran A. Chowdhury Lieutenant(retd) A Writer & A Historian