Fourth of December––The Untold Stories : Nuzhat Shahzadi

I woke up early on that sparkling morning––cloistered in impenetrable silence . . . I strained my ears for the habitual sounds of machine guns or explosions . . . some traffic. People usually stayed home unless they had to go out. Everyone was cautious, afraid . . . people were shot down in broad daylight on the streets, houses were raided, vehicles checked randomly, arrests made . . .

Every Bangalee citizen of the then East Pakistan was terrified of its own military. Ethnic cleansing of the Bengalees was launched by the Pakistani government from 25 March, 1971 (Operation Searchlight––check link below).

My uncles lived in Dhanmondi––a modern, residential area of the affluents, diplomats. “It was the worst of times,” the time of savagery, the time of despondency.

I heard whispers, detected the low murmur of the radio. My mom and her youngest brother were listening to the radio. My uncle was in his mid-twenties––an age group in the radar of Pakistani soldiers’ target, in absoluteness.

“Leave Dhaka immediately . . . it will be burned to the ground . . .” the announcement was in Bangla, broadcasted from Shadhin Bangla Betar Kenrdo, the radio station operated from Kolkata by Bangladeshi-Bengalees (check link below for details).

(Undivided Bengal was usually referred to as “Bangladesh.” On 16th December 1971, east Bengal broke away from Pakistan as a sovereign nation––Bangladesh, while west Bengal remained as a part of India).

At breakfast I heard my grandfather, mom, and uncle discussing about an escape route out of Dhaka.

“Boat is the only way,” Mom suggested. Hiding in our grandparents’ village homestead seemed viable.

“Then hire a boat!” Grandfather roared. “We need to go.”

“What if the soldiers shoot us?” uncle was hesitant, nervous . . . a cousin was shot down in Mymensingh, another was decapitated in Dhaka by Pakistani troops. Stories of atrocities were building up. Fleeing by boat was a risky option.

The discussion got intense . . .

We heard the buzzing of Indian fighter-jets . . . the sound grew louder and louder piercing the silent morning-skies of Dhaka. We ran to the window––the jets glittered in the cloudless sky and dashed past over our house.

The dog-fight began. We were elated and ran to the roof top. Some neighbors were already on the roofs of their houses, cheering, dancing. Mom couldn’t control us. However, my grandfather’s bark calmed us and we climbed down like decent girls. Our safety wasn’t compromised. The Pakistani military was too busy planning their end game––own escape route.

“Nana is a gangster! Let’s keep watching through the window,” my sister Naina allured me. We were told to keep away from the windows as well. I followed her lead––didn’t mind breaking the rule. I was equally interested.

To our dismay, the dog-fight lasted only a few minutes––too brief!! The long months of waiting with some gains, many losses, extreme pain–– this was our chance to show the enemy we “are people, we matter.” (We learned later that the entire Pakistani air-force in East Bengal/Pakistan was crippled in the brief dog-fight).

Finally, my uncle managed to hire a row boat. We decided to cross Padma and many rivers . . .

On 7th December, we headed towards the jetty on the Buriganaga river. The road was exploding with people, jam packed with cars, mini-buses, three wheelers/Tuk Tuks, rickshaws. The chaos was overbearing, no one was angry, no one swore or honked. A mass expulsion was underway. We were fleeing with our families, minimal essential belongings.

Oh, the jetty! ––never had I ever seen so many people together in one place. I was amazed at the piles and piles of bread-mountains, fruits on push carts. Everyone was buying––the supply was enormous. My uncle bought sacks of bread, cookies, puffed-rice, pastries, bananas . . . (In the 70s bottled water possibly wasn’t available).

18 passengers in total–– 10 of us, a couple with two teenage daughters, as well as 4 young men––distant relatives who worked in our uncles’ business enterprises. Then there were 2 boatmen––older, wiser, with muscle-knotted bodies toughened with hard labor. With us a caravan of boats took to rowing, flocked into the waves of Buriganaga.

“Good bye Dhaka!” I said silently.

We began our journey away from the city, to safety of uncertainty . . . no news of Dad––the last we heard was that he was stationed at the Lahore border operating a field ambulance-hospital. Both India and Pakistan unscrupulously bombed hospitals, blamed each other . . .

I have worked with internally displaced people (IDPs)––Sri Lanka, Afghanistan . . . I have seen their misery, their pain of loss . . . now witnessing the sufferings of the Palestinians in Gaza, West Bank . . .

. . . And the rape of Israeli women by Hamas made to the UN’s special session, became the star-news. It’s heartbreaking––the anguish of these women! I have worked with rape victims. I understand their grief, their shame, and never-ending-anger.

I wonder–– did anyone talk about the rape of Bengalee girls and women by Pakistani soldiers in 1971? UN? Can’t remember. The official numbers are anywhere between 200,000 to 400,000 (See link below).

“We lay like corpses. Then the raping began”: 52 years on, Bangladesh’s rape camp survivors speak out (The Guardian, 3 April, 2023).

Links:

Bangladesh genocide

'We lay like corpses. Then the raping began': 52 years on, ...