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They kept God in their hearts.
. . . I see the terrified faces of children in Gaza under siege ––children held hostages by Hamas––children injured, assaulted, separated, killed . . . and I remember . . . memories can be such a curse, sometimes . . .
The face of Regina, and others in an orphanage in Angola keeps my heart bleeding, still.
“. . . Want to go home,” some said, at that orphanage.
There were other tiny voices––“Can’t remember mamae’s face.” . . . “ . . . Miss my brother.”
And some had no recollection of their families, their villages or anyone in their lives. 27 years of civil war in Angola killed many, orphaned children, and about 100,000 of them were separated from their families.
They were just left there––to carry on with life.
The little boy in Herat, Western Afghanistan, didn’t remember how he ended up at the juvenile rehabilitation center. The others were held there on charges of minimum offense––mostly for disobedience.
“Haley shuma chatur aasth?” I greeted him in Dari.
He just shook his head. His eyes were vacant, held many shades of pain––the trauma of separation from his family, his familiar universe, where he belonged.
In the female prison in Herat, so many of the women lived in tears––their children were forcibly taken away from them. Cut off from the outside world, they didn’t know if their daughters and sons cried for them in sleep, went to bed at night crying for their mothers.
Women in Afghanistan are jailed at the whim of their male kins. Very often young children are imprisoned with their mothers––sometimes they are kept by the fathers’ families when the mothers are accused of being immoral (allegedly). Most women end up in jail for dishonoring their families.
“One more time . . . I want to hold my little one,” one young woman told me as I listened to her story. “I will see her one day if Allah wishes.”
I watched the tears; I saw their agony.
. . . The Rwandan-Tutsi adolescent girl kept screaming and screaming at the NGO shelter. . . she had witnessed the slaughter of her family by Hutu men who broke into their home with machetes––100 days of slaughter!
Sometimes I hear her silenced-screams while hiking. Peace is broken amidst the noiselessness of trees. My healing stops.
The genocides in Rwanda and Bangladesh have strong likenesses–– ethnic cleansing with meticulous planning, and operation.
. . . I crouched on the mat beside the Tamil girl at the IDP shelter in Trincomalee. She had fled with others when the Sri Lankan army launched the Mutur offensive that killed indiscriminately. In terror, people fled from their villages, ended up in the shelters opened by UN agencies and NGOs.
“Amma will come back for me. I know . . . I know,” she whispered in Tamil language (my interpreter translated). “Appa can’t go missing . . . One day, my family will come for me.” Her voice held hints of a sob.
So many get missing in wars. There is no closure for their families. People say, everything happens for a reason. What reasons?!
On 25 March, 1971, the Pakistani forces launched “Operation Searchlight” to slaughter its citizens of Bengalee race. So many died––were wounded, raped. And many went missing.
. . . I visited family and friends in UK recently. It was misty––drizzling outside on a cold December afternoon as I headed to Heathrow. My nephew was with me––a medical student in UK. Her mom, my little-cousin-sister was also a doctor in UK, died young due to cancer, leaving him behind, a 14-year-old. She was special. My nephew, is precious . . .
I was early for my flight. We began talking . . . he likes my writings––the memories of war that I imprison with words.
He told me the story of his grandmother’s brother––a young man (16?) who picked up a rifle and joined the Bengalee freedom fighters in 1971. Like many, he understood the cost of freedom, the zillion-reasons to be free. Months rolled on . . . he didn’t return home.
My nephew narrated ––“my grandmother was a young woman during the war . . . She kept waiting, and waiting . . . Each day was a torment . . . at every sound of footsteps her heart leapt . . . Bangladesh got liberated . . . so many people came back . . . She spent her entire life hoping for her brother’s return––never gave up. ”
. . . Huh! . . . when God abandons, where can humans go?
(Note: The month of March makes me especially thoughtful––my mind marches back to the long-lost-frightening days of the blood-bath, unleashed. Talking about it is the only way to show “I care.”
Readers, below are some links for you because I know “you care,” too.)
1971 Bangladesh: 'None of them returned' | Conflict
The Past has yet to Leave the Present: Genocide in ...
The Genocide the U.S. Can't Remember, But Bangladesh ...
The South Asia Crisis and the Founding of Bangladesh, 1971
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Or write to her at nuzhatshahzadi@gmail.com
Very touching piece. Thanks Nuzhat for writing about the victims of this brutal mad world.
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