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IN MEMORIAM

Remembering my father, three years later

Nazu Kibria
BEFORE retiring to Bangladesh from his post as UN Under Secretary General in Bangkok, my father Shah AMS Kibria, purchased a computer for himself Determined to master a technology that was new to him. he spent hours and hours trying to familiarise himself with it. He sent me a letter, one that I stall have with me:" Dear Ammu: 1 am typing this letter to you on the computer that I am taking to Bangladesh. 1 am practicing every day. It is still difficult for me but I am improving every day..."
In the years to come, the com puter became an essential part of my father's life. Waking up in the early hours of the morning during my visits to Dhaka. I would often find him at the computer, at work on the English language essays that he wrote for the newspapers.
I marveled then, as I continue to do now, at his determination. This was a quality of his that extended across matters both small and large, from learning howto use a computer to ensuring that the price of essentials remained affordable to the poor of the country- during his tenure as finance minister of Bangladesh.
My father had many admirable qualities And what he achieved over his lifetime was considerable, more than what many of us. myself included, could imagine for ourselves. But. of course, as a daughter the memories that stand out for me are of a different kind. In the end. for those closest to him. it is the daily memories that are the most vivid.
I remember his love of the ocean, the sheer delight and excitement that crossed his face when he came across the sights and sounds of rolling waves and sandy beaches. I remember his low of Tagore songs and poetry, but also the pleasure he took with the stories of the British humorist PG Woodhouse, which inevitably left him chuckling with mirth
I remember his love of shutki
(dried fish) and also of French bread and cheese. I remember him playing "school" with my young niece Madhuri, happily taking on the role of the student and being drilled on the alphabet by her. I remember him carrying and walking up and down the house with
my son. a fussy baby, for several hours in the middle of the night so that 1 could get some rest as a new mother.
I remember the anxiety in his voice whenever he heard that I was ill. even if it was just a common
cold. I remember his admiration for the skills of golfer Tiger Woods. And his deep-seated respect and love for Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, who in the words of my father, gave us Bangalis our rights to full citizenship and thus to our humanity. If I am blessed with many mem -ories that comfort me as I grieve and mourn the loss of my father, there is one that haunts me with overwhelming pain. Like the rest of the world, I watched, on December 27, 2007, the sickening news of the assassination of Benazir Bhutto of Pakistan As I watched the unfolding story, all of my senses flooded with pain, I could literally feel the grief of her family. And I could feel their rage, as they demanded an independent international investigation into her murder.
1 remember a meeting that I had. soon after my father was killed, with a politician who had experienced the assassination of his family members. I remember him telling me that the family of the assassinated has a special, unspoken bond, of shared trauma as well as a need for justice, a need to see that those behind the assassination are correctly identified and tried in a fair court of law.
It has now been three years since my father s assassination on January 27,2005 by grenade attack in Sylhet. I am sad to say that there has been no visible progress towards a complete and unbiased investigation into the crime; indeed, there is little apparent interest in this matter. It is difficult for me to understand how unresolved political killings can help the country in its quest to rid itself of corruption and to move towards democracy through free and fair elections.
I do know that however futile it may seem, I will continue, in whatever way that I can, our family's campaign for justice. After all, it was my father who taught me to keep on trying, to not give up.
Nazli Kibna, Boston University www kibna org