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From land of poetry to theatre of war...

Sadya Afreen Mallick
December 4, 1971, Dhaka University campus; it was midnight. The familiar stillness was suddenly shattered with piercing sirens from all around. The sky lit up like a huge bail of fire. The anti-aircraft missiles hissed skywards, like hundreds of angry serpents looking for prey. The war which had so far been on the ground only had just spread to the skies - the war truly was all around us, blanketing us in an air of dread and apprehension. But as the ground continued to shake under the onslaught of the bombs, there was a unifying feeling of hope amongst all of us looking up to the sky: the end of our nine month long Liberation War was near. Very near.
The long nine months had been a period of excruciating pain for the nation. Millions uprooted, countless dead and the toll of widows and orphans continued to rise by the day. Great swarms of people seemed to move like a giant wave across the country in search of a safer zone ever since the start of the crackdown and mass murder in the early hours of March 25,1971. The Dhaka University campus was the country's lighting rod against the scheming of the Pakistani junta, and one of the central targets of the anti liberation forces. It was also where we lived.
March 25,1971, as we woke up to the sound of gunfire in the middle of night, it seemed the whole country was waking up to the realities of war. We stayed up all night crouched in fear. We strained our eyes and ears to understand what was happening all around us.
But it was only the next morning that, we came face to face with the carnage. A feeble knock on the door, a young man in a blood drenched shirt, asking my father for directions to a fellow professor's house. What followed was like a haphazard sequence of events as hour by hour, more and more people started to stagger into the campus with tales of carnage and mass murder. Offices
burned, people dragged away in army vans, lynched, brutalised, killed and left in a heap on the streets.
Fearing the worst, we set off to join our family at the small township of Korotia, just as the overnight curfew was lifted.
Danger loomed large from all corners as we drove in our white Volkswagen towards Tangail. There were hurriedly set up check points all along the way. At the Mirpur Bridge, we were stopped by a bunch of armed and ruggedly dressed nonBengalis who took us for rebels. Minutes seemed like hours as they eyed my father, mother and us and started to search our car. Finally satisfied that we were not an immediate threat they let us through.
At every nook and corner anxious people would stop our car to gather
news of the city, to know if their relatives were safe or the area where they resided was demolished by the army.
Once we reached our destination, the air seemed clean in contrast to smoke filled Dhaka. Soon, anxious relatives who had reached there before us, gathered around and the relief of seeing near ones was acutely real.
The next few days passed quickly as we waited for news. Tangail was famous for the sweets. The moira would bring the fresh rasgollas and chomchom every evening, while the tantis gathered to sell the bright handmade tant saris for only Tk 12-25.
But our peace was short lived. Within a week or two, the olive jeeps raided the sleepy town, burnt the bazaar, raided our house and soon our entourage numbering not less than 80 were once again on the run
to the dense interiors ofTangail. Helicopters hovered from the sky and shot at us. Many of us had been wearing red and green saris to symbolise our national flag. The snipers' main purpose was to shoot down anyone who showed any signs of patriotism.
The small towns now seemed to be in constant threat. It was time to decide whether to take refuge in unknown surroundings or return to our home. Those months went by a blur as we continued to be on the move, waiting to hear news of men of our family who had marched to the battle frontlines. Stories of betrayal by friends, capture, narrow escapes filled our days. As we travelled, our own experience of escapes seemed unreal. Once my aunt had to drag her young son and keep him half submerged in the lake to avoid the army
jeeps. Other times, we had to share the house with complete strangers who welcomed us at different villages and shared their horror stories with us. My elder brother was once stopped at the checkpoint and asked to prove his allegiance to the Pakistanis. When he refused, he was dragged away and only managed to escape in a split second when his captors looked away. He still remembers the bullets whistling over his head as he ran with his head down through the cornfields.
By mid-lune we returned to our home at the university campus. What was once a bustling life, seemed listless and dying. Scars from the war were all around us, with burned walls, debris and ransacked houses.
As darkness crept in, we would listen as one to Shadhin Bangla Betar
Kendra to hear the latest news of guerilla warfare. The Mukhtibahini were going from strength to strength. There were jubilant reports of bridges being destroyed, the army being met with fierce standoffs and rising casualties. People who were not in the frontline formed a human shield, giving refuge, food and shelter to the Mukhtibahinis. Unimaginable stories of how some people willingly let themselves be arrested and tortured rather than give up information on the Muktibahinis filled our eyes with tears. It was as if an invisible wall with sheer will was driving the army back as much as the Muktibahinis were crushing the advancing forces.
Then came December 4, when India retaliated and declared war against Pakistan.
As the air raids intensified, it was again time to leave the already deserted campus. This time we took refuge at one of our relative's house in Wari, Old Dhaka. The Muktis and the Indian armed forces were closing in. Often against the will of the elders we dared to go to the rooftops to watch the air raid relentlessly pounding Government House to the ground. We realised how close we were to the war, when one day a rocket landed on the building next door and demolished it.
And every day the Muktis were drawing closer to the city stronghold. Our patience was at breaking point until that fateful day: December 16. We looked in dazed wonder at each other as we listened intently to the voice on the radio: Pakistan had surrendered. We were free.
The memory of that day would forever remain fresh in my mind. As dusk fell, hundreds of people ventured from their home, eyes filled with tears, chocked voices filling the air with joy. Then came the Muktis in thousands firing their rifles into the clear sky. The message was clear -what had begun with bullets would end in a hail of gunfire announcing to the world the birth of a proud new nation. The birth of a new dawn.