Asif Munier

[Asif Munier, the youngest son of martyred intellectual Professor Munier Chowdhury of Dhaka University, wrote about his father who was abducted on the 14th December, 1971 by the Al Badr group and was killed with other Bangalee intellectuals. Munier Chowdhury was a teacher of extra ordinary caliber and renowned for his contribution to Bangla literature.]

14 December, 2003. Another year, another day of remembrance, another occasion to relive the past and looking ahead at the future. It's been thirty-six years I was born, thirty-two years Bangladesh was born and thirty-two years my father Munier Chowdhury disappeared.

The nation says he is a martyred intellectual, but we the family never learnt about his remains, only know how he was picked up by some Bengali speaking youth on this very day in 1971, just two days before the country was victorious against the occupation forces of Pakistan (then West Pakistan). Only a lot later we heard that those who picked my father and many other intellectuals were the local allies of the occupation forces, the Al-Badr, Al-Shams and the sort. In the initial months, even years of his disappearance, my mother half believed her husband will come back, or at least some news of him. I was told I was a very quiet child then, and never asked anyone why suddenly there was one person missing in the family, I just became quieter and probably drew my own conclusions and reactions. As I grew older I saw the difference of other children with both their parents, which I didn't have and that was a painful experience in my childhood. It just felt not fair why I don't have a father. But it never is a fair world is it? I know now at this stage in my life.

Years passed and it was only few years back during the research for David Bergman's film 'War Crimes File' for Channel 4 in the UK that we got to know about the fate of my father and many more intellectuals, a first hand account of a survivor who heard certain prominent names while being interrogated at the Teacher's Training Institute, himself being confined there as well. So no matter what the nation said, for me, it was only when I met this man and heard him.

I am not sure why I am writing this today. My mother has become a very private person and also very bitter about reminiscing about the war over the years. 'What's the point?' she says, like many mothers and family members of the martyrs. My two brothers and I never talked about it, not about even my eldest brother who was in the war with the famous crack platoon doing operations in Dhaka. His daughter living abroad came and stayed with us for a year and only with her that I talked a little bit about it, telling her a bit about her father, also playing her Moushumi Bhowmik's song 'Jessore Road' (love that song first time I heard I cried) and Joan Baez's 'Bangladesh' on CD.

Its only when I look at the kids of today, in the city, in the villages, Bangladeshis abroad for generations, that I feel we have to talk about it, we have to tell the young ones about the true history, the experiences and the feelings. The country, the people much of whom want to respect and remember, are drowned by the distorted history and the indifference of the state mechanism to preserve and respect history. I read loads of emails through networks on the internet, and feel encouraged of so many non resident Bangladeshis being more of a Bangali than many of us in the country. That is why we need to speak up, demand, protest.

Over the years, I have been part of the activism around liberation war through Projonmo '71, an organization of children of martyrs. Some of us formed it in 1991, initially not sure how we will go ahead but sure of what to do to rekindle the spirit of the cause of the war, for which our parents laid down their lives. Soon we were in the spotlight, with lot of expectations from the country, including the thousands of families who lost someone in the war. We became active in the campaign for trying war criminals, as well as developing welfare projects for the children of martyrs who are merely struggling to survive. The work is not easy.

It takes a lot of time, energy and money to build what we wanted to build. Quite a few of us were students then with dreams of the young blood and time in our hands but very little money and no long term planning. As we grew older, got jobs, got married and had kids, it became more and more difficult to run an organization. Plus internal differences and factionalism created nasty mud slinging and deadlocks. The nation who looked up at us where very disappointed. I say, the nation and we ourselves expected too much out of Projonmo 71. We can't do it alone to preserve the spirit of the war. We can not expect to be over and above all sorts of propaganda in the country that confuses us and divides us. We are humans too.

I'll end with a personal metamorphosis. A few years back I visited Pakistan for the first time in my life as part of my work. It was eerie, seeing the typical kurta payjama clad men with their long moushtache in the streets. That is how we depict 'razakars' in drama in Bangladesh, though one might say 'what is in a dress' and lot of men in Bangladesh do wear the same clothes. But as I met the Pakistanis, the fear gradually disappeared. I met people who came up to me and personally apologised for what happened in 1971.

I know that the general people hardly know what happened at the time, only that they lost a 'Muslim brother in a Pakistan-India war'. Sure its no excuse that they don't know the real story, but when the State stifles free speech completely for decades and permanently distorts history, young generations of people actually believe strongly the State propaganda. So now I don't hold the hatred against all the Pakistanis, neither does my family. Pakistanis are humans too. I have plenty of colleagues and friends now in Karachi, Lahore, Islamabad.

Now I leave the reader with a question -- those of us who lost a member of the family in the war, or have been maimed or shamed by the Pakistani army and their local allies, live with the agony and ecstasy of a free nation everyday of our lives but how do you pay your respect to those who fought and lost something in that war -- throughout the year and not just in March or December? What is your contribution in making the Bangladesh that they died for? What are you doing when the traitors in Bangladesh are living a life of luxury and power? We don't want your sympathy. We want you to show us that you care.

Meghna Guhathakurta

[Memories of my Father, Shahid Intellectual Jyotirmay Guhathakurta, professor of Dhaka University, killed by Pakistani Army on the night of 25th March, 1971]

The moment I look at verbenas, chrysanthemums dahlias and dianthuses, I seem to conjure up my childhood. In the midst of this riot of colours in the chilly winter morns of South Asia, I can see my father eternally clipping away at dead branches, plucking away dead leaves from thorny rose bushes and leafy rhododendrons. The garden was my father’s natural habitat. He proudly claimed himself to be chief gardener, king of his realm and no one, absolutely no one who did not know the names of all the flowers or creepers that dwelt there or was untouched by the subtle fragrance of the different kinds of jasmine that crept all around the walls or was not sensitive to the brilliant hues of colours changing in the sunset did not dare enter! From my earliest memories, I would see bunches of nervous yet eager students troop from our house and tread rather gingerly in my father’s footsteps to be shown around this kingdom of his. They were students of English literature who having struggled through their Keats and Wordsworth had landed up at my father’s doorsteps, eager to quench their thirst for more. But little did they know what was in store for them!!! First they had to show their prowess in discerning the different kinds of greens they could see reflected in the sparkling sun. Then they had to have deep knowledge of how the earth behaves when it is time to nurture the seedlings that have been strewn on them and how much water is needed to enable them to sprout into tender shoots. Then of course it is a must to arrange the mauves and yellows and the pink and the reds so that they do not clash disastrously but render harmonious melody all through. And with each lesson the pages of literature, English, Bengali or whatever would come to life for the students would suddenly feel their body vibrate with the sound of my fathers voice reciting from the works of Tagore, Wordsworth and Yeats. My father’s passion for gardening was not only well-known, it was legendary. Once a rumour went around that he was asked to set questions for the English paper of the College Exams. Many of my father’s students were wined and dined by these young candidates in order to seek suggestions as to what kind of essays to expect. My father’s students, no doubt, well fed for their labours, came up with one common denominator: It had to be Gardening as a Hobby!! Gleeful candidates rushed back to their midnight oil lamps to pour over arduous explanations of gardening techniques and forms. But alas to their surprise the next morning they opened their question papers to find staring at their face the instruction to write an essay on Fishing as a Hobby!! When the same sheepish students told my father the story that they had gorged down whole dinners to suggest a wrong essay, he guffawed with laughter but his eyes twinkled secretively like the brightly coloured dahlias.

Just nine months before the fateful night of 25th March 1971, we moved into a new accommodation provided to us by the Dhaka University authorities. It was just opposite the Central Shahid Minar and across the street from the eastern gate of Jagannath Hall, the student residential hall of which my father was made provost. My father always insisted on a ground floor flat so that he could keep up his dearest activity. The backyard of the flat we moved into filled with overgrown bushes and shrubs needed much work before it could be transformed into a ‘garden’. But it was a challenge that my father took up the day he entered the place. By the winter of 1970, the unwanted shrubs have been cleared, the ground all dug up and laid over by a mixture of sandy and clayey soil, the kind that would give birth to an unadulterated green lawn. The beds too were made ready for the sunny marigolds and the dahlias of various hues: biscuit, lemon, pink and dark maroon. So many passers by would stop and stare over the wall at this sight and my father’s face would beam and glow with pride like one brighter dahlia.

But alas it was on that fateful night of 25th March, in 1971 that the soldiers of the Pakistan Army, in their mission called “Operation Searchlight” trampled over this treasured garden and crossed our threshold to look for the “professor”. It was through this much-loved piece of lawn that he was led at gun-point to the front of the house and asked to give his name and religion. As soon as my father had answered, the order to shoot was given. My father was hit at the side of his neck as he turned away his face, and once on his waist, which paralysed him waist downwards. He blacked out and fell to the ground. The soldiers trooped out to continue their duties elsewhere in the campus, where hell had been unleashed. As soon as he regained consciousness, he started to call out our names. We realized what had happened, for until then we were under the impression that he had been arrested to be taken to the Cantonment. Neighbours helped us to bring him into the house, but for two nights and two days we could give him no treatment. Army trucks were on patrol, and bullets were being fired left and right. In the meantime, a troop of soldiers came to collect the dead for mass burial in the graves they dug at Jagannath Hall. Professor Maniruzzaman and three boys in his family were all shot dead that night and they dragged their bodies from the family who live on our 3rd floor. They forgot to count my father’s body. We could only take my father to the hospital on the morning of the 27th when the curfew broke. He was weak but still in his senses. But the doctors said his days were numbered. The injury was too critical. He breathed his last at 10.00 am on 30th March 1971.

My mother in her memoir “Ekattorer Smriti” (Memories of 1971) recalls a conversation with my father as the civil disobedience movement called by Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was gaining ground, in those stormy days of March 1971. Many suggested that my father leave the campus. But my father was stalwart. He couldn’t leave as long as one student stayed on campus. Rather melancholically, he pointed to a flower-pot in our verandah and said to my mother. The flower-pot contained three biscuit-coloured dahlias in three sizes. One large, the second medium and the last a small one. “See Basanti,” he told my mother, “these three dahlias represent us. I am the large one, it is old and almost dying, the medium one is you and Dola (myself) is the third one. When I am gone the two will still go on living.” My mother cut him off instantly telling him to stop brooding. But on the morning of the 25th, very ominously, the large dahlia had withered so much that my mother had cut off the stem, leaving the two on its own.

We remember instances like this in our weaker moments, when we do not know how exactly to cope with our emotions. For me, the remaining two dahlias are symbolical of the love my father represented for the world and for humanity, something, which could not be killed with bullets or hatred. He merely wanted us to carry this love forward in our lives and thereby conquer fear and hatred. That is why whenever and wherever I look at dahlias in bloom, my heart opens out and smiles an acknowledgement… Hey Dad!

Nusrat Rabbee

[Nusrat Rabbee is the daughter of Dr Md Fazle Rabbee and Dr Jahan Ara Rabbee. She is a visiting professor at the University of California at Berkeley and holds a doctorate in Biostatistics from Harvard University. Dr Fazle Rabbee was abducted from his house on 15th December and killed with other intellectuals of the country.]

Dr. Md. Fazle Rabbee, an internationally renowned cardiologist, was martyred in the infamous intellectual Killing in the 1971 War of Liberation. After graduating with a gold medal and highest honors from the Dhaka Medical College, he obtained two postgraduate degrees from the United Kingdom in the shortest time possible. When he returned to Dhaka, his reputation as a brilliant physician spread throughout the country very quickly. He was a very accomplished medical researcher and a superb clinician. He rose to the rank of joint Professor of Cardiology and Internal Medicine immediately. He received the Nuffied fellowship for his contribution to medicine and was scheduled to depart for Switzerland with his whole family in 1972.

Dr. Rabbee, a humanitarian, believed in Ganamukhi Chikitsha and provided free medical care to thousands of poor patients. In 1971, he and his wife helped and protected countless freedom fighters and their families from death and disaster. They stood firm in Dhaka during the war (March 1971-December 1971) and surrounded their friends of all religions who were artists, scientists, professors, bankers, and students. They believed in a progressive and secular society.

Dr. Rabbee was lifted from his house on Wednesday, 15th December at 4 pm by Pakistani army and local collaborators. Despite many efforts by his wife to reconsider the decision to kill Dr Rabbee, the Pakistani army officials went ahead with their decision to silence him forever. He was married to his beloved wife, the late Dr Jahan Ara Rabbee, ex Additional-Directory General of Health whom he met in medical school. Even though Dr Rabbee has died, his vision for Bangladesh and faith in humanity and peace prevail in many Bangladeshis at home and at abroad. He is fondly remembered for his irreplaceable contribution to Bangladesh, both for his genius in medicine and for his unwavering commitment to serve and protect the common people of our country.

Saleem Reza Noor

[Mr. Saleem Reza Noor is one of the sons of Shahid (Martyr) Serajuddin Hossain, Executive editor of Daily Ittefaq, a leading Bangla news daily of erstwhile East Pakistan.]

It has been 30 years now that from the 'table of my memory I wiped away all trivial, fond records' but the abduction and killing of my father by the planning and inspiration of war monger Pakistani so called generals and religious zealots Jamat-i-Islami's brain child Razakars and Al Badrs. In the name of 'religion' and 'for the sake of country's unity some brutes came out to the streets of Bangladesh, erstwhile East Pakistan, on this very night 30 years ago and engaged in a pre planned and methodical killing of unarmed innocent Bengali people to eliminate them from the earth, who were solely responsible to give birth of the country named 'Pakistan' just 24 years ago! People of Eastern part voted overwhelmingly for Pakistan by over 90% while Western part voted little over 50% for the formation of Pakistan in 1947. All promises to us in 1947 were broken right after the inception of Pakistan: majority rule was denied repeatedly, our language, culture and heritage were subject to demolish, our patriotism was questioned. Moreover, the basic principle and success of 'Pakistan' idea was remained in the Lahore Resolution of 1940 but for the vested interest quarter and establishment that was misinterpreted, truncated and ignored. Our demand of autonomy remained a far cry! Conspiracy and cliques of Pakistani generals and vested interest quarter totally doomed the country called Pakistan, which is being totally deviated from the promises and principles envisioned in 1947, so, the heavy price was paid by the people. 24 years' of continuous oppression and breaking of promises and denial of power could produce nothing but mistrust. After overwhelming victory in 1970's election our unprecedented leader Sheikh Mujib and his party Awami League was denied power in most shameless way. Pakistan's conscience is awaking after long last, and its civil society and mavericks are now questioning the prudence and implications of those suicidal acts of Pakistani 'night of the Generals!' Their evil tasks have been started to come out from Pandora box of Hamudur Rahman Commission's one-sided report! Though one sided, vague and partial this report is enough to portray the harrowing vicious chilling acts of Pakistani army and their compatriots Razakar, Al Badars in their expedition of saving Pakistan in 1971! People is now knowing the facts, which were craftily hidden from their eyes so far and gave them the distorted version of the facts! "Foul deed will rise, though all the earth O'erwhelm them, to men's eyes", and that process is now going on in Pakistan, so, I do not need to say anything more.

On this very day I just recall the event, which totally changed our lives, made us orphans! My father Serajuddin Hossain was the News and Executive Editor of largely circulated Bengali newspaper daily Ittefaq and the Senior Vice President of Pakistan Federal Union of Journalist (PFUJ) in 1971. He did not carry any weapon in his life; but became the victim of that, he had only a pen in his hand! That, only that, made Pakistani conspirators and generals fearful., so, they had killed him at the prime of his life; he was just 42 years old!

It is still very fresh in my memory: evening of 25th March 1971, my father came back from the office and discussing with visitors and neighbors. Total country was in tense; no body knew where the country was heading. My father got a sudden phone call, which asked him about a strong rumor in the city; though could not confirm but he got some smell in the air, so, hurriedly got ready to be his office. Just told my mother that something was going on behind the scene but not clear whether good or bad. My father instructed my mother to send my eldest brother Shameem to get enough rice from the market. Around 10p.m many neighbors rushed to our house (due to my father's profession and high contact with leadership and government our house had been treated as information center.) to know any development. My second eldest brother Shaheen was trying to contact Ittefaq office to get the latest from our father but line was not getting through. We received a call from Chittagong Ittefaq correspondence Mr. Mainul Alam, who told my brother that his repeated try to contact Ittefaq Office had been failed, so, he urged my brother to write down his message and convey it to my father at any cost. His reporting was the first clue that in the guise of discussion Yahya-Bhutto were just killing time to make us fool.

On the fateful night of 25th March they let loose the Army to the innocent civilian peoples of the Eastern part, and in Chittagong army just began to move and there were sporadic army shooting and peoples resistance going on. Around 11 p.m. my brother succeeded to contact my father and read out whole news of Chittagong correspondence, which was given to him earlier. My father told my brother that situation was very clumsy and nothing was certain, and my father just concluded from his Chittagong correspondence's reporting that some thing sinister would come! He told my brother that he had been trying to reach our leader and his friend Sheikh Mujibur Rahman but no one was picking up telephone there at his residence. He assured my brother that he would contact Mujib and exchange my latest news coming from all over the country with his and then might get a total picture of the situation and let us know. The phone was disconnected suddenly. At office my father instructed one of his reporters to '"get Mujib immediately I have to say him something," so, the reporter was trying to get line without any success. Around quarter to 12 midnight telephone call went through, the reporter told the man on the other part, " I am calling from daily Ittefaq, our Seraj bhai wants to talk with Bnagabandhu'. Unfortunately before both friend start talking the telephone was disconnected, electricity was turned off, heavy artillery firing was heard, Army convoys were noticed on the street, peoples resistance and cacophony of slogans and screaming were echoing all over the city. Within a moment everything was silenced by brute force using modern arms over unarmed innocent civilians, just for the time being! By daybreak the city turned to a city of dead! There was confusion at my father's office whether paper should be published in such circumstances. My father gave decision to publish the newspaper to inform the country that what really was going on the city on that night. Though there was question how the paper would be circulated to public in the morning, my father 's argument was that if only one copy of his paper could go out then people would know the situation and could take their decision in that total darkness. On that night of the mass killing all over the city my father's prophetic soul cried out and gave the heading, " EI GONOHOTTYA BONDHO KORO" (Stop this Genocide) long before the actual genocide began!

At the daybreak Pakistan army tanks took position across the street of Ittefaq and aimed at the newspaper, the voice of the muted nation in our long struggle of freedom. Few minutes later a jeep took position along with the tanks aiming machine gun towards Ittefaq. My father, News Editor Mr. Asaf- ud- Daula, Reporter Abed Khan and 6 others trapped in the office without any food and communication with outside world came out to the balcony to assess the situation. Others were cautioning my father that Ittefaq was target of this brute army and the tank would open fire to Ittefaq. My father just told them that Newspaper was the safest place in the world, so, no one could dare to attack their office and insisted his colleagues to stay inside of the office, because going out to the street at that time means nothing but death! My father's that confidence was proved totally wrong in a moment. Aiming machine gun at Ittefaq was roared, narrowly my father and others escaped the bullet, they just ducked and crawled to inside but one newspaper delivery man, who just arrived to pick the paper for delivery, and a peon of Ittefaq struck by the bullet and instantly died. Right after the machine gun fire, Tanks opened fire twice and shook up the total building, thereafter few 'Jawans' got in to the down stair of Ittefaq building and spread petrol and lit fire. There was no way to stay there, so, every one had to escape the building, which was miracle exit and another story. My father was certainly could not believe that any civilized force could attack any newspaper office and try to burn its employees! My father's error of judgement was that he thought Pakistan army was that civilized to abide by all civilized norms and ethics! Our nine months to freedom showed how cruel and inhuman was their acts. After 30 years we are still getting numerous scaffolds all over Bangladesh! That was the beginning of the genocide and my father escaped that but could not avert it totally.

Despite my father's severe reluctance and objection junior partner of the owner of Ittefaq, Anwar Hossain Monju ex minister of corrupt Ershad and now Minister in Hasina's cabinet, made a secret deal with Islamabad and started publishing Ittefaq from the ashes. In the midst of envious circumstances and severe censorship my father again took up his pen and started writing series of political analyses. He justified Mujib's demands and actions and unveiled the face of other political leaders along with Bhutto, Quayum, Maududi, Gholam Azam. He proved that if Mujib was traitor in light of his words and deeds then all other "Patriot" leaders of Pakistan were traitors too by their own words and deeds. Jamaat paper Sangram attacked my father severely and threatened him to eliminate as the 'India and Hindu loving traitor'. Whenever Bengali nation spoke about their rights and demands in 24 years of Western occupation always we were termed as Indian and Hindu loving people! So, that was nothing new to my father and he took it as a complement but again failed to understand the vicious cruel nature and severe hatred of Yahya-Tikka-Niazi-Rao Farman -Jamshed and their collaborators Muslim League and Jamat-e-Islam's inhuman cadres!

It was December and all out war began with India. Sometime in the first week Governor Malik called for a news conference in Governor House and mainly Rao Farman Ali briefed the journalists. My father was there and he had certain concern for the safety of journalist, because day before Pakistan army along with Razakars and Al Badrs invaded Ittefaq news Editor Asaf-ud-Daula's house and created havoc and panic. After the news conference my father met Rao Farman Ali and complaint Pakistan army and collaborators' acts of intimidation on the previous night to his colleagues' house. My father raised the issue of safety and security of news paper men otherwise it would be impossible to publish newspaper! Rao Farman gave my father assurance that "Ittefaq people has nothing to worry about and if any thing happens next time then just inform me right away." He apologized for that incidence. That event made my father very suspicious and could read his own fate. Just 3 days later, 10th December after midnight a gang of thugs knocked at our door. It was blackout, curfew. Around 1:30 after midnight we heard first time knocking at the door. My second eldest brother Shaheen, myself and one uncle were in the living room; we asked "who's there?" but no one answered. 10 to 15 minutes went like that and we were repeatedly asking, my father woke up and asking from his bed room "who was knocking the door?'' and later my father and others came in to our room. We lit the lights and tried to see out side through window but only we saw total darkness. After waiting few more minutes my father decided to open the door to see the matter. My mother and aunt told him not to do that but my father convinced them that may be some needy person was asking for help. So, we need to see that. He opened the door and saw no one there but a white street dog leaned at the door! We went back to bed.

That was 3:30 a.m. and again we heard knocking at the door! That time little harder. We woke up, lit the light and asked the same question, my father woke up too and calling us by the name to get the situation out there. That time we got response from out side, we recognized it was our landlord, who asked to open the door. We thought they were in danger, may be my father could help them, so, we opened the door. My brother just opened the door half way and in lighting speed a barrel of rifle got in, some one screamed "hands up". In thundering speed near about 10 armed men entered in the room. Most of them were in masks. Keeping us in gunpoint they were asking our name one by one in Urdu language. Then they took us to out side verandah, where we found the whole family of our landlord stood in gunpoint. By that time my third eldest brother Fahim rushed to my father's door to let him know that the embodiment of death, Pakistan army and Razkars, Al Badrs were there. We had a great confidence that if my father came out and reveal his identity then they would not do any harm to us! My father got up from the bed and rushed to get his Panjabi , my mother opened the door to see what happens to the screaming children but Alas! Armed Razakars, Al Badrs and army personnel entered the bedroom of my father and asked his identity. My father only could say, "Serajuddin Hossain, Executive editor of daily Itte…." A harsh voice screamed "hands up, Auo hamara sath' (Come along with us). My father could not wear his panjabi, he was just wearing a Sando Genji, Lunghi and bare footed and holding a torch light in his hand. They brought him out and hurriedly told us to go to inside of the room and shut the door, they threatened us not to look through windows or follow them they would shoot if we did not follow the instruction! My father at that point only was asking to take his torch light from his hand. One of my brothers went and got the torchlight. One of armed persons asked for a piece of cloths at one point, I handed over him my gamchcha (towel). Then they walked away, under the severe December cold they took my father barefooted wearing only Lunghi and sleeveless Sando Genji. We did not see our beloved father any more!

What happened next? The scaffold fields of Rayer Bazar and Kata Shur revealed the aftermath of that kidnapping. Innocent unarmed Bengali people's tragic fate showed the brutality and tortures of the Pakistan army, which is unmatched in human history! Their crime against humanity is evident in all over Bangladesh. I can not wipe out that memory for a moment. I can not go further, I can not imagine what happened next, I wish my father could escape that inhuman torture and cruelty of Pakistan Army, Razakars and Al Badrs, which were evident in found dead bodies of those thousands scaffold fields all over Bangladesh!

2001

[Shamsher Chowdhury wrote about his brother Professor Munier Chowdhury of Dhaka University who was abducted on the 14th December, 1971 by the Al Badr group and was killed with other Bangali intellectuals. He was a teacher of extra-ordinary caliber and renowned for his contribution to Bangla literature.]

Scores of lectures by a host of scholars have already portrayed the genius of Shaheed Munier Chowdhury -- his contributions to Bangla literature, as a progressive thinker, his role as a pioneer in the Language Movement including exposing multifarious aspects of his talent in a host of other areas. This short essay, however, portrays the 'man' Munier Chowdhury and some intimate elements of his personality as I experienced them as a brother.

Munier Chowdhury's qualities as a man to my mind far outweigh his literary and professional qualities. He was truly a giant of a man, humble, kind and forgiving.

I remembered when he procured a car (perhaps in the late 50s), then a rarity in the streets of Dhaka more so in and around the university campus, everyone was happy to see Prof. Chowdhury owning a car. Students and teachers alike had a free ride whenever there was an opportunity with my brother at the Steering. Often on his way to the University from a trip downtown or elsewhere he would stop at a bus stop or on a roadside corner to provide a lift to a waiting university student or someone known to him. On occasions he even went out of his way to drop a female student home Once asked by my mother as to why he takes so much trouble he replied by saying "Amma I now have car. I am a very fortunate and privileged person. What is the point of having a car if I cannot share my fortune and joys with others?"

Munier Chowdhury was not much of a practising Muslim, yet in many ways his faith in the Ultimate was evident as I have seen in many of his actions a few years before the cruel hand of death separated him from us. It was perhaps during the years 1968/69. He routinely visited our ancestral home at Central Road in Dhanmondi driving down from his residence from the University staff quarters at Nilkhet each Friday and ferried my father to the nearby Paribagh masjid for his Jumma Prayers. Once my father was inside the Mosque. He parked the vehicle at a vantage point under the cool shade of a tree and waited for my father to finish his prayers so that he could take him back home. During this waiting period of 45 minutes or so until the prayers were over, he would recline in the driver`s seat of his car with a book in his hand. To many people of the locality this was a scenario which aroused immense curiosity. He would often conceive many a plots of his dramas or literary works during these waiting sessions.

Munier chowdhury was a classical example of a Humanist. His love for people was unique, spontaneous and boundless. He made no secret or distinctions for his love for a poor beggar or an urchin on the street or a student in distress. All the fourteen of us (eight brothers and six sisters) were then alive. He was the brother amongst brothers. You could always look up to him for his kind advice and support on matters ranging from academic issues including many a secret and complicated affairs of the heart. He was most forgiving and ready to lend a helping hand to a brother in need! I was then a student of class nine in the year 1957 and took to smoking heavily. I needed money to buy cigarettes. I used to visit him at the University every now and then. Without fail every time he would oblige me with some "pocket money" at the same time mildly rebuking me for the filthy habit. He often helped poor students who were unable to pay university fees or buy a book.

It is indeed sad that the life of such a humble man was so brutally cut short. Although no one knows under what circumstances he passed his final hours yet there is every reason to believe that he met a gruesome and a violent end. As far as I can recollect he escaped from the University staff quarters and arrived at our parental home on or about the 28/29 March 1971 and was with us till the day he was kidnapped on the 14th of December. During this entire nine- month period he would routinely take his seat beside my mother each time she was on her prayer mat. God alone knows what went through his mind during those hours. Sometime in May a group of young men (perhaps Indian counterparts of Bangladeshi freedom fighters) came to the house to escort him across the border to Calcutta to safety. I remember my mother almost begging him to leave. He sternly refused and said "Amma you cannot ask me to do this being a devout Muslim. As you know I like all others will die wherever Allah has destined".

Such was the essence of my brother Munier Chowdhury, a truly great man.

Remembering Shaheed Munier Chowdhury

Kabir Chowdhury

[Shamsher Chowdhury and Kabir Chowdhury wrote about their brother Professor Munier Chowdhury of Dhaka University who was abducted on the 14th December, 1971 by the Al Badr group and was killed with other Bangali intellectuals. He was a teacher of extra ordinary caliber and renowned for his contribution to Bangla literature.]

Munier Chowdhury was one of the most brilliant personalities of our land. Born on November 27, 1925, his distinguished career was brutally cut short by the local killer-collaborators of the Pakistan occupation army on December 14, 1971, only a few hours before Bangladesh was liberated. He was an ardent nationalist but never a militant one. In his student days he was an active communist, a regular Party member and card-holder, but he voluntarily severed that connection years ago. He chose the life of a scholar, a professor and a writer, and in all three fields achieved enviable success.

Educated in the universities of Aligarh, Dhaka and Harvard, he first carved a name as a fine teacher of English literature. He was, however, passionately devoted to Bengali language and culture, and courted imprisonment in 1952 for his participation in the Bengali language movement, where he had, along with some others, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman as his prisonmate. While in jail he assiduously studied Bengali language and literature, appeared at the MA examination in Bengali from inside the jail and came out first in the first class. On his release from imprisonment, he started teaching Bengali at the University of Dhaka, later becoming the Chairman of the Department and the Dean of the Faculty of Arts, which posts he held till his tragic death in 1971. Students flocked to his class, many from other departments, as he lectured in his inimitable fashion on Meer Mosharraf Hossain, Bankimchandra and Rabindranath, among others. To this day he is fondly remembered as an extraordinary teacher who was able to kindle in his students a genuine love for great literatures.

Munier Chowdhury possessed a truly creative mind. He was interested in many things, and he left his mark in many fields. He designed a keyboard for the Bengali typewriter which was vastly superior to the earlier ones. Commercially patented by a German firm, it was known as the Munier-Optima typewriter. He wrote plays, short stories, literary criticism, scholarly dissertations and humorous sketches besides translating and adapting a number of plays from English into Bengali. However, his forte was drama, and he is rightly considered as the father of modern drama in Bangladesh. He was passionately attracted to the world of drama since his adolescence. His one-act play Rajar Janmadine (On the King’s Birthday) was performed at the Dhaka University stage when he was still an undergraduate student. He avidly read all the best plays of the world, ancient and modern, the popular works as well as the classics. He travelled widely, visiting UK, USA, Germany, Russia and Japan and, wherever he went, he made it a point to visit local theatre halls and opera houses, see some performances and meet a few contemporary local playwrights.

Munier Chowdhury’s most famous work is Kabar (The Grave), written in the background of the glorious language movement of 1952. First enacted inside the jail by a band of political prisoners on a makeshift stage soon after its composition, Kabar has been performed hundreds of times all over Bangladesh, and the trend shows no signs of abatement. Among his other plays are Raktanto Prantar (The Bloodspattered Field), a historical play in three acts; Chitthi (The Letter), a social play in three acts; Rupar Kouta, a fine adaptation of Galsworthy’s Silver Box; Keu Kichchu Bolte Pare Na, an excellent adaptation of Bernard Shaw’s You Never Can Tell; and Mukhara Ramoni Bashikaran, a brilliant translation of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. All these plays have been successfully staged, broadcast or televised in Dhaka and other places of Bangladesh.

His plays amply reveal his expert knowledge of the theatre arts. They are skilfully constructed; the dialogue is racy and unflagging; and their content is characterised by a broad liberal humanism. They also reveal a sense of humour, sometimes pungent and satirical, sometimes farcical and gay, often scintillating with the aroma of high comedy.

Had he lived today in free and sovereign Bangladesh with the common people committed to the ideals of democracy, secularism and social justice, he could make invaluable contribution to our arts, culture and literature, but he was not allowed to live by the evil forces opposed to the ideals stated above. It is a great pity that those evil forces of autocracy, religious fanaticism and ruthless exploitation are still alive in Bangladesh, in fact, are flourishing undeterred. As we remember Munier Chowdhury let us all rededicate ourselves to the liquidation of those forces as early as possible. Unless we can do so, the very existence of Bangladesh will be in jeopardy.

National Professor Kabir Chowdhury continues to teach part-time in the Department of English, University of Dhaka. He is also a renowned critic and translator [THE NEW AGE, DECEMBER 14, 2003)

Lest we forget Professor Munier Choudhury

Shamsher Chowdhury

This 14th December 2003 was the 32nd Anniversary of my illustrious brother's kidnapping. My brother and I were watching from the outer balcony of our ancestral home in Central Road, the Indian fighter jets flying right over our head, apparently hurling rockets at a house where presumably the then Commander of the Pak Armed Forces General Niazi had taken refuge. It was now 1145 a.m. the shelling and rocketing which began around 7 am had come to a sudden halt.

My mother called out from the inner yard of the house opposite the outer verandah on the ground floor, "Now that there is some respite from the air raids, the two of you should have a quick shower and have lunch. I am laying the table". At this we both came down and my brother went for his bath at the makeshift bathing place which was located at the inner yard of the house having a bucket, a plastic mug and a water tank capable of storing about ten to twelve buckets of water on a six by three feet of concrete platform. At about this time as I was waiting for my brother to finish his bath and make way for me I saw a microbus camouflaged in mud had stopped right in front of our main outer entrance and about three or four young men alighting from the bus, all in militia uniform. All had rifles in their possession. The two of them were making rattling sounds beating on the lock hanging from the large gate made of wrought iron apparently trying to attract attention of the inmates of the house. I was watching all this from the window of one of the rooms on the ground floor, which provided a clear view of the gate and the front yard including the street right across.

My first reaction was to ignore, wait and watch and at the same time hoping that they would give up and disappear. No such thing happened. They seemed determined and now even began to shout. Seeing this I finally came out and decided to face these people who appeared from nowhere. Besides I was quite apprehensive of their purpose since the entire city was under curfew imposed by the Pak Army. As I approached the gate one of the three people now standing on the outer side of the closed gate asked me to open the gate to which I responded by saying that I would like to know the purpose of their visit. The three of them said in one voice that they had me to see Munier Sir. I was now getting somewhat nervous and told them that they could not see him since he was unwell. At this, one of them looked at me angrily and asked me to open the gate in a terse voice. I felt I could no longer resist them from coming into the yard. After some exchange of words leading to arguments and counter arguments about my brother being sick and his inability to meet them, I finally asked these people (who I later learned to be Razakars) to wait till I inform my brother.

As I went in, I found my brother standing in front of the glass window located on the middle section of the stairs, still in a vest and a Lungi. Before I could say something, he wanted to know if these people had come to see him. Having had confirmation from me he asked me to tell them to wait. A little while after he returned wearing a Punjabi (a traditional long sleeved shirt reaching way below the knee) and the Lungi and in a pair of slippers. As he approached the Razakars, they greeted him and said that they had come to take him to the Police station for some questioning.

At this my brother wanted to see their authority by way of a Warrant of Arrest. After considerable exchange of words the Razakars could neither persuade my brother to accompany them nor could they produce any document in support of his arrest. As matters came to a pass my brother refused to accompany the Razakars. As I was watching the proceedings standing beside him, one of the Razakars all too suddenly rushed behind my brother and held the gun pressed at his back ordering him to move. I was completely dumbfounded at the sudden turn of events and followed my brother to the entrance door of the bus. And now as he was entering the bus he turned to me and said " Rushdi (a name by which my family used to address me) I better go."

Epilogue

32 years have gone by, since that frightful incident, I have neither seen nor heard from him. To this day I keep asking myself: "Is he dead, if so who killed him and why? Was he tortured to death? Who was he thinking of before the end came? Was he thinking of his mother whom he left waiting at the dining table to join her? Or was he thinking of his wife and children whom he had left behind?" My mother has left this world (June 2000). I am glad that at least her long and painful wait for her son was over. As for me the gaping wound caused since my brother disappeared still remains, yet I feel no real pain. I have learnt to live and cope with the tragedy. But what I find even harder to deal with is the current state of our beloved Homeland. The tragic state of our country has long overshadowed my personal loss.

(The Daily Star, December 15, 2003)

Jahanara Imam lost her son and husband to the war. She has been an icon to many freedom-loving people because of her book, Of Blood and Fire that recounts the horrific days of 1971.

In 1971 her son Rumi had just entered the University when the Pakistan Army began its crackdown on the Bengalee struggle for autonomy. Rumi became active in the struggle and joined the Liberation Force for Bangladesh. During a guerilla operation in Dhaka against the occupying Pakistan Army, Rumi was arrested, and like many others, he disappeared without a trace.

In 1990, Jahanara Imam began a movement to rekindle the spirit of the Liberation War. General apathy about the war had set in, encouraged by the ruling parties who wished to lessen the importance of the struggle in order to rehabilitate those who were against the war in 1971 and collaborated with the Pakistanis. Jahanara devoted her life to keeping the meaning of the war in the forefront of national consciousness.

In 1994 Jahanara Imam died after a long struggle with cancer. Her dedication and spirit for freedom inspired the establishment of the Liberation War Museum.

Source: Liberation War Museum

Jahanara Imam by Lutfar Rahman Riton

ekatturer dinguli by Jahanara Imam

A Poem by Shamsur Rahman

It was a dark day in the history of genocide, March 25th 1971. A deathly hush had fallen over the bustling capital city of Dhaka, as Pakistani soldiers, armed to the teeth began their systematic and brutal blood bath of the Bengali army, navy and air force personnel, followed by mass executions of civilians; professors, doctors, lawyers and other professionals and university students were targeted. The city was terrorized as squads of Pakistani soldiers forced their way into homes in the middle of the night, dragged their targets out, before their screaming families and shot them in cold blood, checking them off their hit list.

The Pakistani terror squad quickly spread to the neighboring cities, burning villages to the ground on the way, shooting escaping civilians; men, women and children, as they ran out of their burning homes. By that time all news of the genocide operation was controlled by the Pakistan army and the propaganda machine was in full force, along with a complete curfew. Electricity and water was turned off along with all communications.

Major M.A. Hasib, stationed in Comilla cantonment, a city approximately 60 miles from Dhaka, was making arrangements and looking forward to a civilian life, after devoting a 21 year career to the Pakistan army. He had opted for an early retirement, because he had been superseded for promotion to Colonel twice. He was disgusted with the treatment of Bengali officers by the Pakistani army, who routinely and deliberately, used the concept of the glass ceiling and kept the Bengali officers in their midst at lower ranks.

Hearing of the atrocities committed by the Pakistani soldiers, from the news on BBC radio, his wife feared that he faced imminent danger. But he comforted her. Believing that since his early retirement had already been approved and came into effect only ten days earlier and that he had been a loyal army officer all his life, they had nothing to fear from him, thus no harm would come to him and his family. But the Pakistani death squads were taking no chances.

They came for him on the morning of March 29th 1971, as he sat down to breakfast with his family and huddled together to listen to BBC news on the transistor radio. He was my father, Major M.A. Hasib. Four armed soldiers escorted into a jeep at gunpoint. That was the last time he was seen alive.

My mother and two small sisters were later thrown into prison camp, where they witnessed and suffered the atrocities committed by the Pakistani soldiers.

My father's brutal end came to light after Bangladesh became independent. An eye witness, a barber whose life had been spared, because his services were needed by the Pakistani soldiers, told authorities a brutal tale of torture and murder and led authorities to seven mass graves, only a short distance from our house, with 500 bodies, all blind folded, their hands tied behind their backs, shot by firing squad.

He was my father, Major M.A. Hasib. He was forty two years old.

Last updated: June, 2005