The Silent Cry
“So, tell me all about it”, I said with a sheer sense of excitement.
“All about what exactly?” she asked. She sat down on the opposite chair as she placed a teacup in front of me.
I looked at her. She has a certain kind of composure in her voice, the kind that makes me want to listen to her all day. “About everything. The war, the capture, the aftermath, all of it.”
“What’s the point of hearing about this now? After so many years? What’s gone is gone. No point dwelling on it now.”
“No, I want to know. I couldn’t witness the war, and I always wanted to hear about this from a freedom fighter.”
She smiled a pale smile, and then slowly said, “I am no freedom fighter. I was just a nurse.”
“Anyone who took part in the war is a freedom fighter to me. Tell me so I can know. People need to know.” I took out my pen and notebook and placed them on the table.
“All right, but you can’t mention my name.” She spoke softly.
I took a sip of my tea and assured her about it being anonymous.
She took a deep breath and walked me through her journey, “I grew up in Kalmegha village in Tangail district. Our village was a safe haven for us. Everyone was so friendly, charming and kind. Growing up in that village felt calm and peaceful. The tranquil nature of the village made my childhood simple yet so amazing.
But I was quite the opposite in nature compared to the other villagers. I was so full of life and was always up to something mischievous. My mother used to get regular complaints from the neighbors about my mischiefs. To be on the safe side, I made bhaia my ultimate partner in crime.
I remember sneaking into Shorkar bari one day, only to climb the lychee tree for juicy lychees. I came back home that day with a terrible stomach ache, a result of having too many juicy treats. I was not allowed to go out for the whole week after that.
In school, I was always the one pulling pranks on the teacher, but I never got caught. One time, I hid a dead rat in a corner of the classroom, and the class had to be suspended because of the unbearable stench, no one knew what caused it. I was the naughtiest and the fiercest among my classmates. I was always up for dangerous adventures.
The village, the people slowly started losing the charm when political turmoil took a dangerous turn. Everyone was grumpy and worried. All the adults used to talk about Shadhinota, bhaia explained what the word meant. I didn’t care much about all this, but if having a new country meant no more singing Pak Sarzamin Sad Baad every day in school, then it was indeed what we needed. I hated that song.
My whole life changed the moment my father brought a marriage proposal for me. He thought it was useless for me to continue my studies as I was always neglecting them. Also in my village, girls were usually married off at an early age. I was only sixteen when I got married and started a new life hundreds of miles away from Kalmegha. The marriage put a stop to all my mischiefs and adventures.
It was hard for me to adjust to the new place, without my family. My husband was a young businessman. He was an only child and had to support his parents. He was a good man, he wanted to give me enough time to adjust to the new environment.”
“Do you remember the war starting?”
“Yes, I do. I still vividly remember 7th March’s commencement. The commencement made my husband ecstatic as he came home after listening to the historic speech. Later that night, he was telling me how after Shadhinota everything would be so much better. He started to imagine how independence can be inevitable for a boom in the business. He kept talking about a big house with an enormous yard for our children to play in. We weren’t married for long, and for a new wife that was the dream life. I could clearly see that picture.
My in law’s village was under military siege at the beginning of April, we heard about young girls being taken into military camps. My husband wanted to protect me. So one night, we went back to my own village and he left me in the safe hands of my parents before taking off.”
She stopped and with a pale smile added, “For a newly married young couple, a departure like that in a war torn country was terrifying. It broke my heart.”
“How did you end up in the guerilla camp from there?” I was totally beaming with curiosity to hear the rest of the story.
She continued, “My father and brother were seized by the military from our home in the middle of May. My brother was already in the guerilla squad and came to visit us for two days. He was always the passionate one and used to lecture me all day long about politics- “The West Pakistanis are always taking advantage of our hard work, violating out rights. Enough is enough, they have to pay for all that”, I could feel the hatred and rage he had for the Pakistanis.
Suruj Mia, an imbecile from our village, informed the military about him. The very next day the military came into our house and bayonet charged us. Then they found my father and brother in the bedroom and without a word they left and took them away, leaving behind my wailing mother and dumbfounded me. I was too shocked to even move, to say anything.”
She sighed, “Somehow I knew that was the last time I will be seeing them.” I could sense the pain inflicted on her voice.
“After the invasion, along with my mother, I took shelter in my aunt’s house. I was so angry, I could feel the raging exasperation in my veins. I wanted to do something. Anything to end this war. To end the Pakistanis.
After much thinking, I decided to go to the nearest guerilla base and train. When I told my mother about it, she said they wouldn’t take a girl and it was too risky. As I was stubborn about my decision, she finally gave me permission. Our village was in Dhaka division, under Sector Two. I walked for a whole day and finally reached the nearest camp, with the help of a kid informer for the Mukti Bahini.
They didn’t want to let me in at first, but I was always an aggressive person and I demanded to see the commander. They must’ve thought I have had some important news or something and so they let me in. I went straight to the commander and said, “I want to fight. Teach me how to fight.”
The commander didn’t laugh, instead, he said with a serious voice, “I understand your rage. But we already have too many fighters and not enough guns. If you really want to help you can help us with cooking and nursing, we only have one nurse and two cooks. Right now, a nurse is of more use to us. Will you do it?”
I was willing to do anything, so I said yes.
The times were tough in the camp. Each week after the missions, some fighters always came back heavily injured, and some of them never even made it back to the camp. With just me and another girl working as a nurse, it was almost impossible to help all of them. We didn’t have the necessary medicines. I didn’t have the proper training to be a nurse, I didn’t know how to console a soldier who just lost both his legs. I think that was the hardest task of my life.”
“Did you have a radio in the camp? How did you all know what was happening around the country?” I always wondered about the things that went on in the guerilla camps and was keen to know all the details.
She smiled, “Oh yes, we did have a small radio and at night, every one of us used to gather around it to listen to the legendary Chorompotro. M.A Mukul’s iconic expressions and language used to make us burst out in laughter.
Those were the few precious happy moments we had. We listened to Shadhin Bangla Betar once in a while, and the songs often motivated the soldiers to their core and often they would cry silently to the tunes.”
“If you were a nurse, you didn’t have to leave the camp, how were you captured then?”
“Patience, my child, I am getting to it. One day, I think it was at the end of September, I had to go and tend to a wounded soldier outside our camp, as he was in no position to be moved. The other fighters left us to finish the mission. When I was catering to his wounds, the soldier, Rafiq bhai, was whimpering in pain and was telling me to tell his mother that he died fighting, I kept telling him, he wasn’t going to die but he was reluctant to believe me. After a while, there was a round of heavy machine gun firing near us. Rafiq bhai knew what was coming, he quickly armed his gun and told me, “sister, hide behind the partition quickly and do not make any sound.”
Soon, the military came and found him lying there with a gun in his hand, as they approached I saw Rafiq bhai shoot with his one able arm, but of course, it was no use against six armed militaries. They showered him with bullets, and I could sense the exact moment he died. I saw a man die right before my own eyes.”
She stopped, looked away into the window for a while, and continued, “One military found me and was about to kill me right then and there. But their commander ordered something in Urdu, he stroke me hard with the butt of his gun and I lost consciousness.
I woke up in a damp, dark room. I couldn’t see anything. After a while, I could feel the presence of other women in the room. There were nine other women in that room. Each night, they would take two or three women out of the room and each morning, the women were thrown into the room all soaked up in blood and bruises.
We were raped, tortured, destroyed for what felt like years to me. First, I used to cry all night long and then after a while, I couldn’t even cry, my tears dried up. When at night, they took me away and took turns in raping me, I didn’t make a sound, after some time I became numb to it.” Her voice was trembling as she recalled those horrific days.
“Every night I wished I was dead already. Every day, every moment I kept thinking about my mother, father, brother, and husband. Rafiq bhai’s eyes kept haunting me. I kept hoping all of this was just a nightmare and I would wake up anytime now. But it never happened.”
“How did you get free? Did you manage to escape somehow?”
“No, we were rescued. I had no sense of time and day, but later I heard it was in November. We woke up in the middle of the night once and heard heavy firing and grenade blasts all over the area. The Pakis were running around shouting, “Mukti” “Mukti.”
Yes, “Mukti” was finally there. After fighting all night long, the Pakistanis surrendered in the dawn and we were freed from that hell in the morning.”
She looked at me with a smile and said, “For a moment, it felt like a dream. I still remember the face of the freedom fighter who took me out of the room and assured me that I was safe now. I never saw him again, I never had the chance to express my gratitude.”
“Then, what happened? Where did you go? Back to the village?”
“After some time spent at the local hospital, at first I went to find Rafiq bhai’s village to find his mother but only found a destroyed village with no residents.
I went back to my own village and found my mother waiting for me. My brother and father never came back. We never found their bodies either. Some of the locals said they saw my father’s body floating in the river, but the search proved to be useless later.
16th December was a memorable day. The whole village beamed with happiness and laughter after so long. The happiness of independence, the memory of the horror, the pain and the loss of our loved ones, all of this entangled into a mixed feeling.
After some time, I went back to my in law’s house, they’ve already heard about where I was and what happened to me. They refused to take me back. They didn’t want a rotten woman in their house.
“But what about your husband? Your in-laws didn’t care about you, but didn’t he at least fight for you when you went back?” I asked out of despair.
“He didn’t look at me, not even once. But I knew him well enough to know he was repenting the decision his parents took. I know he loved me. But he was too coward to go against his parent’s wishes. I don’t blame him. It was stupid of me to think I could go back again. That picture was too good to be true.
After that, I had no other choice, our village was burned to the ground, our home destroyed in a fire. I took my mother and set out for Dhaka, I heard the new government opened up rehabilitation centers for girls like me. I went to a women rehabilitation center. I was properly trained in nursing activities. I thought that was the only thing I could do now, after all this.
I remember Bangabandhu honoring us with the title of Birangona. War heroines.
But the reality was different, none of us felt like heroines, rather we felt like a useless burden for the society. People looked at us with utter disgust, we felt like garbage. A number of women committed suicide in the center, not being able to bear the hopelessness. A pregnant girl was my roommate, she used to cry all night long and was always whispering about how she wanted to kill her own child. One morning, she jumped off the balcony. I couldn’t stop her.
But I had to stay alive and I had to struggle to make a living for me and my mother. So I’ve been a nurse ever since then. After my mother passed away, it was just me living a life alone in this bustling city. That girl, who was so full of life, let the world suck the life out of her.”
“But all of this was unfair. This was not how it was supposed to go. It’s unfair to you.” I stood up and let out my anger.
She started laughing hysterically, “Fair? You’re still talking about fair? Do you think any of it was fair? Is it all fair now? What is happening now? After forty-eight years of independence, are we all leading a fair life? Everything that had happened after the war, do you think any of it was fair?
The world is a dangerous place, my child. We all keep hoping to see the “Sonar Bangla” we sacrificed everything for, but I don’t yet see it. People are still suffering from corruption, their rights are still being violated. They still don’t get what they deserve. All the things we wanted for our “Sonar Bangla”, how many did we actually achieve?
I remember the red and green flag we hoisted up in the camp every morning. Every day, I wonder, all that red in the flag, what was that all about? Did any of it even mattered in the end?” I could feel the sting of hopelessness in her voice.
I was at a loss for words. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what can be said to a woman who has lost everything in a war and had no hope for her country anymore. I wanted to console her, I wanted to tell her that we will get to see “Sonar Bangla” someday. I couldn’t. How could I?
All this time, I was listening to her story, I couldn’t write a word in my notebook. I’m supposed to write about her life for an article, and the details should’ve been noted down. But I couldn’t do it.
I told her, “I’ll come again next week, need a few more details for the article.” She seemed to be lost in her own world and just nodded. Seeing her sitting there with a sort of numbness, I couldn’t fight back my tears anymore and left in a hurry.
Outside, the sky was black with clouds and soon it started pouring heavily. I took out my headphones, Metallica’s “Nothing else matters” started playing in the background. I started walking in the rain and wondered what drenched me, the rain or the silent cry of a woman or maybe it was not even one woman, maybe it was the silent cry of thousands.
