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In 1971, a freedom fight took place between the former West Pakistan and East Pakistan. It involved a fight against the Islamist Pakistani regime by the secular Bengalis, who lived in former East Pakistan. In this nine-month war, it is estimated three million people were killed. Many girls and women were raped by the Pakistani army and their collaborators. Some say these female victims numbered three to five hundred thousand. For the ones that survived, the horrifying events of that time have continued to blight their lives up to the present day.
It is sad that, because of complicated global politics, the story of the Bangladeshi war victims has not been heard in the West. This novel is a tribute to these victims, who never had a home or a life after the war.
In 1971, a freedom fight took place between the former West Pakistan and East Pakistan. It involved a fight against the Islamist Pakistani regime by the secular Bengalis, who lived in former East Pakistan. In this nine-month war, it is estimated three million people were killed. Many girls and women were raped by the Pakistani army and their collaborators. Some say these female victims numbered three to five hundred thousand. For the ones that survived, the horrifying events of that time have continued to blight their lives up to the present day.
It is sad that, because of complicated global politics, the story of the Bangladeshi war victims has not been heard in the West. This novel is a tribute to these victims, who never had a home or a life after the war.
In 1971, a freedom fight took place between the former West Pakistan and East Pakistan. It involved a fight against the Islamist Pakistani regime by the secular Bengalis, who lived in former East Pakistan. In this nine-month war, it is estimated three million people were killed. Many girls and women were raped by the Pakistani army and their collaborators. Some say these female victims numbered three to five hundred thousand. For the ones that survived, the horrifying events of that time have continued to blight their lives up to the present day.
It is sad that, because of complicated global politics, the story of the Bangladeshi war victims has not been heard in the West. This novel is a tribute to these victims, who never had a home or a life after the war.
The author is a teacher by profession. She studied
English language and literature, and Asia Studies at the University of Amsterdam as well as Indology at the University of Leiden in the Netherlands. Her previous works include childrens books, novels, a collection of poetry and a language textbook published by Routledge. In her works of fiction, she is inspired by Sufi thinking and by the Persian poet, Sufi mystic and philosopher Omar Khayyam.
To the children who survived the war of 1971 in Bangladesh but never made it back home
Copyright Mithun B. Nasrin (2015)
The right of Mithun B. Nasrin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. Cover artist: Rokhsana Sultana
ISBN 978 1 78455 637 2 (Paperback)
ISBN 978 1 78455 639 6 (Hardback) www.austinmacauley.com First Published (2015) Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd. 25 Canada Square Canary Wharf London E14 5LB
Printed and bound in Great Britain
Acknowledgements
While I was busy writing something entirely
different than this novel, all of a sudden, my brains were sensing a new feeling inside me, like 'The Smell of Home'. In a second I saw a Robiullah sitting on the floor of my atelier with the other characters sitting next to him, taking the form of real people. They told me their tale and I have just written it down for them. Therefore, I must express my gratitude to all the characters in my novel for being present around me. While writing this novel, I also felt the presence of a very different person, Mr Mustafa, the editor for Tumpa Prokashoni, Banglabazar, Dhaka, who have published several of my novels and childrens books. Through the years, he has become like a brother. It is Mustafa who lit a candle inside my mind to write about the war victims. He made it clear to me why writers and novelists must use the weapons of words against war, devastation and mostly against war criminals. After that conversation with him, I did not have to think long. I have chosen my path as a writer
against war. So a huge thanks to Mr Mustafa, who
has always believed in me. I must also thank the cover artist Ms Rokhsana Sultana, who previously has drawn several other covers for me too. A huge thanks to Babor S.M. Bodiuzzaman, who also made a valuable contribution to the cover design. I must also thank all of my family members for their belief that I could make this world a better place. Huge thanks to my friends too for showing great interest while I was writing this novel. Above all, my heartfelt thanks to Annette Longman, the chief editor of Austin Macauley, for publishing this novel and Vinh Tran of the production team, as well as everybody else involved in bringing out this novel in a remarkably short time. Let's all hope that this novel will make people realise that war is not the answer to everything.
Today is his eightieth birthday. He is sitting in their
small sitting room, on his wheelchair, coughing loudly and sounding like a grumpy old bear. In the month of December, he always catches a bad cold. He does not like it. He wants to be healthy and strong in December. He wants to be okay especially on the sixteenth of December, as he says. Someone has called him from abroad, probably to congratulate him and he is shouting back, No, no! No cakes, no flowers, no. No one is coming. Yes, she is okay. We are all okay. He turns off his mobile phone and mumbles something inside his mouth. He brushes his thick brush-like silver moustache with the back of his palm. He always has a grey beanie on his large head, covering both of his ears. Under the beanie, his grey hair is thin. His skull is almost visible. On the top and around both his ears, there is still a sign of some curly hair, which once might have been thick. There are one or two shreds
of very dark hair still lingering around his forehead.
He pulls the dark green shawl tighter around his huge neck, which makes it look like an old tree trunk. His toeless two feet are hanging down like the palms of a monkey. He wants to talk to her about something. But she cant hear him well from her small bedroom with the door closed. The TV is playing loudly next to him. He has had a box attached with it. This box he got from a friend of his. Well, friend he has no friends. Not that she knows of. But he likes to call that guy his friend. The guy who lives in London. The guy who sends him news and newspapers, who is a reporter and works as a journalist for a newspaper which is printed in London, in his own language. He likes reading a newspaper in his own language. It is not just liking it. It is more a ritual. He has made a religion of it, she thinks. Nowadays she is sure of it. He holds the big brown envelope with both his palms near his mouth and tears the envelope wide open with his rickety teeth. Then both of his palms are inside the envelope, searching for something very precious. He slowly takes out the newspaper, keeping his eyes closed. His fingers touch the newspaper surface softly. No, sorry! Oh, sorry. She begs for forgiveness in her quietness. Forgive me, baba, I am so sorry. But then she curses herself and corrects her mistake.
Not father. No, he is not my father. This mistake
she has been making all her life, calling him baba. Again she corrects her repeated mistake in deep silence. No, he is not her father. And she has never called him father. Certainly not baba. Still, she wants to call him baba loudly and many many times every day. No, not many times all the time! Actually she wants to call him baba all the time. Shout at him, scream at him in her worst nightmares. But she does not do so. No. She has never done such a thing. Once more she begs for forgiveness in her solitude. She feels deeply sad and apathetic towards him. Why cant she just remember the simple facts of life? He, the man in that wheelchair, who is not her father, does not touch his newspaper with his fingers. Maybe he did once upon a time, in the days when he had fingers, when he was able to aim his rifle straight at his target. But he has not had fingers for many years now. Yes, for many years he has not had toes either. She knows these facts. And still she forgets. How stupid and sad that she keeps forgetting about the facts of her fathers life. Again she makes a note of correction in her heart, No, he is not my father. The guy in the wheelchair, who has got his birthday today, who has turned eighty, who is not her father, who has no fingers and toes, who is
sitting on his wheelchair, makes a joyous cry. Aha,
Bangla! Bangla letters! Bangla newspapers! News from Bangladesh! She knows every moment of this ritual. Now he will touch the headlines over and over, throughout the newspaper, with both of his fingerless palms. He will read the headlines aloud and then comment on them. He never agrees with any headline, never, she thinks. But then, what does she care? Why should anyone bother about such an insignificant matter? But again, she has not been bothered about anything for a long, long, time. Since a time unknown, she has given up bothering. Nothing matters in her life. Nothing matters at all in their lives. But what are their lives? What have they got to do with the word life itself? Her father, who is not actually her father, has got his birthday today. He has turned eighty. Is that a long lifetime? Maybe. Anyway, who cares? It is his birthday. But again, it is not really his birthday. He said he did not have a birthday. In his part of the world, no one needs a birth date. But everybody in this part of the world, the part where they have been living for many long years now, they all have a birthday and also a birth time. She and her father, who is not her father, did not have any birthday or birth time.
When they entered this country many years ago,
they had to have a birthday. The immigration office needed to know their date of birth. Without a birthday, how could they be born or exist? How could they be humans? Even animals in the zoo have birthdays and those birthdays are celebrated with cakes and coffee. So they had to have their birthdays fixed. Their birthdays were created in the immigration office by the immigration officer, by guessing their age. So her father, who is not really her father, was born on the sixteenth of December. And she was born on the twenty-fifth of March. Those were their birthdays, decided and fixed by the immigration officials. How relieved they all sounded when all those problems were solved. Not having a birthday? Not knowing when and how you were born? Not knowing how old your parents could be? Only a serious criminal would not know the answers to those questions about matters of fact. But now things are different for them, now that they have birthdays and they know their names. That makes things much better. But again, their names. They did not have good names. They did not have a family name. And their names did not match with each other. Their names did not prove their identity. What was her fathers name? Well, he is not her father. But what was his
name? Robiullah.1 Robiullah what? What about
what? What comes before or after Robiullah? The immigration officer was asking him questions. He had been looking hungry as he sipped coffee from his ceramic mug. But now he was looking angry and sad. And the interpreter was looking sleepy and indifferent. With an unconcerned voice, the interpreter said, You know, everybody has a surname, like de Broek, Spinoza, Van de Spek, Bush or Saddam. Even the Pope has a surname. How on earth can you not have a name like that? This officer needs a name after your name. What do they call you in your own country? Please dont waste government time by lying to a government official. It could be held against you in court. You could be thrown out of this country for lying and cheating, do you know that? What do they call you in your homeland? He mumbled some words inside his mouth. In despair, his eyes were searching for a bit of support and sympathy from the interpreter, who was a middle-aged white lady. This lady, although a foreigner, talked his language! It was amazing but he felt proud and thankful to her. Her bulky body made a gesture which he did not understand. Her small eyes were covered by excessive burnt amber eye shadow and glistening mascara. He could not read 1
Robiullah a common male Muslim name in Bangladesh.
the language of her eyes. And she did not understand
his emotions. This lady may talk my language, but she does not know my culture, he thought and heaved a deep sigh. Is there no one here who could understand him a bit better? It was not very clear to him what exactly they wanted to know from him. Lying and cheating? Those words broke his heart. He had seen those words in action. But he had never made himself part of those sorts of words. Well, in my village, they called me Dofader Saheb.2 You see, I was a dofader there. And a very honest one. I checked all Chaukiders,3 to make sure they had fulfilled their duty honestly. They called me a good dofader. His tearful eyes were trying to picture a distant time and place. But the immigration official groaned as if a shaking mountain was about to crack. Okay, mister Dofader. Thats what we wanted to know from you. It was not that difficult to bring out your surname out of your own mouth, was it? But why were you trying to hide it from the government? Has your name got a connection with any secret sects or terrorist groups? He mumbled again, No, no. I am not a terrorist. I am a freedom fighter. I fought for my countrys freedom and we won. We won the fight! His eyes 2 3
Dofader chief of village night guards; saheb Mr, sir.
Chaukider village night guard.
shone bright. Well, Mr. Dofader, what sort of work
did you do for a living in your own country? He looked at the immigration officer with a puzzled look. But I told you, I was a dofader in my village! And they trusted and respected me. There was a grisly pain gripping his voice. Well, Mr. Dofader, since you dont want to give us a straight answer, let me tell you we dont have time to play games with you. We have written down everything you have told us. The immigration office will let you know their decision through your lawyer. The interpreter took a quick breath and opened her mouth but shut it again quickly, seeing that the immigration officer stood up with the coffee mug in his left hand. After a long period of waiting, they had to go to their advocates office to discuss their interview with the immigration officials. There was a different interpreter this time, a middle-aged Asian-looking guy with a big tummy. He was all the time checking his black working diary, even though most of the pages were empty. He said something to the advocate which they did not understand. He translated everything with a big smile, even though the words had no connection whatsoever with a smiling face. The interpreter told them the immigration office thought they were dishonest liars. The girl could not possibly be his family, because her name did not match with his.
He started mumbling again. Well, you see, she
is my family. And I dont lie! Looking at her face for a sign of approval, he continued, Well, you see, of course she had a family of her own. Her father, Bisha, I mean Bisshonath, was my friend. Well, perhaps not really a friend. You see, they belonged to the scheduled caste. You may as well know, they were my neighbours. Bisha has a couple of daughters. Well, at least he had them then. Well, he, I mean my friend, uh, my neighbour had some children, uh, daughters. And she is er was his daughter, before she became my daughter-in-law. He let out a deep sigh and wiped his eyes with the back of his palm. There was a sneer on the advocates face. This little girl is underage, Mr. Dofader! Where is her marriage certificate? He looked very puzzled now. Her marriage certificate? What is that? Their advocate did not smile anymore. His tall white figure was tense. His white pale face filled up with blood, giving it an almost orange hue. Almost grunting in his throat, he asked, Okay, imagine this little girl is your daughter-in-law. How did she get married with your son? And where is your son? How did they get married? How can I ever prove it to the justice system in this country without any evidence or documents of any sort? You have got no papers of
this marriage? Can anybody send you these
documents? Or even a photograph, maybe? His two fingerless palms were covered with two gloves. The empty sheaths for the ten fingers were sagging in all directions. His fingerless two palms reached towards her as if some evil power was going to snatch her away from him. He held her tight to his chest with his arms. He murmured a story into her ears while still gazing at the advocate. It was a beautiful spring evening. A warm breeze came floating softly, carrying the sweet smell of wild spring flowers. The bridal party had eaten a good meal. The moon was already up, bright and shiny. We were waiting for the auspicious moment. The bridal flower-garland lay on the brightly polished copper plate, next to the priest, ready to be exchanged by the bride and the groom. The bride, Mala, looked like a fairy in her dark red sari. Just a bit further was Borun, my eldest boy. He was standing idly under a banana plant, watching how Mala was wedding her groom. And suddenly she came running, picked up the bridal garland, and threw it onto his neck! Borun was standing perplexed. They all gasped. What had she done! The boy belonged to a Muslim family! But the priest continued solemnly reciting the Holy Geeta4 and the whole bridal party chanted their 4
Geeta Hindu holy book.
prayers. Thats how they wed! Thats why she is my
daughter-in-law. That is why she is my family and nobody is ever going to take her away from me. No law, no power. None. Her father, who is not her father, held her tight against his chest and took her out of the advocates office. He was still whispering, Look, it is okay if you dont feel like talking. You dont have to talk now. But when Borun comes back, then you must talk with him. Because he is your husband. My boy Borun, remember? You played hide and seek with him. You fought with him. He collected birds eggs for you. You stole mango-pickle for him, from your mother. He is your husband. My son Borun is your husband. And we are a family. You must remember that and must not ever forget. Well, that all happened a long time ago. So long ago! Life is so very long. It is simply not possible to recall all of it at one given point of time. They are still in this country, even though many attempts were made by the immigration office to send them away. But their stern advocate managed to keep them here, by proving that they came from a place devastated by war. And she has been ill. She has been ill all the time. She does not remember much of her illnesses. Or she simply does not care to recall. She has an illness called aphasia. She has often been hospitalised. She cant live one day without her
medication. But she lives. Her life, their life
continues. Besides, who cares? Why bother about all these minor facts of life? But he cares. Her father, who is not really her father, cares and he is bothered by everything. Now he is watching an old recorded programme which they broadcast from England probably. He is shouting at the TV screen, Of course, he is a war criminal. Of course he should get capital punishment! They should all be brought to justice! All the war criminals should be hanged. Who are they to stop it? Who are they to meddle with our countrys affairs? We are a free people. My motherland is a sovereign state. We fought for her freedom. His loud voice fills their little sitting room with distress. The neighbour upstairs is knocking on the floor with her walking stick, shouting something like, You allochthones,5 sticking to this country like glue, cant you keep quiet? She is sitting on the floor in the corner of her bedroom. Their one and only bedroom. Their house has only one bedroom. Her father, who is not her father, has never needed a bedroom of his own. He does not see the point of it. Why should a man need a separate bedroom? In his own motherland, he always slept on the open veranda, on a mat made by his mother from palm leaves. When his bride came 5
Allochthone a Dutch term for non-white immigrants.
to live with them, his elder sister, who was married
close by to them, had suggested that he must make a fence to cover one corner of the veranda. But he did not bother. His wife slept with his mother inside their house, on the mud floor, on a mat. Only when all the married sisters came home for Eid-ul-Fitr or Eid-ulAzha6 or other festivities, they would push out his wife to the open veranda. And she would hang her wet sari such a way that it created an innocent fence. Ah, innocent! He did naughty things to her. And she wanted him to be more and more wild! He kept her awake all night long. Those nights were their own precious nights. On such days, their village Imam would call for the morning prayer earlier than was necessary, it seemed to them. Or at least thats how it felt. His wife would depart from his chest long before the morning prayer call came floating through the misty air. Before dawn, she would have her dip in the cold water of the pond to wash away her marital sins. Rice and lentils would be steaming in her kitchen for her hungry husbands breakfast. Then came their children one by one. The fence of her wet clothes was no longer there. Sometimes he missed her wet sari fence. But then, there were 6
Eid-ul-Fitr, Eid-ul-Azha Islamic feast days.
other things to attend at. Their lives were getting
bigger and fuller each day. After the days hard labour, he had to join the evening meetings. The leader would talk about present abuse and future freedom. He would be home very late. His nights did not belong to him anymore. His motherland needed his care and slowly slowly, a stone wall of desire for freedom came to stand between him and his family. But that was all such a long time ago. He did not feel like recalling such memories. There were other things to be taken care of. Other things, like surviving in a new found land, which was unclear and cloudy. That country, which caused him so much dizziness, had also given him a shelter. It was not easy. But safe and sound. At the very beginning, Nolleke, the tall and thin social worker who was in charge of their case, would talk with him about their household situation, especially about the bedroom. She offered her assistance in finding a two-bedroom house for them. But he did not see the point. Nolleke wanted to know about the nature of their relationship. She wanted to understand it. But it remained incomprehensible to all of them. As days went by and guesswork did not deliver a clear result, Nolleke became intensely curious. Her curiosity became an obsession. The psychiatrist who treated the allochthone family would read the reports about them from Nolleke, the
social worker. He would look at her seriously and
would ask her questions about their bedroom situation. Most of the time she would nod. Her noddings were neither affirmative nor negative. But after a while, they all lost interest in their onebedroom case. All of their curiosity died off like a candle wick. Her father, who is not really her father, is now reading out loud from the newspaper. Ah, Bangla! News written in Bangla! Printed in Bangla! Why do I need a heaven when I can read and talk in Bangla! The neighbour upstairs is now hitting the old wooden floor with her stick and shouting louder, saying things in Dutch, which he can never understand. In fact, she does not understand either. She never understands anything. Understanding is something never required of her. Like now, she is sitting in her small bedroom, in a corner, on the light oakcoloured laminated floor. Her yellow ochre printed cotton frock is spread around her. She looks at her frock. Small pink flowers are shining on the bright yellow, which reminds her of a huge mustard field reaching the horizon. Maybe she has seen such a golden field. Maybe she never has. It could all be a part of her dreams. But again, she has not dreamt a dream for time unknown. She does not know how to have a dream.
There is a small bed in her room too. Nolleke
found this bed for her and brought it to their house. It was a childrens bed, made from a sort of plastic. The white plastic was worn out here and there. But it was still very useable and she would fit on it nicely. Children are big in this country and all childrens things are huge. Her father, who is not her father, did not see any point to this event either. Nolleke also found an old smelly mattress and a stained pillow and some white bed sheets with pink and green embroidery needlework on them. She even put a nice bedcover on the bed to cover her dirty old blanket. One day Nolleke even brought some white lilies for her in a black flower vase filled with water. And that was the very last time she came to keep an eye on them. Nollekes last report to the psychiatrist said that this family did not need her help anymore. She still recalls the white lilies. But Nollekes face has faded away from her mind. Could it be that her help did not leave any imprint of significance in their lives? Like her father, who is not her father, she also did not see much point in a social worker being so devoted to them. So much help was offered by her and they did not know how to react to her kindness. Help and kindness was abundant in their lives. The help was needed but they did not cherish it. They could not live a thankful life, like others do.
He has changed the channel of his TV box and
has started shouting at the news reader now, Of course. What do you think? Those are murderers, war criminals--! You hear me? Do you hear? Do you? No. She does not hear. Nothing at all. She is in her bedroom, sitting in the corner on the laminated floor. Her flower printed cotton frock spreads over her legs, creating a golden field and the tiny pink, red, orange and purple flowers are playing hide and seek with each other. It is cold outside. The first December snow is falling. Inside her tiny bedroom, darkness starts creeping in. Suddenly a sharp stink of urine fills the air. Tall dark shadows are marching in. Their malicious laughter hits her eardrums. The shadows start to dance. While they are dancing, they transform their shapes into reptiles. They are now dancing around her. Their large arms are stretching out to touch her. Now they have taken the form of some sort of animals. These vicious animals are touching her. What are they? Hyenas? Snakes? Demons? She wants to scream. She is feeling very hot. She starts to sweat heavily. A horrible thirst wants to break her chest. Her dry tongue comes out from her mouth, hanging out like a dogs tongue. She is trying to lick her arms with her tongue. The drops of sweats are disappearing on her tongue top. She licks her dry