here's a couple of books from real freedom fighters: -
1.
Advance to Conact: A Soldier's Account of Bangladesh Liberation War by Major (Retd.) Akhtar Ahmed, Bir Pratik, Freedom Fighter, Sector 2 and K-Forces, published by the University Press Limited, Dhaka. ISBN 984 05 1498 9
E-mail:
upl@bangla.net
Web:
http://www.uplbooks.com/
2.
Brave of Heart by Habibul Alam, Bir Pratik, Freedom Fighter, Sector 2 and K-Forces, published by Academic Press and Publisher's Library, Dhaka. ISBN 984 08 0201 1
E-mail:
appl@dhaka.net
we need to hear what they have to say. for this thread, i'd strongly suggest that BC members talk to their families, get personal stories and accounts of 1971 and start posting them here. i'll start posting personal and second-hand accounts, as well as excerpts from books such as the two mentioned here over time.
here's one of my many personal accounts: -
i just turned 4 inside the prison camp in mandi bahauddin. my father, a decorated major from the kashmir war was taken away by the same pat'han soldiers who saluted him just a few moths ago. one of the older kids in the camp told me that my "abbu" was being tortured for organizing a prison break, so that he, manzoor, and taher uncle among others could go back and fight with zaman, zia and khaled uncle with the muktibahini. "torture" was a new word for me. the older kid told me that torture had something to do with causing pain. "how much pain and for what?" i asked him, he just gave me a
don't ask look and promptly exited the scene, avoiding me for months after that. i knew what "pain" was from personal experiences like jumping off of high places and what not, and was just learning to recognize that other kind of "pain" from my mother's face, as she threw a makeshift birthday party inside the unbearably hot piece of land carved out of the desolate landscape by several miles of barbed-wire fence.
unable get my father out of my mind, and more
mad at him than anything else, i wandered off too close to the fence, until one of the guards saw me. he asked me if i spoke pashtu and i told him that i did pick up some from nawaz bhai, our pat'han servant from the better life before the war broke out. then he asked me who my father was and i told him. i also told him that it was my birthday. his eyes welled up instantly and he asked me to come over to his side through the gaps. i did and he hoisted me over his shoulders and carried me into his tent. nobody else was there. he put a spoonful of condensed milk in between a couple of standard-issue army crackers and said "happy birthday" before handing me the entire can of condensed milk to take home with me, a prized luxury inside the camp. then he hugged me and suddenly, violently broke down like a baby, and kept on mumbling in urdu,
"maf kar dijiye, hamlog ki maf kar dijiye" (please forgive us) ... having never seen a grown up man cry like that before, i started to cry too. i believe our tears saved a light that day, and that light has kept the better part of me intensely vigilant against all forms of hate. turns out (i found out only recently) that he served under my father in kashmir, and that his brother was living in dhaka, and sending him letters describing what was happening to his friends in and around wari.
i made it back safely, and waited for my father to come home. eventually, he did.
i didn't find out what the term "torture" meant until they returned my dad in pieces, but still with the defiant,
bring it on smirk on his face that told me among others things,
they didn't get me. i remember being surprised by the dark circles under those serene, slightly mischievous, hazel eyes and a body struggling to resume its normal, basic functions. i recall being more surprised by the fact that his spirit seemed more indomitable than ever. baffled by the sharpest of contrasts between the body and the spirit, i asked him why it was so. he actually laughed, and said " the grass will always be greener in bangladesh." clueless, i asked him what he meant. he looked me in the eye and said, "remember this my son, remember this day, this is who i am and will never be better than what you're looking at right now. those who are not fortunate enough to see their children at this moment, and the millions risking their lives so that they can live to fight another day to take back what is rightfully ours, are better than what i can ever be ..." then he passed out. it took me another eight years to understand what he really meant, when i left dhaka for suburban DC.