No government is truly interested in collecting Liberation War documents

Mir Shamsul Alam Babu is well-known for his work in archiving and documenting the history of Bangladeshi cinema. His two books published by the Bangladesh Film Archive—Kushali Chitragrohok Baby Islam and Chitroshampadok Bashir Hossain—have received considerable attention. He also edited and published, with annotations and background commentary, the original 1971 draft of the nationalization policy for the first film of independent Bangladesh, a policy created by exiled revolutionary filmmakers but lost by 1972.

In a recent conversation with Views Bangladesh, he spoke about several topics related to the preservation of Liberation War memories, including the recent demolition incident involving the house of war hero and poet Rafiq Azad. The interview was conducted by Views Bangladesh editorial assistant Shahadat Hossain Towhid.

Views Bangladesh: What is your observation on the recent partial demolition of the Dhanmondi residence of freedom fighter and noted poet Rafiq Azad?

Mir Shamsul Alam Babu: Rafiq Azad was a freedom fighter, and that’s why there's public emotion around him. But let’s not forget—he was also the one who wrote the controversial poem “Give me rice, you bastard, or I’ll eat the map” in 1974, and faced intense backlash for it. The issue here is less about who he was, and more about whether he serves our current interests. If someone speaks in favor of our interests, we embrace them. The house was allotted to him by the government. He passed away nine years ago. Since then, his wife, poet and professor Dilara Hafiz, has been living there. Now the government has revoked the allotment and partially demolished parts of the property—though the main house still stands. Legally, there’s no violation. Once the government cancels an allotment, it can repurpose the land.

After independence, many similar actions occurred. The Gulistan cinema hall, once a Pakistani property, was given to the Freedom Fighters’ Welfare Trust and later demolished for new construction. No one protested that. Many historically significant buildings have been destroyed despite clear preservation laws—yet we rarely object.

Let me give another example. Neither Colonel Taher nor Khaled Mosharraf were aligned with the Awami League, but the party posthumously uses their narratives because they serve its political interests. Both were executed during Ziaur Rahman’s rule—through legal proceedings. The military has its own regulations. When one joins the army, they agree to follow certain rules. Breaking them results in consequences. Even in 1971, the army officers who joined the Liberation War technically rebelled against their military oath to uphold Pakistan’s sovereignty. They succeeded, so they became heroes. Had they failed, they would’ve been court-martialed and executed.

The officers who rose up against Zia in 1977-78—regardless of their motives—failed. Hence, they were court-martialed under military law. Most of them were freedom fighters, yes. But the trials were framed within legal structures. Notice, no lawsuits were filed against those verdicts. That says something.

Views Bangladesh: But isn't the destruction of these places erasing the memory of the Liberation War?

Mir Shamsul Alam Babu: People say the partial demolition of Rafiq Azad’s house destroys Liberation War memory because he was a freedom fighter. But if you look across regimes, countless monuments, buildings, and symbols associated with the war have been destroyed under official orders. Even the Racecourse Ground—where several iconic moments happened: the March 7 speech, the Pakistani surrender, Bangabandhu’s return—was transformed by Bangabandhu himself when he started planting trees there.

During the Awami League’s recent term, that area saw the construction of the Eternal Flame monument, a glass tower, underground museum, water bodies, a stage, restrooms, walkways, and a restaurant—wasn’t that also a form of memory erasure?

Rafiq Azad’s house was a government allotment. Its demolition doesn’t erase the Liberation War. But demolishing Bangabandhu’s historic residence on Road 32 in Dhanmondi—that was a true act of erasure, a grave injustice.If Liberation War memory is truly a matter of national emotion, let me share two stories.

In 1996, Fort William, the Eastern Command base in Kolkata, which held all military documents related to Bangladesh’s Liberation War, notified the Bangladesh government—then under Sheikh Hasina—that the documents were 25 years old. According to international archival standards, unreclaimed documents can be recycled unless designated for preservation. They offered Bangladesh the chance to retrieve them. A committee was formed, including pro-Liberation War scholars like Dr. Muntasir Mamoon. The committee recommended that the documents were unnecessary. As a result, Fort William destroyed them.

The second incident—back in January 1978, a government committee was formed under Professor Mofizullah Kabir and Hasan Hafizur Rahman to collect and publish Liberation War documents. They gathered about 350,000 pages of material. But only 16,500 pages were published in 16 volumes—the most authoritative Liberation War documents we have. What happened to the remaining pages? They were handed to the Department of Films and Publications, then shifted to the National Museum. Eventually, they were bagged up and dumped in storage, where they decayed. No one knows where they are now. So what’s more important—a house allotted to a freedom fighter or the original documents of our war?

Views Bangladesh: Clearly, the Liberation War documents are far more important—historically and emotionally.

Mir Shamsul Alam Babu: Exactly. Here’s another example. When President Abdul Hamid visited India, he was given two DVDs containing archived radio and TV programs from 1971. Those should’ve gone into the state treasury. No one knows where they are now.

In 1972, two suitcases full of original manuscripts and tapes of plays, poems, and patriotic programs from Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra were brought to Bangladesh. By 1974, they were all destroyed.

Zahir Raihan had also formed a committee in 1971 to investigate the killing of intellectuals. Its general secretary was Syed Hasan Imam. In his memoir, Imam writes that after Zahir went missing in January 1972, he asked Bangabandhu what to do with the trunk full of documents. Bangabandhu reportedly told him to hand it over to Mihir, a police officer who had not participated in the war and later became head of the NSI. Mihir was soon sent to the UK on a government assignment, where he remained. Those documents have never been recovered.

Views Bangladesh: So you're saying no government has ever truly shown interest in collecting Liberation War documents?

Mir Shamsul Alam Babu: Not really. And we need to ask why. No government has shown genuine interest in systematically preserving Liberation War documentation. Here’s another case—in 1971, five documentary films were made by Bangladesh’s side. We all know Stop Genocide by Zahir Raihan, but most people don’t know the others: A State is Born (Zahir Raihan), Liberation Fighters (Alamgir Kabir), and Innocent Millions (Babul Chowdhury). One was lost that very year. The remaining four—two 20-minute films and one 14-minute—had their original negatives brought to Bangladesh in 1972. The Stop Genocide negative was lost en route. The others were stored by the government but disappeared within a year or two. None of the negatives are available anymore—not even prints. The last time all four were screened was in 1988 at the Short Film Forum's first festival.

After that, they were only in the hands of individuals sympathetic to the Liberation War—people like Alamgir Kabir and Syed Salahuddin Zaki. Even the Department of Films and Publications had them. Now, no one has complete access. Whatever remains are not originals. And these, more than anything, carry the true spirit of the Liberation War.

Take the March 7 speech. The original was 18 minutes and 36 seconds long, but we only have a 13-minute version. Where’s the rest? The government could’ve found it. In the last 16 years of pro-Liberation governance, they could’ve retrieved color versions or higher-quality foreign footage. Instead, over 45 million taka was spent colorizing the existing version. That same money could’ve been used to bring in better materials from abroad. But they didn’t.