Fragments of Liberation War stories heard from Afsan Chowdhury

To understand the social realities of Bangladesh during and after the Liberation War, one must sit face-to-face with Afsan Chowdhury and listen to him. Though he has conducted research on the Liberation War, he has never looked at it through the lens of a state researcher. He has viewed it through the eyes of a social being. To him, the Liberation War is a people's war, where the fragmented stories of individuals reveal the wartime reality far more than the history documented through state mechanisms.

The contribution and position of women in the war have never been fully uncovered. In our literature and film, the contribution of women in the Liberation War is mostly represented through the figure of the “birangana”, the raped woman. Yet this people’s war seems to be a separate tale of struggle for every woman in Bangladesh. The scope of those stories is infinite. Today’s piece is based on three such fragments I heard from him.

The sleepless widow keeping watch
At the edge of the village lived the old widow. Childless, she ran her household by selling eggs. She kept chickens at home and managed to gather just enough rice for two meals a day by selling their eggs. Then came the war—the war of liberation. One day, a group of six or seven freedom fighters took shelter in the widow's home. They were tired and starving after walking such a long way without food for days. So many mouths to feed, but the widow had no extra provisions. All she had were coarse rice and a few egg-laying chickens. Without a moment's hesitation, she slaughtered the chickens and served food to the hungry fighters. At night, she stayed awake and sat by the door, guarding them.

Later, the freedom fighters, renewed in strength, left to return to the battlefield. Many days passed. One day, another group of fighters passed near the widow’s house. Among them were one or two who had once eaten there, had once slept peacefully to recover from exhaustion. They felt the urge to check in on the widow. When they entered the house, they found an eerie silence. The widow’s lifeless body lay inside. No one knew how long she had been dead. Had she died of starvation after losing her last resource—her chickens? Or had she been killed by the Pakistani army for helping the freedom fighters? No one knew.

After finishing the story, Afsan Chowdhury asked, “Now what title will you give this widow, this mother who lost her child? Where in history have you placed her?” He added, “Making such lists is all a matter of the state. Through official research, the contributions of women during the Liberation War—especially widows—have not been portrayed. The courage with which widows stood beside freedom fighters in villages and rural areas, others could not muster. The reason was, lacking husbands, they made their own decisions.”

The water hyacinth girl
A 13- or 14-year-old nameless girl, accompanied by women with small children, just arrived at the edge of a river. The goal was to somehow cross the river and enter the Indian border; but that journey was very difficult, almost impossible. First, there were no boats to carry them. Secondly, boat travel was highly unsafe—there was no knowing when a gunboat of the Pakistani invaders might attack, kill the children, or abduct the women.

They had to cross the river secretly and by swimming. That wasn’t possible with small children, so people devised a strategy. They bundled together water hyacinths to form a large raft. Letting it float in the river, they all held onto ropes tied around it to stay afloat. When they were mid-river, a woman next to the girl, with a child in her arms, became terribly frightened and began to scream. On the side where they were floating while holding the rope, the raft was already sinking under too much weight. The mother began to worry whether she could stay afloat with the child in her arms.

She screamed in panic, and others feared that her scream might attract the Pakistani invaders. Understanding the severity of the situation and thinking of everyone’s lives, the girl let go of the raft’s rope and immediately sank into the deep water. The mother holding her child fell completely silent. I too fell silent. Breaking that silence, Afsan Chowdhury agitatedly raised his hands and asked, “What is this? What should we call it—suicide? What did the girl think that made her do it? Isn’t she a martyr?”

The war child
During the Liberation War, Ranga Apa lived with her small family of three, including her three-year-old daughter. One morning in May, Ranga Apa received news that her husband had been taken by the Pakistani army for assisting freedom fighters. An officer came and informed her that if she obeyed him and submitted herself to him, her husband would be spared. Thereafter, for a long time, Ranga Apa silently endured such abuse. Her home turned into hell. Her daughter had suddenly lost her father, and now her mother was being subjected to such violence. At the time, perhaps no one had the scope to truly consider the child’s mental state. Then in November, Ranga Apa learned that the abusive army officer had died in the war and that her husband had already been killed back in May. By then, all paths to returning to a normal life or even staying in the country had closed for Ranga Apa. She left her daughter with a well-wisher and disappeared forever.

After finishing the story, Afsan Chowdhury said, “Long after the war ended, I met that little girl. She spent an afternoon at our house. What a frantic and restless child! So small, with no father, and then one day saw her mother vanish too. Imagine her mental state, surrounded by complete strangers! We often talk about war children. So what should we call this child? Isn’t she a war child? Or are children like her normal children?”