Remembering East Pakistan; Part 2 – Ankahi Hi Reh Gayee

“Why can’t we put it behind us, this morbid angst over East Pakistan?” we both wondered. “Pen your thoughts, Samina” he suggested, “I would love to read your take on it”. Misguided encouragement from friends is what got me here, blog-monkey on my back, in the first place and here I sat once again with my neck in the monkey’s stranglehold and my head reeling from that annoying, familiar buzzing sound. It happens when I have conflicting, crisscrossing thoughts about a subject that raises its question-mark-hat wearing head and refuses to vanish into thought-hell forever. 

The debate started with a comment about “the great leader” Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto. “What was great about him?” I asked.  The usual protestation followed; scholarly, international stature, honest, popular, Islamic summit, nuclear capability…and finally “he was a darn sight better than this sorry lot.” Had to agree there; “Even Ali Baba Chaalees Chor would be an improvement over these dakoos” I thought with disgust. But, regardless of the abysmal standards we suffer now, it was my turn to object. “He stole an election!” I reminded, “He didn’t win, Mujibur Rahman did. How was he any different from these thieves?”. Some agreed of course, others continued their harangue along two different theories; it was the Army not Bhutto, and Mujib’s 6-point agenda was anti-state. “Not true!” I contested. “It was the Army AND Bhutto, and Mujib’s demands were not anti-state, simply anti-West Pakistani fascism”.  The conversation was not progressing well.  Disgruntled and disappointed, we looked this way and that, decided to nurse our angst rather than release it, and sulked away into our corners. 

I have arrived at the understanding that two obstacles stand in the way of introspective reconciliation and peace.  In the memorable words of Faiz…

Un se jo kehney gaey the Faiz jaan sadqa kiye

Ankahi he reh gaee woh baat sab baaton ke baad

The truth remains untold; an apology remains untendered. Until the two are addressed, the ache in the nation’s heart about East Pakistan will not diminish.

The 1970 elections were memorable for several reasons. It was the first such national event to be transmitted live by PTV.  From an entertainment perspective, the content and quality were tops, harbinger of future possibilities in mass communication. A charming and talented young girl, Tahira Syed, was launched as were several other promising young Pakistanis exceling in various aspects of the production process, a collective that had already started to lift PTV head and shoulders above its regional counterparts.  I was 9 years old and captivated by 24x7 song and dance entering our living room for a few days. It irritated me that a Runa Laila number would be distastefully stopped to report a winner I didn’t care about, by a vote count I didn’t understand, in a dusty Pakistani town I didn’t know.  Years later I realized that the entire country shared my opinion; music and drama were the real McCoy, election reporting an unnecessary digression.  

Having grown up on martial law, the nation tip toed around the promise of civilian rule and democracy, pretending not to notice. Like an adolescent awakening to adulthood, we were expectant about possibilities but fearful of severing controlling ties. In wisdom and maturity, Pakistan and I were the same age – 9 going on 10.  

Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, erstwhile student leader and freedom fighter in British India, a member of the Quaid’s Muslim League, a highly credible and charismatic Pakistani politician, led his Awami League to an emphatic win with 160 Parliamentary seats against a modest 81 going to PPP and insignificant numbers to lesser parties. Even if Bhutto knitted together a coalition (a trick his daughter had to master years later), he could not beat his East Pakistani nemesis. In a just and fair world, Mujib would have been invited to form government and Bhutto would sit in opposition awaiting the next opportunity to compete. But Mujib’s ethnicity and 6-pointer rankled the establishment, both political and military, and creative delaying tactics were tried to disrupt his support base and break his resistance.  The strategy was shortsighted and proved damning. 

Not long before, my family had returned from a year in Iraq where Abbi and his contingent of combat pilots, amongst them some decorated East Pakistanis, trained their Iraqi counterparts. Now, Abbi was enrolled in PAF Staff College, Drigh Road and was often away from home on study tours.  Ashi was born during one such, to China. Our East Pakistani neighbors, a PAF doctor and his wife, helped Ammi through the process and Auntie Hasina, wife of Uncle AG Mahmud (later Chief of Bangladeshi Air Force) watched over my brothers and I while Ammi brought Ashi into the world. My parents were a popular PAF couple and had many friends. Our world did not prioritize ethnicity or blood relations. Our world was the Pakistan Air Force; everyone within it was family regardless of any other characteristic or definition. 

Then, evil was perpetrated by political leaders who chose to be divisive and military leaders who proved to be incompetent. Bhutto, spoilt child of martial law, ignited suspicion and disharmony while Yahya, modern day Nero, played the fiddle as Rome burnt. Together, they gifted the nation with a slogan so abominable - “Idhar Hum Udhar Tum” – that to this day it threatens our provincial harmony, rendering it threadbare. 

Soon it was 1971 and the wound of mistrust, salted by military heavy-handedness and peppered by political propaganda, festered and burst. 

A highly respected Punjabi Army officer who served in East Pakistan during the war and refused to speak about it despite his 3 years as PoW in an Indian camp, once stated in muted revulsion “There were so many dead that even the dogs would sniff and select the freshest offering.” He would say nothing more. A Pathan friend of Ammi’s maniacally related the traumatic story of hiding her children and feeding them toilet water for days, for survival until the Army rescued them. A Bangladeshi friend recalled his father’s household staff being stripped naked and slashed to death, by roadside gangs wielding machetes, as they hurried to refuge in a Dhaka slum. Extreme terror was experienced by both sides. When madness prevails, sanity tunes out and joins the mob. 

Theories abound about the scale of genocide in East Pakistan and how much earlier than the formally declared war it began. “No, no…it wasn’t millions. Arrey itney martey to peeche kaun reh jata?” said the armchair analyst while replenishing his pipe and reaching for his drink, “The Army had neither the manpower nor the ammunition.  Perhaps a mere few thousand, bas!”. I was aghast. “A few thousand – mere…bas?” I choked on my words. “Stop playing naïve my dear, you know the game. It was war…both sides played havoc” he rebuked me while inhaling nicotine and looking satiated. “Bilkul” piped the wife, “and what they did to poor West Pakistani families and businesses….those Mukti Bahini monsters!” as tears welled up in her mascara-laden eyes. Duly admonished but stubbornly spirited, I picked my jaw up off the floor and tried again. “How can you compare the destructive power of an Army, one of the largest in the world, against a rag tag mercenary force no matter how well supported by enemies?” I objected, “and how can we possibly justify the annihilation of our brothers, our own countrymen? Jang dushman se hoti hai, apnon se nahin.” Theatrically, I rested my case, albeit that last sentence leaving a question mark in my own head.

   

The sage, for he was that, threw me a quizzical glance. “My dear, it was the Army that underestimated the rag tag mercenaries, don’t you think?”. Hmm, I had managed to entangle myself and he was amused. “And have you not learnt from history that brothers are the worst, and most eager, of enemies?”. Check-mated was I.

State sanctioned massacre must never happen, no matter the provocation. The Mukti Bahini may not have seen the light of day had “Masawat” been maintained between provinces.  Once born and a threat to sustainable peace and harmony, “Hikmat” with “Raham” should have been extended to the wronged community. Genocide and separation may have been avoided had post-election choices remained “Halal” and the winner granted “Haq”. And now, when irreversible damage had been inflicted upon both sides, “Muafi” should be requested and offered; not one murmured sidelong by a military dictator but a “Ba-izzat” one, nation to nation. 

In the East Pakistan conflict, truth was the first victim, followed by moral courage and the wisdom to repent. We are created in His image, yet we shrank from manifesting His most beloved characteristics, without inhibition, as He invariably does. 

My Bangladeshi maid has been with me for eight years. Her kind disposition and efficient ways have brought order and comfort to my home. Her community is dirt poor and her personal circumstances extremely unfortunate. She is young and has virtually no knowledge of 1971 except that it was the year of “Azaadi”.  Mine was the first Pakistani family she became acquainted with and because our mutual terms are pleasant, she seems to consider all Pakistanis good people. She has taken to “Khaadi” suits, mangoes, Urdu and Zozo as if she was born to embrace them. I imagine if she received a truthful narration of 1971 she would prefer to dismiss and not believe it. At the very least, she would remove my family from the equation convinced that none of us could ever be linked to such brutality. It is entirely possible that men from my extended community may have maimed or killed her people. Certainly some young men of my family were killed by the Mukti Bahini or died in action during the war. I would rather she did not know….I would have no answer for her except “Im sorry”. 

She has bought land and built a house in her village, contributed to the mosque there thus elevating her family’s status, lives comfortably with my family and travels often to Bangladesh.

In a cowardly, discreet way, thru her, I apologize to my East Pakistani brethren every day.