Ferdousi Priyobhashinee

I had seen many deaths, heard about many incidents of women repression, but never thought that I’d also have to become the victim of such cruelty

I am Ferdousi Begum. In my early childhood, my grandfather Abdul Hakim who was the Speaker of the then East Pakistan Provincial Assembly, had given me an adorable name – Priyobhashinee (girl with a sweet vocabulary). I’m one of the quarter million Bengalee women who were raped by the Pakistani forces in 1971. I want to tell you about those horrible days and nights of 1971, as the trial of those who killed three million Bangalees and raped a quarter million women is yet to be held. The new generation is completely ignorant about the frightful time we spent during the war in 1971. I want to recall those terrible times also because we know very little about the Pakistani repression on women during our Liberation War. This is because of our conservative society and family environment. I hope that my statement will encourage other repressed women to come forward with their own experiences and raise their voice against the barbarism.

You may have read about the repression on women in 1971 in the 8th volume of ‘Bangladesher Swadhinata Juddher Dalilpatra’ (Documents of Bangladesh Liberation War). Professor Neelima Ibrahim in her book has also described experiences of some rape victims without disclosing their names. Three such victims had come from Kushtia to make their statements when Jahanara Imam and others organised a mock trial of Ghulam Azam in a public court held on 26 March, 1992 in Dhaka. Later, I came to know how they were humiliated after returning to their homes.

Neelima Ibrahim in her extraordinary book ‘Ami Beerangana Bolchhi’ has elaborated how Bangladesh society after independence has denied the role of repressed women in the war. Not only society, but many families had also refused to accept them. She wrote that many of the heroic women were not accepted by their fathers, husbands and other family members. Although they knew their fate, some of these women preferred to go to Pakistan along with the Pakistani soldiers after the war was over. The father of the newly-born state Sheikh Mujibur Rahman wanted to rehabilitate the repressed women. He addressed them as ‘Beerangana’ (heroic women) showing due honour to them. Even he could not succeed in securing their rightful place in society with honour and dignity.

I have experienced the persecution by the Pakistani forces and have also seen the same barbaric act among the local Bengalee collaborators. Those who handed me over to Pakistani troops were people of this land. We know about the courage of the freedom fighters during the war, but I did not see the same courage among them after the country was freed from the occupation forces. They did not stand beside the rape victims. When a woman of a family was being repressed during the war, male members of the family were either in hideouts or had already laid down their lives. Most of the women did not have any means to flee, they had none to protect them. It was one of the main reasons that they were the victims of repression. Before presenting my testimony of 1971, I will say something about myself. I come from an aristocratic family. We had the inane pride of aristocracy in our family, but our financial condition was endurable. I was the eldest among eight children of my parents. My father and mother were separated when I was only 15. This compelled me to engage myself in a job just after I completed high school education.

I got married with a student of engineering in 1962. I had to bear the educational expenses of my husband, apart from my younger brothers and sisters. I completed graduation but could not continue my studies further. I was divorced in 1968 when I was mother of three children. Since then my children lived with their paternal grandmother at Khulna. I was working at Crescent Jute Mills and residing with my mother and younger brothers and sisters in the Khalishpur area of the town.

In those depressing days, one of my senior colleagues, named Ahsanullah, had extended his hands of sympathy to my helpless family. I was never involved in politics. But my family had a radical cultural environment. My father was involved with the cultural troupe of renowned dancer Bulbul Chowdhury and had made many visits to Europe. My mother had learnt music from Ustad Munshi Raisuddin. My uncle, Nazim Mahmud, who passed away recently, was a leading cultural personality of the country. Mainly because of him, I was associated with a cultural organisation, Sandeepon. Music and dance were part of our family heritage.

In the early 1971, Ahsanullah proposed to marry me when the country’s political situation was very uncertain. Ahsan’s family was very much against his decision to marry a divorcee with three children. In fact, considering the future of my children and bitter experience of my earlier marriage, I myself was not interested in a second marriage. As Ahsanullah failed to convince me, he sought help from my uncle Nazim Mahmud. Though we were not married, Ahsanullah used to act like the guardian of our family. Later, I agreed to marry him on advice of my uncle.

Like all other places, Khulna’s Khalishpur also became turbulent with scattered clashes between Bengalees and Biharis during the first half of March, 1971. As the situation was deteriorating, we were paid off our salaries on March 20. Salary day was always pleasing to me as I had to bear almost all the expenses of my family. I used to wait for that day throughout the month. I went to my office on March 24, but returned hurriedly following a riot between Bengalees and Biharis in Khalishpur. The Biharis set fire to many houses of Bengalees in the area. It was the time of non-cooperation movement throughout the country called by Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the leader of Awami League, the party which won majority seats in the parliamentary elections of 1970. The Pakistan army junta was reluctant to hand over power to the elected representatives. Like other government and semi government officials, the members of East Pakistan Rifles (EPR) also joined the non-cooperation movement against the military government. The political situation was very uncertain.

Everything was dependent on the ongoing meeting between Sheikh Mujib and Yahya Khan, the then President of Pakistan. Failing to apprehend the consequences of the political situation, I could not decide what to do. Earlier, we had seen political unrest and series of strikes for a certain period which became normal eventually. So I thought everything would be normal again. I was optimistic that the legitimate demands of Sheikh Mujib would be accepted. Even then I was tense as I watched the anxiety among my colleagues. I was more concerned about my job because if the jute mill went on strike and the office remained closed for a long time, what would be the fate of my family? If there was any irregularity in receiving my salary, we would have to starve.

On 25 March, I did not go to office. I saw EPR personnel were deployed on the streets. Some EPR personnel came to our house and asked for drinking water. They also wanted to know whether we were Biharis or Bengalee. We hesitated for a while. Later, we informed them about our Bengalee identity. After knowing our identity, they wanted to have some food. They also cautioned us saying: “The situation is not good. We don’t think the negotiations will be effective. Don’t leave the place.”

The riot between Bengalees and Biharis spread throughout the town on March 26. It turned more serious th in the next two days. Everywhere there was fire. The army came entered the town on 29 March. Ahsanullah used to visit our house regularly and everytime he insisted that we leave the troublesome area. He was a labour officer of Jessore Jute Industries. As we were not married at that time, he could not stay with us and was not in a position to give us protection. However, he tried his best as a family friend.

On March 30, he came with a jeep amidst a horrifying situation. He parked the jeep near a graveyard close to our house and told us to get ready to leave the place. I asked him, “Where shall we go with such a big family? Who will give us shelter?” “Don’t argue. We shall have to leave the house immediately,” he said and proceeded towards the main road. He returned shortly and said, “The army and Biharis are coming.” Without delaying further, we came out of the house. The Bengalee houses around the area were on fire. People were running for safety. We could not board the jeep because it was on the main road. We had to make a short cut through the graveyard moving towards Jessore-Khulna highway. When we were crossing the graveyard, I felt something abnormal under my feet. I saw scores of corpes scattered on the ground. Those were the bodies of Bengalee people killed by the Biharis.

After running for sometime, we reached the house of a village leader, who was known to us. But he refused to give us shelter saying that he could not provide shelter to supporters of the Awami League. The man was involved in Muslim League politics. So we had to look for another shelter and we decided to go to my mother’s house in Khulna. We took rickshaws from Goalkhali gate. We found some Pakistan army men had set fire to a bus and a rickshaw at Noornagar. We were afraid and started walking, apprehending that the army might open fire if the burning wheels of rickshaws blasted.

Late in the evening we reached the house of my maternal grandfather at Muslimpara in Khulna town on foot. But we were not feeling comfortable in the house. We felt that we had become a burden on the family. The house had become too crowded because many people had already taken shelter there. It was quite embarrassing for us to stay there, but there was no choice. Though we came to that house for security reasons, the area was not free from army movement. The army used to come quite often and we had to leave the house and take shelter in a nearby paddy field or somewhere else.

I remember an interesting incident that happened during our stay there. One day as the army came, we were rushing to hide. An elderly woman of a neighbouring Hindu family asked me, “Why are you fleeing?” I said, “The army is coming.” I told her to flee also. The old woman had never heard the word “army” before this. She asked me whether the army was good or bad. I told her, “It’s not the time to discuss. Move at once.” Then the elderly lady said, “If I flee what will happen to my cattle?” Most of the innocent people in the countryside were like that woman. They were totally ignorant about the holocaust of the Pakistan Army, and that is the reason the Pakistani forces could kill so many innocent Bengalees during the war.

The entire day we had to take shelter in the cowshed of a house, because firing was going on like hailstorm all around us. After some days, the situation became apparently calm. I told my mother, “Let’s go back to Khalishpur. We’re not even safe here. If we have to die, it’s better to be at our own place.” We came back to Khalishpur. The house was ransacked and everything was looted. We were totally helpless. One day my mother washed our clothes and hung those on the rooftop for drying. Ahsanullah somehow saw the clothes and came to our house. He was quite worried, and asked me, “Why have you come back? Killings are taking place everyday, everywhere. I’m leaving the place today. Because the army is looking for me.” He also asked my mother, why we had returned. My mother told him, “What else shall we do? Is there any place to go?”

Suddenly I saw an army patrol on the street. We closed the door immediately. Hearing the noise of massive firing, we looked through a hole in the window and saw the killing of 15/16 people of Munshibari, a neighbouring house. Ahsanullah left the house saying that he was not safe because the army was looking for him. “If I stay here, the army will kill you.” Along with my mother, brothers and sisters, I came out of the house. Mother asked me to hire rickshaws for them. She planned to go to Jessore to one of my brother’s house. I gave her my last hundred taka and said, “I’ll join office as soon as it opens. Then I’ll send you money regularly.” Mother said, “Don’t be upset. If we survive, we’ll meet again.”

Thus I became alone as my family and Ahsanullah left the town. I went to many houses which were previously known to me. Everybody was busy looking after their own safety. Nobody gave me shelter. I stayed in the house of an engineer for some days, but here too there was also a problem. His wife did not want me to stay there. The engineer wanted to help me which created a family problem. The engineer pleaded with his wife, “How could I drive away a helpless girl in this situation?” But his wife was adamant and I had to leave the place.

I felt very bad finding myself totally helpless. Standing on the road, I was thinking what should I do? Where shall I go? All of a sudden I found my non-Bengalee colleague Jahangir Kerala, an accountant of our office. And that was the beginning of my miseries and nightmares. Jahangir asked me in a sympathetic voice, “Hi sister, what you’re doing here?” I said, “I’m in a very bad situation.” On finding the accountant, I was thinking of getting some advance. I wanted to know whether the office was open or not. He said, “Yes, do you want to join?” Then he proposed to give me a lift on his motorbike to reach the office. I told him that I could not board the bike. I took a rickshaw and followed him.

He led me to a beautiful olive-coloured house in the Wireless Colony area of the town. It was ‘Muscat House’, residence of a rich non-Bengalee. While going to office, I used to see the house many times and wondered who lived in that beautiful place. As he took me inside the house, I asked him, “Why have you brought me here?” He did not reply. After taking me to a room, he started behaving in an indecent way. The man who never dared to talk to me before, pushed me hard and said, “Don’t move from this place. Some army officers will come in the evening. You will be given a job.” Then he left the house.

I decided to leave the house at any cost. I saw two guards of the house, through a hole in a window, who were discussing something, pointing to the room where I was staying. I went to them and said, “Could I have a cup of tea?” The younger one replied, “Yes. But it will be cold.” I told him it was fine. As he went to bring tea, the other guard made a gesture to leave the place. He seemed to be an angel to me.

The guy who had gone to bring tea returned to the gate when I came down to the street. He shouted, “Where you are going? You’re not allowed to leave this house.” Riding on a rickshaw hastily, I replied, “I’m going to bring my clothes. I’ll come back soon.” Then I went to my office. The first man I found was the elderly general manager Mr. Fidai, who was smoking a pipe casually. He asked me, “Where have you come from?” To get his sympathy I told him, “Sir, everyone has left me. I’m completely alone. I don’t know what to do.” He asked me, “Do you want to join the office?” I said, “Yes sir, but I’ve no shoes, even my clothes are not adequate. How can I attend office?” He gave me a chit and asked me to meet the chief accountant. The chief accountant gave me three hundred taka and said, “Take a car and go shopping now. The car will also go to your place tomorrow morning. Where do you stay?”

By that time, I had decided to stay at the house of a police inspector at Pabla, instead of Khalishpur because it was dominated by the Biharis. I knew the family of this police officer. Two young boys of this family, who could sing very well, used to visit us quite often. As I did not want to let the accountant know my address, I said, “It’s a very remote area. The car can’t go up to my house.” “Okay, no problem. Tell the driver where to wait. The car will go at 7:30 in the morning,” he said. The car came the following day. I  attended the office. Within half-an-hour, an accountant named Sultan Panjwani, a non-Bengalee who had never dared to talk to me earlier, said me in an intimate voice, “How are you? You’re looking very nice.” He also made an indecent gesture. I gave him a hard look. After some time, Mr. Fidai phoned me and asked, “Where you’re going to have your lunch today?” I replied, “In the office, sir.” Then he said, “Why don’t you take lunch with me?” To keep the general manager in a good humour, I agreed.

While having lunch he told me casually that, Captain Ishtiaque would come in the evening to take me to the cinema. I was afraid and said, “I don’t watch films.” “Don’t argue. There are many allegations against you. You have to go with him,” he ordered me in a commanding voice.

Before 1971, the man was like a saint to us. I worked with him for a long time, and had never once thought that he could do any misdeed or something bad to others. But, as soon as the Liberation War started he emerged as a devil. He told me, “Go upstairs and chat with Captain Ishtiaque.” As I went upstairs, Captain Ishtiaque asked me whether I watched films and TV. I replied, “No, I don’t watch films.” “Let’s enjoy a movie today,” he proposed. Fidai ordered me to give Ishtiaque company. He came in the afternoon to take me to cinema, but I told him that I was sick and I would go some other day. However, Fidai would not give up. When office was over, he came to me and said, “Let’s go out. I’ve some important things to talk with you.”

All the employees of the office were afraid of Fidai. They did not have the courage to disregard his order. He made me more afraid by saying, “Your brothers have joined the Liberation War, so the army will not spare you. You’ll have to compensate.” Finding no other way, I sought mercy from Fidai, and requested him saying, “You’re like my father. I joined office on your assurance. So please rescue me.” “I can help you if you cooperate with me,” he said and tried to embrace me. I burst into tears in fear. I felt humiliated. Then he said, “Don’t shout. It’ll be no good. The army people will tear and grab you.” The fact was that Fidai himself tried to tear me that night before the army people grabbed me. I tried my best to protect myself before I lost my sense. After I regained sense, Fidai shouted, “You didn’t cooperate with me. You shall have to face consequences.” I said, “I want to go home.” “Go,” he said.

It was around 8 or 9 p.m. One rickshaw was waiting in front of the house in the dark of the night. It took me to my house. I cried for the whole night recalling the threat by Fidai that the ‘army will tear and grab you.’ I could not sleep all the night. Once I thought of committing suicide. I also thought of fleeing, but could not. The faces of my children as well as my brothers and sisters, who were dependent on my income for the last nine years, kept me from killing myself. I felt some anger at Ahsanullah. In my heart I considered him to be my husband. He was like the guardian of our family. Why had he left, leaving me all alone?

When one of my brothers joined the Liberation War, I had felt very proud, but later I felt that he was the cause of my humiliation. I also felt that nobody in the world was more helpless than me. I had seen many deaths, heard about many incidents of women repression, but I never thought that I would also have to become the victim of such cruelty. As the sleepless night was over, another day began. I took a long shower and got ready to go to office. I felt like a prisoner kept in a condemned cell. I thought that I would not get freedom until the country is liberated. I realised the fear of the army was a perennial matter for me, but at the same time I would have to work to feed my children and family.

Fidai did not say anything to me for the next few days. I thought he might be repentant, but I was wrong. Calling me to his room again, he said, “Naval Commander Guljarin has called for you. You were on the spot when Professor Bhuiyan was killed. You are charged with murder.” I smelt of a fresh conspiracy.

Professor Bhuiyan was a colleague of my father at Doulatpur College. He was a leader of the Peace Committee. The day I had gone to the house of Afiluddin at Pabla, the naxalites killed him in front of me. I heard that Guljarin was a very ferocious person. He was infamous for torturing women. I requested Fidai to protect me saying, “You asked me to join the office. Now you’re doing all this against me. Then who will protect me?”

However, all my efforts to convince him went in vain. He ordered me, “You’ll have to reside in the bungalow of the mills from today.” “According to my position, I am not entitled such a big bungalow,” I said, but he pressed me to go to the bungalow and threatened to bring murder charges against me if I did not agree. Finally I said, “I’ll be afraid to live alone in such a big bungalow. So please allot me a flat in the junior officers’ colony.”

At last Fidai compelled me to go to Naval Commander. Commander Guljarin, an elderly man who looked very dreadful, but spoke gently. As I entered the room, he told me to sit down. With a devilish smile on his face, Guljarin looked at me and asked, “What do you want to be – a friend, daughter or anything else?” Very nervously and in broken English I said, “Please behave with me like a gentleman.” He said, “I’ll make some proposals. You can accept or refuse. Stay with me for one month. However, I’ll not be able to give you something special. But I’ll be happy.” Then he pawed my back and shook me holding my neck. Shivering in fear, I said, “How is it possible, sir ? How could I stay here?” Guljarin said, “Why not? I’ll give you a lot of money. I’ll send money for your family.” After a pause, he said in a firm voice, “Your brothers have joined the Liberation War. You need security. Stay with me. I selected you as my secretary. You’re the right person.” I started crying and pleaded with him to let me go.

He became restless and said, “Haven’t you heard that women who come to Commander Guljarin cannot go back ? Perhaps you don’t know that. But don’t worry, you’ll be able to go back.” At that time two officers entered the room. When they saw me crying helplessly, they started mocking me. One of them told Guljarin jeeringly, “Sir, hand her over to us. We’ll take her out for a while.” Guljarin refused, but they continued to scoff at me. I was still crying. As they wanted to misbehave with me, I pleaded with Guljarin: “I’ll come to you later. Please let me go now. I’ve a big family who are totally dependent on me. So it’s impossible for me to escape.”But Guljarin did not allow me to go. He gradually become more terrible and tortured me like a beast.

In the afternoon, he made me promise that I would have to come to him whenever he called, and then only could I leave. The next noon, two officers came to my office. They were Naval Captain Aslam and Captain Ghani. Aslam was younger. Ghani was older as he was promoted from non-commissioned rank. They brought along an elderly jute inspector Fazlur Rahman whose house was taken away by the Biharis and turned it into a slaughter house. Mr. Rahman was looking very pale. Ghani took him outside. As Mr. Rahman was leaving my room, he gave me a blank look.

Captain Aslam wanted a glass of water from me. As I was busy with my work, I asked the peon to give him the glass of water. After a couple of minutes, Ghani came back. He handed over Fazlur Rahman to the Biharis. Some time later the Biharis killed him and played ‘hulia’ (game with human blood). Some Biharis, besmeared with the blood of Mr. Rahman, came to Captain Aslam to confirm his death. I felt doomed watching the Biharis whose hands were blood-stained.

The river Bhairab flows beside the Crescent Jute Mills. The jute godown of the mill was on the bank of the river. It was only 200 yards from my quarter. One night I watched another terrible incident near the godown. One of my younger sisters was with me in the quarter. I kept her as I was panic-stricken all the time. One night she told me, “Sister, while I was sleeping last night I heard people shouting ‘Save me, save me.’ I’m afraid of living here.” I had assured her saying, “Okay, now please go to sleep, I’ll look after that.” In those days I was so tired it was almost impossible to remain awake all night. but I did not sleep that night.

It was about 3:00 a.m. I heard someone shouting from a distance “Save me, save me.” I sat on the bed and peeped through the window. There was a truck parked in front of the godown. Some people, their faces covered with black cloth, were walking around the area. Suddenly the lights went dim. One person was brought down from the truck. He was taken to a jute-cutting machine, which looks like a guillotine. Then I saw the terrible incident. The men with black cloth on their faces, put the man under the sharp blade of the machine and within a couple of seconds, he was beheaded. This barbaric act continued one after another. After watching four killings in that way, I closed the window. I could not sleep that night. I still cannot get rid of that nightmare. Quite often I see in my dreams the images of the killers, faces covered with black cloth ; through a hole in a window, the beheaded dead bodies of those Bengalees ; the truck ; and the cry – ‘Save me, save me’. Since then, I never stayed in that room. I could not tell my sister about the blood-chilling incident, because it would make her more frightened and she might have left my apartment

One night my sister told me, “Sister, the army has cordoned-off our house.” I noticed it too and asked her to hide. One army man came forward and told me that Major Altaf Karim was calling me downstairs. I wanted to know who Altaf Karim was, but didn’t reply and asked me again, “Who is Ferdousi here?” I told him, “She’s not here. She has gone to Jessore. I’m her maid.” He said, “You must be Ferdousi. We’ve come to take you with us.” “No gentleman comes to anyone’s residence in the middle of the night. Please go away,” I told the army personnel. I recognised Lieutenant Korban, Captain Khaleq and Captain Sultan among the group. That night they came to me after attending a dinner in the house of Fidai, the general manager. When the dinner was over, Fidai showed them my house. They had also told me that Mamtaz, a niece of the then minister Mr. Amjad was in the car. My sister told me that she would commit suicide if they take me away. I pressed clothes into her mouth to keep her from speaking. If they come to know her presence, they would have definitely taken away both of us. I told the army men, “Don’t take me now. My younger sister is here. I’ll send her to my mother. After that you can take me.” Then I asked them why they were so desperate to take me with them. One of them replied that there was murder charge against me. I said, “Whatever it is, I’m not going now. I’ll go in the morning.” It was almost dawn and they left my house. I decided to send my sister to my mother as I realised that it was not safe for her to stay with me any longer.

After going to the office, I phoned the general manager and described the incident that had taken place that night. He told me that he knew everything. “Didn’t you entertain them? You have been kept here for that purpose. Don’t try to escape. If you try to flee, you’ll be killed.”  I said, “How I can stay here in this situation? This is tantamount to killing me.” At this stage, he got angry and said, “Colonel Khatak will talk to you. You’ll have to go to Jessore. His people will come to take you. If you disagree, you’ll be sent to a concentration camp. You’ll never be able to return from there.” Captain Sultan, Lieutenant Korban and a non-Bengalee businessman Malik Yusuf came to me at night with a letter from Fidai. They took me to Jessore. On the way they raped me in the car. I was raped again by them in the billiard room at Jessore Cantonment, before I was handed over to Colonel Khatak.

I have no language to express my mental condition of that time. I saw the dumping of dead bodies of Bengalees killed by Biharis and the Pakistani army, in the graveyard. Their burial was not held. I felt that my body was not mine, and it seemed to be decomposed. Several times, I lost my senses following continued torture. Once I remained unconscious continuosly for 28 hours. I cannot remember when the doctors visited me, or what treatment I was given. Colonel Khatak and Colonel Abed interrogated me over Professor Bhuiyan’s killing. They accused me of having contact with my brothers who had joined the Liberation War.

There was no dearth of excuses for unleashing torture on me. However, I know they tortured and killed millions of people without any cause. I knew my answers would not make them happy and they would not release me. At one stage, I stopped replying to any of their questions. I told them, “Please kill me. Don’t torture me in this way, but unfortunately it was not my fate to be killed by the Pakistanis. I was brutally tortured by both Colonel Khatak and Colonel Abed. Colonel Abdullah and Colonel Zafar also tortured me at Jessore Cantonment in the name of interrogation. My request, my tears, my resistance, my hate — nothing could stop the Pakistani army officers who held high ranks. I read many stories of repression by the Nazi soldiers, I also watched many films on the second World War, but all those incidents of repression faded in front of the brutality of the Pakistani forces I witnessed everyday in 1971.

During the horrifying days of my nine-month long captive life, I found only one Pakistani army officer who seemed to be comparatively gentle. He came to Jessore Cantonment one night. Watching my condition, he became astonished. He said, “Could you remember me? I met you at Crescent Jute Mills. I’m Major Altaf Karim. I liked you. I think you’re a woman with self-respect. I still like you. Whatever it is, I want to tell you something. My father is the principal of a college. I did not want to come here. But I’ve been compelled to do so. I’ve been asked to take you to the concentration camp. Would you please go there to have a glimpse?” Today I know what a concentration camp is, but in those days, I had no idea. I asked him, “Where’s the camp? Would I be able to return to my home from there?” Altaf said, “I’ve been asked to take you to the camp for a visit. As you have denied every allegation brought against you, you’re being taken to see the camp. I can’t help you to go back home. Anyway, how do you want to go to the camp? By rickshaw or jeep?” I said, “I can’t walk. It will be better to go by jeep.”

The concentration camp was like a small barrack. There were so many rooms. I heard the sound of beating and the groaning of people who were tortured there. Altaf informed me that the sound carries the message of torture. He also asked me whether I wanted to see more. The scenes made me frightened and I lost my strength. I was unable to remain standing. I told Altaf, “I don’t want to see anything more. Please let me free.” “You have a pact with Guljarin. I can’t do anything. However, I can submit a report that you were kept here for two days.” Later I saw Altaf hurling abuses on me in front of others.

One day he took me to Brigadier Hayat on a jeep. Hayat gave me a letter, and said, “You’ll be staying at the place where you have been told to stay so that we can get you whenever we need. The interrogation is not yet complete.” That day, Major Ekram took me to the jute mill at Khalishpur at the request of Major Altaf, who was his friend. I came to know more about Major Ekram later through some important works.

One day an officer from Khulna Army Headquarters phoned me and asked whether I knew anyone named Farid of Pabla. “Yes, I know him,” I said. I had met Farid at the residence of the police inspector, where I had taken shelter. The officer said, “He has been caught. He requested that you be contacted.” At first I thought it was a trap. Later I figured that if it was true, I would have to do something for Farid. At the same time I also knew I would have to return the favour to the army people if I asked for any favour for

Farid. Gripped in shock and frustration, I told the phone caller that I would do something the next day. The officer informed that Farid had been sent to Jessore the previous day. I knew that Major Altaf was in Jessore. Immediately, I made a phone call to him and giving a description of Farid I told Altaf that army had arrested an innocent boy. Altaf said, “Your case was an exception. I tried my best for you. But I can’t do anything for that boy. Major Korban is at this moment beating him up.” Later Major Altaf inquired about Farid and told me that he would not be released, because, the army had recovered a letter of the Muktibahini from his possession. Altaf also advised me to come to Jessore and contact Major Ekram. Accordingly, I went to Jessore and rang up Major Altaf, who helped me meet Major Ekram. Farid was then under Ekram’s supervision. Ekram asked me how I got to know Farid. He also told me that they had found a letter of the Muktibahini on him. I said, “It’s a conspiracy. In fact, one of his step-brothers conspired against him and kept the letter in his pocket.” “Well, come three days later to take Farid,” Major Ekram assured me. Later he made arrangement for me to meet Farid. As soon as I entered the room, Farid touched my legs and said, “Sister, rescue me please.” I tried to console him saying, “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to you.”

After three days, I went to Jessore to bring Farid. Major Ekram behaved very politely with me. Perhaps, Major Altaf had told him something about me. Meanwhile, my brother Shibli met up me. He told me, “Sister, you know Major Ekram. He has some maps of important places of Jessore. Besides, I need to visit their conference room. Could you take me to him?” At first, I hesitated out of fear, because I knew it was very easy for the army to know that Shibli was a freedom fighter. Later I thought I could take Shibli keeping his identity secret. He was 19 at that time, but looked only 16. His face was very innocent looking.

I phoned Major Ekram and told him, “You did a lot for me. I like to see you just to express my gratitude.” Ekram asked me to come the next day. It was a holiday. Along with Shibli, I went to see Major Ekram. I introduced him as Syed Hasan, my younger brother. Shibli had the ability to gain a person’s confidence within a very short time. He started talking with Major Ekram on various subjects. Ekram was also very cordial. He tried to convince Shibli to his point of view, saying that if the country is divided, the economic condition would further worsen. Shibli agreed with him. Ekram invited us to the lunch. I said, “ I have to do overtime in the office. So I have to leave now. I’ll come another day.” Shibli asked Ekram, “Do you play cards?” “Why not? Will your sister also play?” “She can’t play,” Shibli said, adding, “I’ll show you some tricks.”

 Later Ekram took us to the adjoining room where he used to take rest. Although Ekram was entrusted with some important responsibilities, things in his room used to remain at sixes and sevens. Many important documents were on the table. Ekram went to the toilet before the game started. Shibli searched the room for some papers he needed. He found them under the mattress and kept them in his pocket. Shibli looked very nervous at that time. Then they started playing cards. After some time I said, “Now I have to go. Otherwise, it will be difficult to get a bus to return.” Before seeing us off, Ekram said, “Please let me know if you face any trouble.”

Later, Shibli and his comrades blew up some important installations in Jessore with the help of the maps he had taken from Ekram’s room. There was some trouble when we’re returning from Jessore in that afternoon. The local Razakar (militias collaborating with the Pakistani army) commander Sabdar Ali followed us and boarded the bus. He pushed at me with his gun and asked, “What’s your name?” I replied confidently “Why are you asking my name?” He said, “You’ll be taken into custody. You are a naxalite.” In an angry tone, I said, “What will you do?’ “I will arrest you,” the Razakar said.

He again hit me with his gun and said, “Come on. I’ll teach you a good lesson.” He also pointed the gun at me and threatened to shoot, but could not do so due to protests by the bus passengers. After sometime, he disembarked from the bus as it reached near Avoynagar police station. Before getting down he said, “I have already hung two heads (of Bengalees) at the Shaheed Minar. I’ll hang more heads.” Later I was shocked to see two heads hanging on the Shaheed Minar beside the road. The two ill-fated Bengalees were killed and beheaded by the Razakars.

After some days, I received a phone call while working at my office. “I’m Captain Zafar from the Naval headquarters. I heard a lot of good words about you. I would like to see you,” the caller said. I refused to meet him, but he used to visit me frequently. Captain Jalil, who came from West Pakistan, also used to disturb me. I was not spared by any of the junior officers.

In late September, I became pregnant after being raped repeatedly by Pakistanis. I was bewildered. I could not sleep at all. I used to feel the unholy touch of the Pakistanis on my body each and every moment. There was nobody to console me. I could not share my pain and agony with anyone. At last I decided to remove the stigma of the Pakistanis from my body through abortion. I knew Dr. Kader of Khulna. When I went to him and told him about my decision, he said, “Arrange for the money required. I’ll manage everything.” He wanted 250 Taka, but I could not collect more than 200 despite frantic effort for seven days. Dr. Kader said, “I don’t take less than 250 taka.” “It is impossible for me to collect any more,” I said, requesting him to perform the operation. Then Dr. Kader said, “I need the permission of your husband.”

In those days, the process of abortion was not as modern and easy as these days. It was compulsory for a doctor to have the consent of the husband of the patient. I pleaded Dr. Kader saying, “My husband is not available here at this moment. So I am my own guardian.” At last he agreed to do the abortion and I was freed from the filth.

In the month of December, the Pakistani army started retreating in the face of strong resistance by the freedom fighters. But the scenario inside the Crescent Jute Mills and Khalishpur area was different. Since late November Biharis had started killing Bengalees living in the area. Killings were also taking place inside and outside of the jute mill. Everyday hundreds of Benglaees went missing. The general manager  of the mill, Fidai, made frequent visits to Pakistan at that time.

Meanwhile, another untoward incident occurred on December 2. One Bihari driver named Rashid used to drive me to my house everyday. That day he was drunk and forcibly took me to a dark street near Newsprint Mills instead of my house. He was driving like a mad men. I protested and he shouted abuses in Urdu and also made indecent gestures. I screamed and hit his neck, and then got down from the car by breaking the lock. At that time my left hand was badly injured. I still carry the marks of that injury.

The next day Khawaja Mohammad Ali, a senior officer of the mill, asked me about the previous day’s incident. He also asked me why I did not tell him about the incident earlier. I said, “Sir, these days it is very difficult for me to decide on to whom I should lodge any complaint. I don’t know who can help me.”

On December 4, I received a telephone call from Ahsanullah. He informed me that a conspiracy had been hatched to kill me. He advised me to rush to another jute mill, Jessore Jute Industries. He also said that all the four gates of our mill were already closed.

After a few minutes I had another phone call from Major Altaf Karim who was in Jessore. “The situation here is very bad. We’re battling with Mukti Bahini face to face. I don’t know whether I’ll survive,” he said. He apologised to me and said, “If you come to know that I’m no more, please inform my father and brother.” He gave me his home address. Finally he said, “I know our fight is unjust. But I’m a soldier. I have nothing to do.”

Once Altaf had proposed marriage. He also wanted to carry the responsibilities of my children. He told me, “The non-Bengalees here know that I love you. They will kill you in my absence. In Pakistan you’ll get the honour of being my wife. If your husband comes back, I’m sure that he will not accept you.” I refused his proposal promptly and told him, “I don’t bother if my husband accepts me or not. You’re a good human being. But I can’t think of marrying a Pakistani. You know the reason. The hate for Pakistanis in my mind will remain forever.”  Altaf didn’t proceed further. I saw him for the last time on December 4. It was very difficult to recognize him as his face was pale. We did not talk that day. He gave me a salute before leaving the place.

During the war, Altaf was the only Pakistani I met who had some conscience. He knew the Pakistanis were doing wrong. Except Altaf, all the Pakistanis — from soldiers to high ranking officers —were sadists. They used to enjoy killing innocent people.

After receiving the phone calls, I went to my house. I tried to come out after packing my clothes in a wooden box, but the Biharis intercepted me at the gate. I could not leave the place. I got another phone call from Khawaja Mohamad Ali the next noon. He said, “Major Belayet Shah is coming to my office today. If you want, you could go out with him.” In fact, I told Mohammad Ali earlier that I wanted to leave the area. At first I hesitated to go with Major Belayet Shah. He was crazy for women, but I had no alternative. That day he made an indecent proposal. He wanted to take the car to a dark place on the highway to Khulna. To save myself, I told him, “Mukti Bahinis are guarding the area. They will kill you.” Whatever the reason, Major Shah did not proceed further. I got down from the car in front of Jessore Jute Industries to meet my husband. As soon as I saw Ahsanullah, I became very emotional and angry with him, for having left me in a helpless situation. I was shouting and crying as if I had gone insane. I do not know what happened to me. In anger, shock and pain, I came out from Jessore Jute Industries and returned to Crescent Jute Mills in the evening.

On December 6 at noon, Aktar, a Bihari clerk of my office, phoned me and said, “I always liked you, but couldn’t express myself. Now I’m giving you an important news. Just now I got a message that you’ll be killed shortly. So leave the place without delaying any moment.”

I came out. The main gate was a quarter mile away from my office. I was apprehending an attack on the way, but I was lucky and got a rickshaw. I asked the puller to drive the rickshaw speedily. On the way I found Anwar, another clerk of my office, who lived on the third floor of my building. He was going to office. When I reached the main gate, the gatekeeper said, ‘Just now Anwar was killed.’ I got a baby-taxi in front of the gate. The driver demanded a fare three times higher than the normal rate, but I was not in a position to bargain. I quickly boarded the taxi and went to Jessore Jute Industries.

Ahsanullah was waiting, and as soon as I reached there, he received me with a hearty embrace. I told him everything. He said, “You’re a great freedom fighter. Don’t worry thinking about how Pakistanis treated you.” The general manager of Jessore Jute Industries Mr. Idris was a non-Bengalee. However, he was not like our general manager Fidai. Mr. Idris protected the Bengalee staff of the mill from the attack of the Pakistanis. Ahsanullah had joined work in November on his assurance.

On December 6, Mr. Idris was ordered by the military authority in Jessore Cantonment to leave the mill along with all non-Bengalees and go to Khulna. The order was given because the army had planned to kill all the Bangalee staff of the mill. But Mr. Idris was committed to protecting each and every staff member of his mill. He took all his staff, along with us, to Khulna. We took shelter at Hotel Selim. The mill authorities bore all the expenses and Mr. Idris made the arrangements. He was the only non-Bengalee who was duly honoured by his Bengalee staff after independence.

Finally Bangladesh came into being as the occupation forces surrendered on December 16. The next day Ahsanullah said, “Let me take you to a particular place.” We boarded a car. He took me to Gallamari mass grave in Khulna were we found thousands of dead bodies lying on the ground. We saw many corpses also on the cultivated lands – jute fields, paddy fields. Those were the dead bodies of innocent Bengalees who were killed by the Pakistanis and their collaborators only three or four days back. It was a horrible scene. But there was a strange feeling inside me. Standing in front of scores of human bodies, I was thinking about the terrible experience I had undergone during the nine months of the Liberation War. I thought, though I am alive, there is no difference between my body and the corpses lying on the ground before me.

Today, whenever I recall the dreadful days and nights of 1971, I feel that for the last 28 years I have been carrying a body, which is fatigued and decomposed.

Interviewed by Shahriar Kabir