The war I never saw, but inherited
I belong to a generation that did not witness the Liberation War. The war, regardless, has meant a great deal to me for as long as I can remember. I inherited stories of the war and the fear, pain and anxiety from a generation for whom it remains the most destructive, yet defining experience of their lives. As I see people speak of the war as though it mattered less than it did—as if questioning the statistics could delegitimise it—I feel compelled to share some of the stories I grew up hearing from those who experienced it firsthand.
Mymensingh, where my paternal grandfather, a postmaster, lived with his wife and six children, was occupied by Pakistani forces on April 23, 1971. Anticipating danger amid rising political tension, he sent my grandmother and four of their children to their village home in Madhupur, where the situation was comparatively calmer.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel. In March 1971, as the country stood on the brink of eruption, my father—then a class nine student at Mymensingh Zilla School and the second of six siblings—got into a car driven by a former army official. The man was gathering people to go to the then East Pakistan Rifles (EPR) camp to support Bangalee officials revolting against West Pakistani officers. My father and the others were told they would be given firearms to fight. As the car neared the camp, it was caught in a crossfire between Pakistani and Bangalee officers. Like any terrified teenager, my father prayed only to return home safely. At home, my grandfather waited anxiously, the air heavy with impending danger.
When my father returned, rather unharmed, my grandfather asked where he had been. He told the truth that he had gone to collect a gun to fight in the war. The punishment that followed, my father still admits, was not entirely undeserved. My grandfather then decided it was no longer safe for my father and my aunt, who was one-year-older than him, to stay behind in the town with him. They, too, would be sent to Madhupur, where the rest of the family had already gathered.
However, the roads were unsafe, and transport was scarce. My grandfather managed to hire a rickshaw. He made sure my aunt was covered from head to toe. Listening to this story as a child and imagining the unspoken possibilities, I always felt a lump in my throat and chills run down my spine.
The trio—a father and a brother, a sister and a daughter— were nothing but Bangalees to the Pakistani forces; people who could be ruled over and violated at will. From the stories of 1971, I learnt the meanings of war, monstrosity and injustice. I heard of fear—fear of losing loved ones, of losing a country, of losing one's own life. I heard from children who are adults now, who still remember what it felt like to live under the shadow of doom, with no means to protect themselves or their families.
When they started the journey to Madhupur, Tommy, the family's pet dog, ran behind the rickshaw for almost 20 kilometres, all the way up to Muktagachha. My grandfather stopped, bought two parathas for the dog, and then resumed the journey. Hungry and exhausted, Tommy could run no further and there was no way to take him along. My grandfather and aunt eventually managed two seats on a bus, while my father followed behind on his bicycle for more than 40 kilometres.
The war has affected us all, those who witnessed it directly and those who did not. The trauma of surviving a genocide is passed down through generations. I felt safe sitting beside my grandfather, listening to these stories in the very house where, years ago, he and his three sons had dug a trench to protect the family from airborne attacks. Such realities were unimaginable to someone who had never lived under occupation. I knew I would never fully understand what my family had endured. What I did know was that I felt deep gratitude towards the freedom fighters who laid down their lives to liberate the nation.
My father also recalled sheltering a group of around 20 starving freedom fighters in his paternal grandfather's house. The commander, armed with rifles and Sten guns, asked for food. My father sacrificed a pet duck and, with a neighbour's help, fed the group. They were ordinary villagers, some were farmers, whose lives were transformed the moment they took up arms. They chose independence as their legacy, even if it meant not surviving the war. From these stories, I learnt about bravery, resilience, and the difference between right and wrong.
My father also remembers the razakars and the Al-Badr Bahini. Two senior students from his school joined the Al-Badr and roamed the city with firearms. They abducted those suspected of links to freedom fighters, tortured them on the banks of the Brahmaputra, and dumped their bodies in the river.
While all these were happening in Mymensingh, another family—a retired Daroga, his wife and their seven children, of whom my mother is the third—was struggling for survival in Rajshahi. Those are the stories for another day.
How many families, then, endured this devastating war with hope in their hearts? Millions longed for freedom because they were exhausted by oppression. Memories of trenches, abandoned pets, and starving fighters are not folklore; they are the scar tissue of our nation's history. It is devastating to see attempts to rewrite or deny this past. The Liberation War, the sacrifices Bangladeshis made, and the independence we inherited define us as a free nation. Without acknowledging that past, we risk losing our identity.
Sifat Afrin Shams is a member of the editorial team at The Daily Star.
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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