The mother was beautiful, and she had sindoor in her hair—indicating she was married, and a hindu. Her eyes were wide open; she was dead. She had been feeding her daughter when she was shot. I carried the girl in my arms, morel said, but I was very confused. The baby was unhurt, but she had blood all over her body, her mothers blood. Oh god, what am I doing, morel asked himself as he ran holding the child. He fled through the market, and saw many more dead bodies, including those of Hindus he had grown up with—Kalachand, who played the drum at Hindu weddings; Bhogirath, who worked as a butcher; Digambar, who was a farmer; and Babunath Biswas, a grocer.
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She told him his writing father had died, and he should get a white cloth from the shops for the burial shroud. I had no time to think, morel told me four decades later, when we met. Even as the morels were absorbing the devastation visited upon them, the trucks reached the town centre. The soldiers stepped out of the trucks, and without any provocation or warning, started to shoot. Achintya biswas, hiding in a school with short his family, heard the noise, but did not know what was going. As Morel ran through the town, he saw that most homes were empty—many from the village had already left for India. A girl, about 11 years old, bleeding profusely as her leg was shot, asked him for water. Morel went into a house nearby and filled a glass of water from a clay pot. She died in his arms while drinking. Then he saw another child, barely six months old, clinging to her mothers breast. Her mother lay beside her, and there was blood all over her body.
He heard one of the soldiers shout at his father. He remembers, he told me, his father standing tall in the field, gesturing angrily, waving his sickle, as if telling them not to drive over his field. The soldiers needed only one shot to kill him. Morel heard the shot, and gasped. He saw the truck move on; his father had fallen. Morel rushed out through the back door. He heard more gunshots, from all sides. He heard cries for help. After taking some family members to relative plan safety in the bushes, he rushed back to see his mother, still in the house.
At around 10 am on that unusually bright day, ershad Ali morel, then 23 years old, heard the rumbling of trucks—faint at dates first, then gradually louder. There were two of them, he told me, carrying pakistani troops to Chuknagar. They were heading towards the large, open grounds where the crowd had gathered, forming small circles, squatting or lying down, waiting to be smuggled into India. The pakistani armys job was to prevent them from leaving. Morel was working on the familys jute farm with his brothers and father, who was then 65 years old, when the soldiers arrived. His father told him to go back to the familys hut, about a hundred yards away. Morel wanted to stay and see what the noise was all about, but he obeyed his father and ran back towards his small home. From there, he saw the trucks driving closer at an even pace, throwing up dust.
He also gave ahmed a lungi and a gamchha, so that he could pass for a rural child. Those boatmen were like the underground railway that existed in the United States to free the slaves, Ahmed told me in 2012. The day after the badamtola killings, on the morning of 20 may, chuknagar was teeming with thousands of people. It was the day of a local festival. Some families had just arrived by boat; others were bargaining with agents who could get them across to India. Many were buying food or selling their possessions to raise money for the journey. The mood was not festive, but the town looked like the site of a country fair.
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These razakars mobilised others to rush to collect intelligence on the area, and on other transit points such as Badamtola, some forty kilometres from Chuknagar. On, followers sem of the pro-pakistan Muslim league came to badamtola and killed more than a hundred people—of whom only 23 were ever identified, since the rest had all come there from other villages and were not known to the locals. It had been nearly two months since general Yahya khan, the president of pakistan, had declared martial law on national radio, and said, It is the duty of the pakistani armed forces to ensure the integrity, solidarity and security of pakistan. I have ordered them to do their duty and fully restore the authority of government. Many of the poor in this area, who were used to floods and cyclones, had come to accept forced displacement as an integral part of their lives. At least one reason why some of them were able to move to safety was the assistance of countless boatmen and peasants who helped their compatriots unhesitatingly, regardless of their faith.
Imtiaz ahmed, who would later head the international relations department at Dhaka university, fled to India as a class-nine student to join the mukti bahini, the bengali resistance. He was forced to return because he was too young, and the bahini had too many able-bodied young men. While in India, ahmed innocently bought two books by tagore for his mother, thinking that they would please her. He had not realised that if he were seen with the books, the pakistani army would figure out he had been to India and instantly kill him: Indian cultural imports had been banned in East pakistan since 1965, and if you were carrying a tagore. The boatman who brought Ahmed back to a launch-ghat from the border area understood this. He concealed Ahmeds books, covering them in plastic so they wouldnt get wet, and handed them to him when they reached the ghat.
They described the day vividly; but forty years had passed, and time can play tricks with memory, particularly in the absence of any other record of the names or the number of the dead. All this had made it even more complicated to come to any conclusions about the scale of the tragedy. Multiply that many times over, and you realise how hard it is to characterise what happened in Bangladesh in 1971. Human rights groups argue that the pakistani forces and their allies committed war crimes; writers sympathetic to the state of Bangladesh say it was the site of crimes against humanity; many bangladeshis assert that the war was an outright genocide. As far as international legal definitions go, the conflict may have involved all three—contrary to the pakistani establishments disavowal of these labels, and its stated belief that this was, all told, just a brutal war in which many civilians died.
Chuknagar had, proportionately, more hindus than other parts of East pakistan; by local estimates, in the 1970s, some villages in these parts were as much as 40-percent Hindu. The razakars, and members of other pro-pakistani militia, were active here; they worked both to spy on the villages and to intimidate the local people. Achintya biswas, a teacher of French revolutionary history at a college in Batiaghata, near Chuknagar, told me that local Hindus, as well as supporters of the bengali nationalist Awami league party, decided to move to India after April 1971, when the pakistani army shot villagers. Word had spread rapidly to these remote villages that, contrary to what the official radio stations were telling them, the pakistani troops were not entering these villages to protect them; instead, they were busy killing Bengali men and boys, and no bengali woman or girl. People constantly lived in fear of the Khan Sena, as they called the soldiers sent from West pakistan. In the southern parts of East pakistan, bengalis with a keen survival instinct began to spread the word: go to Chuknagar, walk to satkhira, and sneak into India. Once across the border, people were told, sikh soldiers would lift their children, embrace them, and carry them to safety; Indira gandhi would give them tents, saris, medicinal tablets and injections. For thousands of villagers living in inaccessible parts of the south Bangladesh delta, such as Rampal, sarankola, morelganj, fakirhat, bagerhat and Gopalganj, Chuknagar was the transit point to reach. But each of these villages had its razakars, and word soon reached the occupying army that people were gathering in Chuknagar.
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To the west of statement khulna is a place called Chuknagar, which is an important junction on the way to India. It is a dusty town, with a derelict centre that once had a large market. Here, in a single may morning, pakistani forces killed an unknown number of Bengali people, many of them waiting to take river transport or the jessore road route to cross the border into India. In the months and years that followed, as the bangladeshi refugee crisis swelled to include five, then six, and finally up to ten million displaced people, the world retained little memory of this massacre. Its ghosts have remained largely unexorcised, further raising questions of how, or whether, such ghosts can ever be laid to rest. The history of Chuknagar, when not obscured, has been fiercely contested—an indication of how the number of recorded deaths, as well as the degree of brutality with which crimes were committed during the war, has vexed historians ever since 1971. When i visited the area two years ago, i spoke to about a dozen people who claimed to have witnessed that unrestrained murder.
A million girls vomit groan, millions of families hopeless alone, millions of souls nineteen seventy one homeless on Jessore road under grey sun. A million are dead, the million who can. Walk toward Calcutta from East pakistan. The road passes through Khulna district in southern Bangladesh, and is the gateway to the worlds largest mangrove forest, the sundarbans, formed at the confluence of the padma, brahmaputra and Meghna rivers. This was once bengals jute territory: before partition, jute would be taken from Khulna to the mills of Calcutta. Later, to reduce dependence on India, west pakistan set up jute mills in East pakistan, some of them in Khulna. It was here, on the night of, when the wave of killings called Operation searchlight by the pakistani army began, that dozens of Bengali mill workers were shot legal to death by soldiers who came to take over a jute factory. And it was in Khulna that, in may of that year, one of the worst massacres of the war took place over the course of one day.
blow his ghostly pipe again. Although not so strong as last weekends, it still get on my nerves. The other problem is with a water tank beside your bedroom, the bedroom may be colder than other room, it's bad in freezing winter, may be a merit during summer. In the winter of 2012, when I drove along Jessore road, it was a weather-beaten two-lane road with waterlogged fields on either side, the landscape occasionally interrupted by a few shops—a mechanical works, a petrol pump, or a tea stall. Jessore road connects south-western Bangladesh to kolkata, in West Bengal. During the war of 1971, it was one of the lifelines that connected refugees from East pakistan, fleeing war and massacre, to India. Of those fateful eight months, as the world slowly realised that a massacre was underway in East pakistan and sympathy and support began to trickle in from the west, the beat poet Allen Ginsberg wrote in his lyrical anthem September on Jessore road: Millions. Millions of children wash in the flood.
The water tank has a water level control pipe lead outside through the for wall, used for relieving emergency overflows of the water tank. Last weekend the strong gusts of up to 65 mph blew day and night, it is said that the gusts blew part of a gable of a barber shop on the roof of neighbouring café bar. The same gusts has blown my bins 2 meters away from their original position, and loosened my fences and our neighbour's. The wind blew the water overflow control pipe, like a ghost playing his flute tirelessly. This ghostly howling came out of the cupboard, sometimes strong, sometimes weak, sometimes quick, sometimes slow. This make me mad. To make things worse, because i didn't know there was an overflow control pipe there before, i tried to climb into the cupboard to find out the cause, and went outside to check if I can see any problem. But it's pitch dark, and the pipe is so small and high. I couldn't see anything till next morning.
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M is partnering with Gymglish to give you a free one-month trial of this excellent online English training course. Activate your free month of lessons (special offer for new users, with no obligation to buy) - and receive a level assessment! Your life will be much harder if you have a water tank near your bedroom. In my bedroom there is a door to storage cupboard housing supermarket a water tank on the upper deck. When we viewed this house, we didn't think this structure may cause any problem for our life at all, but now I found that does become a problem sometimes. To use water anywhere in the house will cause the water tank to refill. Any member of your house flushes toilet, fills the bathtub, washes face and brushes teeth by the hand-washing basin, cooks in the kitchen and need a cup of ice tap water.