Revisiting 16th December

Ziauddin Choudhury

I could not go to witness the surrender scene at Ramna Race Course on the day for which I was pining
like all other virtually imprisoned citizens of Dhaka. It was not because I did not want to. It was because
on my way to the Race Course in a friends car we were fired upon by a Pakistani militia shooting away
at random at all passersby from his hideout in an abandoned building in Elephant Road. When we
dodged the bullet and took an alternative road we were met with throngs of youngsters many wielding
firearms and yelling in jubilation. It was difficult to tell if they were actually freedom fighters or young
men who had been hiding in the city for fear and had just come out with weapons that were left behind
by a fleeing band of soldiers. In any event, it was not safe to go out anymore, we concluded. We
returned home to watch the momentous surrender of Pakistan Army on television.

What happened in Dhaka on 16th December and in the rest of Bangladesh is history now. But what
happened thereafter is history where it is recorded and only a terrible memory for those who had seen
it personally. One of those persons was a shop keeper in Dhaka Stadium, a brave person who had kept
his small business of selling tea, cigarettes and betel leaf open during the dark days of occupation. His
shop was an oasis of hope where he dispensed his dream of a soon to be independent country liberated
from the clutches of a cruel army along with his tea and biscuits. He was confident that the days of the
junta were numbered. He was certain that the young men from his village in the neighborhood of Dhaka
who had trained and were raiding Dhaka daily would soon free the city just as others like them would
liberate the rest of the country. He was convinced it was only a matter of time.

I used to meet this shop keeper in those days, just not for tea but also for hearing his inspiring talks. He
would talk in a hushed voice whenever a wandering platoon of militia passed by his shop or stopped for
cigarette. It was unreal to hear him talk about a liberated country in those gloomy days, but it was
exciting to hear him say about the raids that he said would be forthcoming. Not that whatever he
predicted came true, but many did happen and Dhaka was a place stricken by many bomb blasts in
almost all parts of the city. So the shop keepers credibility was not that weak.

I went to the shop three days after Victory Day. He was open, but not with a smiling face that had
greeted me earlier. He was morose and downtrodden. He offered my cup of tea, saying that this
probably would be the last cup of tea there since he planned to shut down his business. Naturally I was
surprised. I asked why he wanted to shut down his business after his dream of a free country has come
true. He replied he was not sure if this is the free country he had dreamed of. He looked at my
expression and then went on to narrate to me his harrowing and depressing account of the events that
had followed the Pakistan Army surrender.

His first shock was from the wanton plunders by mobs of all stores along then Jinnah Avenue (now
Bangabandhu Avenue) in the name of punishing non- Bengalis for their role although many shops
belonged to Bengalis as well. His second shock was from the brutal killing by bayonet of two persons
suspected to be Razakars in front of the stadium by a freedom fighter. But his greatest shock was to find
several people who he had known to be Pakistani spies posing as freedom fighters and now joining the
plunder and loot in the area. Sir, I knew that the Pakistan Army could not rule over us for long because
they did not belong here. But the people I see before me now are our own. They were not fighting the
army, but helping them. They are not going anywhere, my shop keeper friend said in a lament.

The shop keeper actually sold his business and moved on, but his comments remained with me for a
long time. The shop keeper had embodied in him the true hope and spirit of our independence struggle.
In fact in a metaphorical sense he embodied the hopes and aspirations of all Bangladeshis that time who
were going through the trauma of Army occupation when village after village was being scorched and
people hauled away for suspected support of the freedom fighters. The irony was that many of these
Army raids were happening both in and outside Dhaka because the help came from within. The number
of such people may not have been big, but they are sufficient to cause harm. These are the people who
helped to cull down many of our scholars and intellectuals in the dark nights of December who people
knew, but they later came out blended with their fellow beings openly.

One can forgive, but cannot forget. The nine-month trauma of 1971 for the majority who lived through
it cannot be forgotten. Nor the pain of loss of dear ones for those who went through it. The principal
perpetrators of the crimes of 1971 may have belonged to Pakistan, but a good number of them were
born and raised in our own country. Some of them may have acted because of their ideology or political
belief, but others acted as mercenaries and soldiers of opportunity. Not all of these people could be
later identified and be hauled up in the war crimes trial. But it is a national duty for all to remember that
the harrowing and pain of 1971 was not all caused by a murderous military junta, it was also aided and
abetted by some of our own people. We will never be able to compensate the victims and their families,
but we should at least let our posterity know that as a nation we did not fail in bringing those
perpetrators to justice.