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February 28, 2015

February 1971

February 4:
  • Indian airliner Ganga, which was hijacked on January 30 by alleged Kashmiri freedom fighters to Lahore, was destroyed by the hijackers. They had released the passengers before detonation. India banned all Pakistani aircraft from flying over its territory in retaliation to the incident. It is feared that this move will lead to severe communications problems between the two wings of Pakistan.  
February 10:
February 13:
“Bhutto indicated quite clearly that he wanted to “turn over a new leaf’ in his relatiom with the US and pointed out that, as a concrete gesture of good will on his part. He said he was wondering what would be the attitude of the US if the PPP could not agree on a “Modus Vivendi” with the Awami League on the constitution. I wanted him to know that the policy of the US has been and continues to be that of supporting the independence, unity and integrity of Paksitan.”
February 15:
February 16:
  • Bhutto, whose Pakistan People’s Party controls more than half of the Assembly seats from West Pakistan, has asserted that he is the spokesman for the West. Bhutto says no to constitution making. Sheikh Mujib bitterly criticised the demand of Bhutto and said:
“The demand of Bhutto sahib is totally illogical. Power has to be handed over to the only majority party, the Awami League. The people of East Bengal are now the masters of power.”
February 19: 
Alamgir said Mujib had on February 19 asked him to check out reports that Pak army was making significant troop dispositions. He hadreported back to Mujib that he found no such evidence. Placement of anti-aircraft guns around airport and other nearby locations is viewed by Awami League as primarily psychological move to indicate to people that air of tension with India exists.
February 21:
  • Mujib called a meeting of all the political leaders of Pakistan to discuss the 6-point demand before it would be placed at the National Assembly session.  
February 22:
  • The generals in West Pakistan took a decision to crush the Awami League and its supporters. “Kill three million of them,” said President Yahya Khan at the February conference, “and the rest will eat out of our hands.” (Robert Payne, Massacre [1972], p. 50.) Pakistan: Implications of political separation  
February 24:
  • Mujib announced that there was a conspiracy to undermine the election results.  
February 26:
  • Yahiya holds a secret meeting with Bhutto, leader of the Pakistan People’s Party.  
February 28: 
  • Bhutto announced that the National Assembly session should be postponed. He said that the people of West Pakistan vetoed the 6-point. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto said: 
“We cannot go there only to endorse a constitution already prepared by a party, and return humiliated… We have a duty to those millions who elected us.” He proposes that the PPP should control West Pakistan while the Awami League could rule over East Pakistan. He has also warned his newly elected delegates to the National Assembly that he will break the legs of any party member who dares to attend the March 3 session.
Source: Bangladesh Genocide Archive
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February 22, 2015

I Have Not Come to Shed Tears Where They Laid Down Their Livesrs - Mahbub ul Alam Chowdhury

 
Poet Mahbub ul Alam Chowdhury has been reputed as the Ekusher Prothom Kabi for writing the first poem, “Kandte Ashinee Fasheer Dabee Niye Achechi” on the Language Movement in 1952. In recognition he was awarded the national ‘Ekushe Padak’ (Posthumous) in 2009. Though basically a poet he wrote a considerable number of articles, dramas; and contributed numerous columns in the daily newspapers. His publications includes 22 books of poetry, essay, drama, column and memoirs.
He participated, since his early life in most of the political and cultural movements until the liberation war and continued his struggle for peoples freedom throughout his life.
1952, he wrote the poem “Kadte Ashini, Phasir Dabi Niye Eshechi” in remembrance of the language martyrs of 21 February in Dhaka. This has been reputed as the first poem on the Language Movement. The government confiscated the booklet and issued a warrant against him.

I have not come, where they laid down their lives
under the upward looking Krishnachura trees,
to shed tears.
I have not come, where endless patches of blood
glow like so many fiery flowers, to weep.
Today I an not overwhelmed by grief,
Today I am not maddened with anger,
Today I am only unflinching
in my determination.
The child who will never more get a chance
to rush into his father’s arms,
the housewife who, shielding the lamp
with her sari, will never more wait
by the door for her husband,
the mother who will never more draw
to her breast with boundless joy
her returning son,
the young man who, before collapsing
on the earth, tried again and again
to conjure before his eyes the vision
of his beloved,
in their name,
in the name of those brothers and sisters,
in the name of my language,
nourished by the heritage of a thousand years,
in the name of the language in which
I am accustomed to addressing my mother,
in the name of my native land,
I say, I have come today,
here on the open grounds of the university,
to demand their death by hanging,
the death of those who killed
my brothers and sisters indiscriminately.
I have not come here to weep for them
who gave their lives under Ramna’s
sun-scorched krishnachura treses
for their language,
Those forty or more who laid down their lives
for Bangla, their mother tongue,
for the dignity of a country’s great culture,
for the literary heritage of Alaol,
Rabindranath, Kaikobad and Nazrul,
for keeping alive the bhatiali, baul,
kirtan and the ghazal,
those who laid down their lives
for Nazrul’s unforgettable lines:
“The soil of my native land
is purer than the purest gold.”
Forty blooming lives fell
like innumerable Krishnachura petals
on Ramna’s soil.
In the husks of the seeds
sprouting therefrom I can see
endless drops of blood,
the blood of young Rameswar and Abdus Salam,
the blood of the most brilliant boys of the university.
I can see each drop of blood
shining on Ramna’s green grass like burning flames,
each boy a piece of diamond,
forty jewels of the university,
who, had they lived, would have become
the most precious wealth of the country, in whom
Lincoln, Rolland, Aragon and Einstein had found refuge,
in whom had flourished some of the
most progressive ideals of this century’s civilization.
We have not come here to shed tears
where forty jewels sacrificed their lives.
We have not come, either, to plead
for our language to the killers
who had arrived with their rifles loaded,
with orders to shoot our brothers and sisters.
We have come to demand the hanging
of the tyrants and the murderers.
We know that our brothers and sisters were killed,
that they were mercilessly shot,
that one of them was perhaps called ‘Osman’
just like you,
that perhaps one of them had a clerk for his father
just like you, or that one’s father was growing
golden crops in some remote village of East Bengal,
or was a government functionary.
Today those boys could be living just like you or me.
Perhaps one of them had his wedding day fixed
just like me.
Perhaps one of them had left on his table,
just like you, his mother’s letter
received a moment ago,
hoping to read it when he got back
from the procession he went out to join.
Those boys had harboured concrete dreams
in their breasts,
and they were killed by the bullets
of the cruel tyrants.
In the name of those who wanted
to banish our mother tongue be hanged.
I demand that those who ordered
the killing be hanged.
I demand that the traitors
who climbed to the seats of power
over the dead bodies of my brothers and
sisters be hanged.
I want to see them tried and shot
as convicted criminals
on that very spot in this open field.
Those first martyrs of the country,
those forty brilliant boys of the university,
each of them had dreams of building
a quiet home in the bosom of this earth
with his wife, children and parents.
They dreamed of analysing
the scientific theories of Einstein with greater depth,
they dreamed of finding ways
to put atomic power to man’s service
in the cause of peace.
They dreamed of writing a poem
more beautiful than Tagore’s “The Flute Players”.
O, my martyred brothers,
the spot where you laid down your lives
will continue to glow
even after a thousand years.
No footprints of civilization can wipe out
the marks of your blood from that soil,
although procession after procession
will one day converge here
and shatter its vague silence.
The tolling of the university bells
will daily announce the historic hour of your deaths,
even if one day a violent storm
erupts and shakes the building’s very foundation.
Whatever comes to pass
the brightness of your names as hallowed martyrs
will never grow dim.
The cruel hands of the murderers
can never throttle your long cherished hopes.
Some day we shall surely win
and hail the advent of justice and fair play.
O, my dead brothers,
on that day, your voices,
the strong voice of freedom,
will soar from the depths of silence.
The people of my country, on that day,
will surely hang from the gallows
those tyrants and murderers.
On that day, your hopes will shine like flames
in the joy of victory and sweet vengeance. 
Translated by Prof. Kabir Chowdhury.
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February 21, 2015

My Brothers Blood Spattered 21 February

 
Amar Bhaier Rokte Rangano (My Brothers' Blood Spattered) is a Bengali song written by Abdul Gaffar Choudhury to mark the Bengali Language Movement in 1950s East Pakistan. It was first published anonymously in the last page of a newspaper with the headline Ekusher Gaan (the 21st's song), but was later published in Ekushey's February edition.

The song was initially written as a poem at the bedside of an injured language movement activist who was shot by the Pakistani military police. The cultural secretary of the Jubo League gave the poem to Abdul Latif to put to a tune, which Latif Atikul Islam first sang. The students of Dhaka College also sung the song when they attempted to build a Shaheed Minar on their college premises, getting them expelled from the college. Altaf Mahmud, a renowned composer and a martyr of the Bangladesh Liberation War, recomposed the song using Abdul Latif's version, which is now a quasi-official tune.

The song is often recognized as the most influential song of the language movement, reminding numerous Bangladeshis about the conflicts of 1952. Every 21 February sees people from all parts of the Bangladesh heading to the Shaheed Minar in the probhat feri, a barefoot march to the monument, paying homage to those killed in the language movement demonstrations by singing this song. It is regarded by the listeners of BBC Bengali Service as the third best song in Bengali. The English translation below was rendered by Kabir Chowdhury.
 
My Brothers Blood Spattered 21 February

Can I forget the twenty-first of February
incarnadined by the love of my brother?
The twenty-first of February, built by the tears
of a hundred mothers robbed of their sons,
Can I ever forget it?
Wake up all serpents,
wake up all summer thunder-storms,
let the whole world rise up
in anger and protest against the massacre of innocent children.
They tried to crush the demand of the people
by murdering the golden sons of the land.
Can they get away with it
at this hour when the times are poised
for a radical change?
No, no, no, no,
In the history reddened by blood
the final verdict has been given already
by the twenty-first of February.
It was a smooth and pleasant night,
with the winter gone nearly
and the moon smiling in the blue sky
and lovely fragrant flowers blossoming on the roadside,
and all of a sudden rose a storm,
fierce like a wild horde of savage beasts.
Even in the darkness we know who those beasts were.
On them we shower the bitterest hatred
of all mothers brothers and sisters.
They fired at the soul of this land,
They tried to silence the demand of the people,
They kicked at the bosom of Bengal.
They did not belong to this country.
They wanted to sell away her good fortune.
They robbed the people of food, clothing and peace.
On them we shower our bitterest hatred.
Wake up today, the twenty-first of February.
do wake you, please.
Our heroic boys and girls still languish in the prisons of the tyrant.
The souls of my martyred brothers still cry.
But today everywhere the somnolent strength
of the people have begun to stir
and we shall set February ablaze
by the flame of our fierce anger.
How can I ever forget the twenty-first of February?

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