Just as it is unintelligent to denounce the great German nation for the crimes of the Nazis, it would be imprudent to charge the Bengalis for the conduct of the Awami League. Many other blood-curdling tales of murder and mayhem were narrated as Jamil took me to other camps the day after. Similarly, there was no dearth of tales of acts of valour of Bengalis who sheltered and protected — at enormous peril to themselves — their fear-stricken Bihari friends and neighbours.
The most heart-wrenching story was that of Masoom
Ahmad. “As the mob came close to our house, he was left with his wife and sister,” recounts his uncle Zahir Siddiqui. With only one bullet left in his revolver, his wife asked him to shoot her lest she be raped by the mob. “I am your wife, I have first right on that bullet,” his wife pleaded. His sister’s entreaties were the same. The next day, Zahir found their bodies. The empty revolver lay by Masoom’s side. Zahir stops the tale here and offers me the last piece of Bihari kebab. Who did Masoom shoot? The truth will go to the grave with Zahir. The kebab tasted awful.
For 38 years now, these Biharis have been spread across Bangladesh in 66 fetid camps, each a thatched firetrap. They live as refugees, although theirs is a more atypical quandary. They did not leave their nation; their nation left them. In triumph, they would have been patriots. In rout, they were traitors.
The Bangladeshi regime issued a number of official promulgations in the shape of Presidential orders, which were in reality devices to disinherit the Biharis of their property, possessions and bank savings. For many months, those cooped up in these camps were not permitted to go out for anything, including employment, schooling or healthcare.
“They have been forced to exist in sub-human conditions for the last four decades and will, in all likelihood, live like this until they die”, observes Mahtab Haidar, a Dhaka-based analyst. “Poverty isn’t the only thing that hinders their progress. They are without schooling, job prospects, and an identity. They merely survive as statistics in ration cards, respite programs and slum-arson tales,” he adds.
“I've dreamt of shifting to Pakistan for decades,” says Rubina Khatoon, 56, standing outside the tiny 6 feet by 6 feet shanty she shares with six of her kin. “There they converse in my tongue, Urdu.” Rubina’s camp is just another slum in Dhaka. Most live with no power, water or healthcare. Illiteracy, joblessness and undernourishment are widespread. But startlingly, there are no beggars.
The most heart-wrenching story was that of Masoom
Ahmad. “As the mob came close to our house, he was left with his wife and sister,” recounts his uncle Zahir Siddiqui. With only one bullet left in his revolver, his wife asked him to shoot her lest she be raped by the mob. “I am your wife, I have first right on that bullet,” his wife pleaded. His sister’s entreaties were the same. The next day, Zahir found their bodies. The empty revolver lay by Masoom’s side. Zahir stops the tale here and offers me the last piece of Bihari kebab. Who did Masoom shoot? The truth will go to the grave with Zahir. The kebab tasted awful.For 38 years now, these Biharis have been spread across Bangladesh in 66 fetid camps, each a thatched firetrap. They live as refugees, although theirs is a more atypical quandary. They did not leave their nation; their nation left them. In triumph, they would have been patriots. In rout, they were traitors.
The Bangladeshi regime issued a number of official promulgations in the shape of Presidential orders, which were in reality devices to disinherit the Biharis of their property, possessions and bank savings. For many months, those cooped up in these camps were not permitted to go out for anything, including employment, schooling or healthcare.
“They have been forced to exist in sub-human conditions for the last four decades and will, in all likelihood, live like this until they die”, observes Mahtab Haidar, a Dhaka-based analyst. “Poverty isn’t the only thing that hinders their progress. They are without schooling, job prospects, and an identity. They merely survive as statistics in ration cards, respite programs and slum-arson tales,” he adds.
“I've dreamt of shifting to Pakistan for decades,” says Rubina Khatoon, 56, standing outside the tiny 6 feet by 6 feet shanty she shares with six of her kin. “There they converse in my tongue, Urdu.” Rubina’s camp is just another slum in Dhaka. Most live with no power, water or healthcare. Illiteracy, joblessness and undernourishment are widespread. But startlingly, there are no beggars.
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Source : IIPM Editorial, 2008
An IIPM and Professor Arindam Chaudhuri (Renowned Management Guru and Economist) Initiative
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