1971: The year I cannot forget
By Kalyani Rama Nath, American Family Insurance Application Development Senior Engineer
Allen Ginsberg wrote a poem — “September on Jessore Road” — after visiting the refugee camps of the 1971 Bangladesh Liberation War. It reads, in part:
Millions of babies watching the skies
Bellies swollen, with big round eyes
On Jessore Road — long bamboo huts
No place to sh** but sand channel ruts …
Millions of souls nineteen seventy-one
homeless on Jessore road under grey sun
Millions of babies in pain
Millions of mothers in rain
Millions of brothers in woe
Millions of children nowhere to go
My story
I was one of those children.
We are on the road. My mom is in a “sari,” and my dad is in a “lungi” — all of us are wearing just one piece of cloth. My mom has her wedding jewelries tied in the waist of her petticoat. Such beautiful ornaments! Such dazzling ornaments! My grandfather bought gold bars to make wedding jewelries for his firstborn.
I am riding on my dad’s shoulders — my feet are dangling. My little sister is in my mom’s arms. We are leaving. We are refugees. We do not have a home. We do not want to die. Pakistani armies are chasing us.
Some villagers give us shelter. We do not know them. The love of unknown people keeps us alive. My mom wants to keep my baby sister alive too. She keeps on mixing water with powdered milk and feeding that to her. My little sister is looking like a Biafra baby — big eyes, big head, rickety legs and arms like sticks. Still, we have a long way to go.
Villagers have scattered thorny canes on their fields. What else could they do? Millions of people are trampling paddy fields, trampling death — they are escaping to the neighboring West Bengal.
We spent days, we spent nights in unknown houses in my country, in unknown houses in the neighboring country. At last, we reached Malbazar in Jalpaiguri, India — my mom’s aunt’s place. She was my grandfather’s only sister, his beloved little sister. She hugged all four of us. With her stood her daughters — Sadhana, Kalyani, Bhabani and Shibani; her son — Shankar; and her husband. They kept on thinking about what they could do for us!
We spent five months in their house. We left our country. We just ran for our life. We were refugees.
We could not bring anything along. We had no money. My grandfather’s sister’s family took care of us. How can we ever repay these people? They are the people who kept us alive. They are the people who gave us shelter. They are the people who gave us food, gave us clothes. There was always space for us — in their home and in their hearts.
I am remembering the Pakistan Air Force jets of the war. I am remembering the bombers of the war. I am remembering the helicopters of the war. Till now, the sky was always a magical place for me — clouds, birds, stars, rainbow, thunder and flying seedpods of dandelions.
But now, I am remembering death. I am remembering how I fled from Dhaka. I am remembering blackouts and dark nights. At the same time, I am remembering a funeral ceremony. Somebody died in our aunt’s neighbor’s house. There was a big funeral feast. I thought it was a festivity. Well, when war scars a 4-year-old, any food is a festivity! It really did not matter why we feasted, even if it was for the dead.
We sat on the floor in long rows. We were eating on banana leaves. It was a big meal. They gave us rosogollas as dessert. In the end, they gave us sweet yogurt too.
My little sister Shyama is such a slow eater. She cannot finish anything! My mom is hurrying her. ‘Eat. Eat. Eat the fish!’ An elderly woman tells my mom, ‘Come on. She is just a little girl. Let her eat the amount she is able to eat.’ My mom’s fair face becomes all red from the insult.
Whenever I think of this story from 1971, I think as if my mom is Sarbajaya, the long-suffering mother from Oscar winner Satyajit Roy’s 1955 directorial debut film “Pather Panchali” (Song of the Little Road.) The film is based on the novel written by the famous Bengali author Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay in 1929.
Sarbajaya means the conqueror of all.
Sarbajaya is the undefeated.
Some background
When Pakistan was losing the war in Bangladesh (which was then known as East Pakistan) and the war was nearing its end, the Pakistani Army, with the help of the Al-Badr militia, started systematically killing the people of Bangladesh.
Doctors, engineers, lawyers, professors, journalists, novelists, artists, songwriters, playwrights, writers and poets — the eminent intellectuals of Bangladesh — were killed so that even if Bangladesh became a new country, it would never be able to stand on its own feet.
Many dead bodies were not found. Others were found — blindfolded, hands tied, tortured and killed in open fields, in water pumps, and in brick mortar. Headless bodies were found floating in ponds and rivers. Many were buried alive in trenches in the 1971 genocide. We found my dad’s dead body. He had been a chemical engineer and a professor in Bangladesh University of Engineering and Technology.
My mother has never re-married. She has finished her Ph.D. from England after my dad’s murder and raised us all by herself, alone, a Bangladeshi woman. Shyama currently works as an engineering manager in Intel, Portland, Oregon and designs VLSI chips.
Editor’s note
American Family values the diverse backgrounds and experiences of its employees. Today, we highlight the account of Kalyani Rama Nath. When she was 4 years old, Kalyani fled Bangladesh with her mother and her younger sister during the country’s war with Pakistan. Her father was killed in the conflict. Here, Kalyani, now an AmFam employee, shares her experiences as a refugee.
