Blood-drenched war fronts of 1971

16th December is the landmark date in our nation’s life. It is the date on which we saw light after darkness, a new flag was raised signaling the birth of the nation. We must renew our pledge on this day to build Sonar Bangla as dreamt by the Father of the Nation Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman

45 years ago, in 1971, I was working in the blood-drenched war fronts as an Information Officer-cum-War Correspondent of Mujibnagar Government. Alongside I discharged my tough responsibilities in the fronts as War Correspondent of Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra. I was hovering between life and death among the thousands of bullets being fired and artillery shells whizzing overhead. Defying death I had to rush from one front to another with meteoric speed with the valiant Freedom Fighters and Allied forces. In front of my eyes, I have seen hundreds of the valiant sons of Mother Bengal falling like wilted flowers in the fronts. I saw them breathing their last with their breasts resting on the soil of Mother Bengal and blood gushing out of them. I used to broadcast from Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra in my own voice a round-up of the happenings in the fronts twice a week under the title "from the battle-front" and “from the liberated areas". During the Liberation War many of my dispatches were broadcast by BBC, Radio Australia and Akashbani and were also headlined in many of the world's newspapers in their international columns. Apart from performing my duty as a war correspondent I had to carry many military secrets and my news gathering about the position and defence preparedness of Pakistani troops in the occupied areas of Bangladesh helped the Alliance in formulating their strategy. In the war-front and occupied areas I often had to run mortal risk and many a time I returned from the jaws of certain death by the grace of Almighty Allah. At the end of the war in the first week of December '71, I was subjected to atrocity and torture by Pak troops and was rescued in an unconscious and critical state from their abandoned bunker after Captain Huda and his valiant freedom fighters launched a sudden attack.
Following are some of the tragic stories of those fateful days of 1971.
Has anyone ever heard that innocent women and children were lined up, given water to drink and then killed by brush-fire in cold blood?
Shobha Apa was a character as delightful and innocent as a flower, as heavenly as a goddess, one who never turned away from her door any poor and destitute suppliant. She was the one who had given away her shawl to a poor old weeping woman on a winter night to protect her from cold. Her husband was Zubaidul Islam, chief chemist of Chittagong Railway. She left the official quarters of her husband for security of her children and came to the remote village of Pangsha, in Faridpur, the home of her father-in-law, thinking it safe from the Pak marauders. But could she be saved?
Meherpur experienced its Doom’s Day on April 27. A large force of Pak Army with artillery and automatic machineguns entered by Churadanga-Meherpur-Monakhali route and rushed towards Mohishnagar, Gopalnagar, Anandabag causing indiscriminate destruction all the way. Boidyanathtola, that is, Mujibnagar, was within half a mile of Moheshnagar. The assailants rained artillery and machinegun fire over an eight to ten miles area relentlessly burning the houses in the area. At a place in Meherpur court they gathered together a few dozen men, got them to dig a large pit, shot those men dead and threw them into that pit. The victims included Ayub, the OC of Chuadanga. They killed many others in three or four houses at a little distance from Chuadanga railway station. When the war was over the floors of those houses were still found coated with thick, dried blood and blood was also found spattered on the walls. The Pak occupation troops killed about 50 to 60 people in those ill-fates houses on 27 April. The Pakistani Shimars punished the farm hands and children of Dr Shamsul Huda of the village Dariapur by holding them by the hair and battering them against the floor. 
It was in Kasaraniganj that Salahuddin passed his infancy, his boyhood and his early youth; he had vivid memories of its fruit orchards, its ponds and marshy land, the mud tracks, the familiar people, near and dear ones. But what an irony of fate it was that Salahuddin had to leave everything and everyone behind and sneak away on a still dark night on 29 April to Malon Youth Transit Camp. From there on to a training camp in Panighata. The youngster who was averse to politics, processions and slogans and whose face had about it an air of innocence–the same youngster after completing one-and-half months of training came back to Thukrabari operation camp, an iron determination writ large on his face, a shining three-naught-three rifle in his hand. 
From then on he swept through the battle fronts of Birganj like a meteor, halted the occupation forces, hit the positions of the Punjabis and their bunkers. Many times in face-to-face battle at Baliadangi, Thogbosti, Meherpur and Birganj, Salahuddin’s bullet wounded and eliminated many a Punjabi invader. A true hero was he, one who could be the pride of any nation. 
But could this hero see the victory of 16 December? Did he live to see the flag of independent Bagladesh fluttering everywhere?
Unfortunately not. He fell martyr at Thakurgaon on Friday 12 November. Does anyone know how he embraced martyrdom? How violent and pathetic were the circumstances of his death? That is difficult even to imagine. 
The self-sacrifice of Salahuddin is one of the most tragic episodes of the Liberation War. On Thursday 11 November he received word that Pak soldiers had taken away his father because of him. He was terribly upset. He could not bear that his parents should be subjected to atrocities on account of him. He loved his parents deeply. In Jabarhat camp he confided his worries to his friends. The next day, in the small hours of the morning he secretly left his camp and walked towards his village, Kasaraniganj. While leaving he only told an intimate fellow Freedom Fighter, “I love my parents deeply. If something happens to my parents, I will die. Let me go and find out what has happened.” He further said that he would come back the next evening. 
From Jabarhat, which was liberated earlier, Kasaraniganj was 12 miles inside Bangladesh. The place was then under occupation of the Pakistanis. Salahuddin set out for his home violating all the “take rules” and without informing the person who was in charge of the camp. He was so blinded by his love for his parents that he could not calculate the risks involved. 
On 12 November Friday before sun-up he silently reached his village home. His mother, seeing her son after a stretch of several months hugged him. 
His father lovingly ran his hand over the son’s head and uttered his words of blessing. Then was the news of his father being taken away wrong? Salahuddin’s father informed him that the information was essentially correct. Pak soldiers and Razakars had come to their house in search of Salahuddin. The Pak soldiers began to abuse his father in the vilest language saying “You have begotten an infidel” and told him to produce Salahuddin. His father could draw little sympathy by saying that Salahuddin was away for several months. Pak soldiers interrogated him for two or three hours and while leaving told him that he must give the news of Salahuddin within seven days in compliance with the order of their 9th Wing Commander Mahmud Hussain Baig. Unless news about his whereabouts was delivered within seven days his father would have to go to the EPR Headquarters in Thakurgaon. 

As the hours passed, Salahuddin realised that it would not be safe to stay at home. He looked for a way of escape. He attempted disguise but after going out in disguise he came back realising that the disguise made him look queer. He was frantically searching for some alternative way of escape when his father exhorted him to maintain his composure and to entrust his safety to the will of Allah. He said, “The Liberation War is the battle of right against evil.” Salahuddin’s mother seeing her son after so many months could not hold back her tears of joy. Repeatedly she tenderly ran her hand over his face and drew his face to her breasts. Repeatedly she asked, “Are you alright, son? Do you get proper food? Can you measure up to Pak soldiers?” 
Looking into his mother’s eyes he replied, “Yes, Mother, we can. We have to.” In a gesture of blessing his mother ran her hand all over his body, and said “Be careful, son. Let no harm come your way.” Full of maternal solicitude she asked, “Tell me, Salahuddin, do you attack the Pak soldiers armed with artillery and guns?” 
Raising his two close-fisted hands he affirmed to his mother, "With these two hands we wield SLR and stengun for finishing off the Pak soldiers. In the battle field I keep to the forefront, Mother."
Salahuddin’s mother looked with wonder and admiration at her son. This was the child who not too long ago would nestle in her lap, with his small feet he would toddle and run about the house and today the same child was dealing deadly blows to the formidable Punjabi soldiers. She was filled with pride to contemplate that she was one of those mothers whose children were fighting to liberate the country.
Two hens were slaughtered, rice of a fine and flavoured variety was cooked, some ghee was procured. No one knows for how long Salahuddin hadn’t had a square meal.
Little did they know, alas, that the Razakars, collaborators of the occupation forces, were stealing close by. When Salahuddin had travelled 12 miles to their home from Jabarhat camp, over streams, marshes and bushes, walking and running, darkness in the eastern sky was thinning. In that faint half-light he was spotted by a collaborator of the occupation forces belonging to the Muslim League. However fast Salahuddin might reach home, he was outpaced by the collaborator rushing to inform the Pak troops positioned at Birganj about his arrival. From Birganj a wireless message reached the HQ of EPR at Thakurgaon. As the ferocious Punjabi 9th wing commander of the HQ, Major Mahmud Hasan Baig, received the message, he sprang to his feet. From there the Punjabi Captain Zaman Khan rushed to Kasaraniganj in a jeep. On receiving instructions the local Razakars had already surrounded Salahuddin’s house. 
Salahuddin’s mother ladled out on Salahuddin’s plate fine and flavoured rice cooked in ghee and chicken curry that she had cooked with tender care. Salahuddin lifted his right hand to take the first morsel of food – suddenly an olive-coloured jeep belonging to the Angel of Death halted in front of their house. Salahuddin’s mother gave a scream and held the two feet of that Punjabi Captain. Both the parents wept and made entreaties to them. “Take the two of us instead of him. Kill us instead but spare his life. Don’t kill him.” 
The Punjabi Captain shouted at the mother, “Who told you we are going to kill him. We want to give him some task. Your son will prosper much.” 
Terror gripped the mother’s mind. She brought a copy of the Holy Quran which was resting in a niche a shelf that was buried in the wall. She handed that to the Captain and supplicated, “Just promise, you will not kill my child.” 
The faithless assailant touched the Holy Book and said, “I will not kill him.” With composed, fearless feet Salahuddin proceeded towards their jeep. Salahuddin’s father read Ayatul Kursi and breathed a divine blessing on his head. Tears flowing from her eyes, a grief-stricken mother of Kasaraniganj on that Friday of November stood by the side of the green-coloured jeep and read La illaha illah anta subhanaka inni kuntu minaz zwalemin.
The jeep of the Punjabis went out of their sight with Salahuddin. His mother kept looking in that direction chanting Laillaha illah anta subhanaka inni kuntu minaz zwalemin. LaiIllaha illah anta subhanaka inni kuntu minaz zwalemin. La illaha … Uttering this she fainted.
At around 11 in the forenoon captain Zaman reached EPR Headquarters in Thakurgaon. Then began the hellish torture. Booted kicks and floggings failed to extract from him any information about his friends. Then the ruthless wing commander Major Mahmud Hasan Baig ordered that nails be driven into his fingers and toes.
He began to twist and roll in pain like a bird shot with an arrow; yet those beastly torturers failed to make the valiant youth divulge any information. The Punjabi troops, the entire Headquarters was furious. By making announcement over the microphone a group of spectators was assembled at Thakurgaon Headquarters. A group of about 50 or 60 Razakar, Al Badr and local quislings were gathered together. Among them there were also one or two courageous men wanting to see what befell a Freedom Fighter.
It was a few minutes past 12 noon. Salahuddin, bare-footed and his hands tied behind him, was brought out from within the Headquarters. In his front and rear were soldiers with automatic weapons and behind them was that Captain Zaman.
The incidents that followed are simply incredible. He was being taken to a tiger cage in full view of the spectators. From before the war two big leopards were being reared in a cage beside the EPR Headquarters. No one knew that the two leopards were being kept unfed. Nor did anyone anticipate that the leopard cage could be the death cell for Freedom Fighters. If anyone was caught and brought to this headquarters, he was never seen again. No one had any idea of where he went and what became of him. But today something was happening before their eyes. The roar of the hungry tigers being heard at a distance filled them with terror. They could understand that the tigers were terribly hungry. 
Salahuddin was walking. Blood was dripping from his fingers and toes that were pierced with nails. A Pak soldier held the rope. The soldiers holding automatic weapons formed a ring round him and led him up to the tiger cage. With unwavering feet and head held high the great Freedom Fighter walked towards the cage. He looked straight into the eyes of the two big leopards. He was surrounded by 19 or 20 men of the occupation forces. They seemed to be waiting for something. 
Kabirul Islam brandishing his sten gun said, “We will avenge it. We will retaliate. Who will go into action. Prepare yourself.” Fair-complexioned Kabirul Islam, of tall and wiry build was another intrepid Freedom Fighter. He was commander-in-charge of a company at Birganj. Captain Suvram of the allied Forces, Havildar Mustafiz of the BDR, Subedar Kaiser –were all amazed at the fighting skill of Kabirul. Many a time his grenades and bullets unmistakably hit the impregnable bunkers of the Pakistanis. 
He stood erect after giving salute to the memory of Salahuddin the martyr. He was accompanied by a group of fifteen Freedom Fighters. They rushed towards the village Kasaraniganj. When they left Jabarhat camp it was 35 minutes past six. After covering a distance of 12 or 13 miles when they set their feet on Kasaraniganj it was half past ten at night.
The task was by no means easy. Kasaraniganj and the surrounding area of 12 miles were then under Pakistani occupation. Knowing too well that they were running mortal risk, they braved it thinking of their martyred colleagues. At half past ten at night Kabirul declared curfew in the entire village. They surrounded the village and began rounding up Razakars, Al Badr men and quislings. After a search of two hours they found two Razakars, a forest guard and two guns. Does the reader think that they perpetrated atrocity upon the captives to avenge the killing of Freedom Fighters?
The sad part of the story is that no one came to witness how generous and humane our young Freedom Fighters were. It is true that some among them wanted to liquidate instantaneously the Razakars captured at Kasaraniganj at 11 at night on 12 November. But company commander Kabirul said, “We have in our group two of those who caught our fellow Freedom Fighters and threw them in front of hungry tigers. But we will perpetrate no atrocity. We are Freedom Fighters. What they do, we abhor. We will try them and award them whatever punishment is decreed by the trial.” Coming back from Kasaraniganj the same night they handed over the two Razakars and the forest guard to Major Zaman, Commander of Sector 7. This was our Liberation War. These were the Freedom Fighters. Let us not forget those three hundred heroes whose wails, pains, last gasps and the last cry of 'Mother' haunt the bars of the tiger cage at the EPR headquarters of Thakurgaon. The screams of three million martyrs, and their last cry of 'Mother' still echo in the sky and air of Bengal. Let us not forget them.
The 16th December is the landmark date in our nation’s life. It is the date on which we saw light after darkness, a new sun-etched flag was raised signaling the birth of the Bengalee nation. We must renew our pledge on this day to build Sonar Bangla as dreamt by our Father of the nation Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. I appeal to the thirty crore Bangalees of the world to please hoist the flag on every house today and write on it in letters of gold: “Bangalees are a nation of heroes, a nation of three million martyrs. The immortal soul of the Bengalee nation is Sheikh Mujibur Rahman”.

The writer is a Former Secretary to the Govt. of Bangladesh and War Correspondent of Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra

 

Blood-drenched war fronts of 1971

16th December is the landmark date in our nations life. It is the date on which we saw light after darkness, a new flag was raised signaling the birth of the nation. We must renew our pledge on this day to build Sonar Bangla as dreamt by the Father of the Nation Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman

45 years ago, in 1971, I was working in the blood-drenched war fronts as an Information Officer-cum-War Correspondent of Mujibnagar Government. Alongside I discharged my tough responsibilities in the fronts as War Correspondent of Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra. I was hovering between life and death among the thousands of bullets being fired and artillery shells whizzing overhead. Defying death I had to rush from one front to another with meteoric speed with the valiant Freedom Fighters and Allied forces. In front of my eyes, I have seen hundreds of the valiant sons of Mother Bengal falling like wilted flowers in the fronts. I saw them breathing their last with their breasts resting on the soil of Mother Bengal and blood gushing out of them. I used to broadcast from Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra in my own voice a round-up of the happenings in the fronts twice a week under the title from the battle-front and from the liberated areas. During the Liberation War many of my dispatches were broadcast by BBC, Radio Australia and Akashbani and were also headlined in many of the worlds newspapers in their international columns. Apart from performing my duty as a war correspondent I had to carry many military secrets and my news gathering about the position and defence preparedness of Pakistani troops in the occupied areas of Bangladesh helped the Alliance in formulating their strategy. In the war-front and occupied areas I often had to run mortal risk and many a time I returned from the jaws of certain death by the grace of Almighty Allah. At the end of the war in the first week of December 71, I was subjected to atrocity and torture by Pak troops and was rescued in an unconscious and critical state from their abandoned bunker after Captain Huda and his valiant freedom fighters launched a sudden attack. Following are some of the tragic stories of those fateful days of 1971. Has anyone ever heard that innocent women and children were lined up, given water to drink and then killed by brush-fire in cold blood? Shobha Apa was a character as delightful and innocent as a flower, as heavenly as a goddess, one who never turned away from her door any poor and destitute suppliant. She was the one who had given away her shawl to a poor old weeping woman on a winter night to protect her from cold. Her husband was Zubaidul Islam, chief chemist of Chittagong Railway. She left the official quarters of her husband for security of her children and came to the remote village of Pangsha, in Faridpur, the home of her father-in-law, thinking it safe from the Pak marauders. But could she be saved? Meherpur experienced its Dooms Day on April 27. A large force of Pak Army with artillery and automatic machineguns entered by Churadanga-Meherpur-Monakhali route and rushed towards Mohishnagar, Gopalnagar, Anandabag causing indiscriminate destruction all the way. Boidyanathtola, that is, Mujibnagar, was within half a mile of Moheshnagar. The assailants rained artillery and machinegun fire over an eight to ten miles area relentlessly burning the houses in the area. At a place in Meherpur court they gathered together a few dozen men, got them to dig a large pit, shot those men dead and threw them into that pit. The victims included Ayub, the OC of Chuadanga. They killed many others in three or four houses at a little distance from Chuadanga railway station. When the war was over the floors of those houses were still found coated with thick, dried blood and blood was also found spattered on the walls. The Pak occupation troops killed about 50 to 60 people in those ill-fates houses on 27 April. The Pakistani Shimars punished the farm hands and children of Dr Shamsul Huda of the village Dariapur by holding them by the hair and battering them against the floor. It was in Kasaraniganj that Salahuddin passed his infancy, his boyhood and his early youth; he had vivid memories of its fruit orchards, its ponds and marshy land, the mud tracks, the familiar people, near and dear ones. But what an irony of fate it was that Salahuddin had to leave everything and everyone behind and sneak away on a still dark night on 29 April to Malon Youth Transit Camp. From there on to a training camp in Panighata. The youngster who was averse to politics, processions and slogans and whose face had about it an air of innocencethe same youngster after completing one-and-half months of training came back to Thukrabari operation camp, an iron determination writ large on his face, a shining three-naught-three rifle in his hand. From then on he swept through the battle fronts of Birganj like a meteor, halted the occupation forces, hit the positions of the Punjabis and their bunkers. Many times in face-to-face battle at Baliadangi, Thogbosti, Meherpur and Birganj, Salahuddins bullet wounded and eliminated many a Punjabi invader. A true hero was he, one who could be the pride of any nation. But could this hero see the victory of 16 December? Did he live to see the flag of independent Bagladesh fluttering everywhere? Unfortunately not. He fell martyr at Thakurgaon on Friday 12 November. Does anyone know how he embraced martyrdom? How violent and pathetic were the circumstances of his death? That is difficult even to imagine. The self-sacrifice of Salahuddin is one of the most tragic episodes of the Liberation War. On Thursday 11 November he received word that Pak soldiers had taken away his father because of him. He was terribly upset. He could not bear that his parents should be subjected to atrocities on account of him. He loved his parents deeply. In Jabarhat camp he confided his worries to his friends. The next day, in the small hours of the morning he secretly left his camp and walked towards his village, Kasaraniganj. While leaving he only told an intimate fellow Freedom Fighter, I love my parents deeply. If something happens to my parents, I will die. Let me go and find out what has happened. He further said that he would come back the next evening. From Jabarhat, which was liberated earlier, Kasaraniganj was 12 miles inside Bangladesh. The place was then under occupation of the Pakistanis. Salahuddin set out for his home violating all the take rules and without informing the person who was in charge of the camp. He was so blinded by his love for his parents that he could not calculate the risks involved. On 12 November Friday before sun-up he silently reached his village home. His mother, seeing her son after a stretch of several months hugged him. His father lovingly ran his hand over the sons head and uttered his words of blessing. Then was the news of his father being taken away wrong? Salahuddins father informed him that the information was essentially correct. Pak soldiers and Razakars had come to their house in search of Salahuddin. The Pak soldiers began to abuse his father in the vilest language saying You have begotten an infidel and told him to produce Salahuddin. His father could draw little sympathy by saying that Salahuddin was away for several months. Pak soldiers interrogated him for two or three hours and while leaving told him that he must give the news of Salahuddin within seven days in compliance with the order of their 9th Wing Commander Mahmud Hussain Baig. Unless news about his whereabouts was delivered within seven days his father would have to go to the EPR Headquarters in Thakurgaon. As the hours passed, Salahuddin realised that it would not be safe to stay at home. He looked for a way of escape. He attempted disguise but after going out in disguise he came back realising that the disguise made him look queer. He was frantically searching for some alternative way of escape when his father exhorted him to maintain his composure and to entrust his safety to the will of Allah. He said, The Liberation War is the battle of right against evil. Salahuddins mother seeing her son after so many months could not hold back her tears of joy. Repeatedly she tenderly ran her hand over his face and drew his face to her breasts. Repeatedly she asked, Are you alright, son? Do you get proper food? Can you measure up to Pak soldiers? Looking into his mothers eyes he replied, Yes, Mother, we can. We have to. In a gesture of blessing his mother ran her hand all over his body, and said Be careful, son. Let no harm come your way. Full of maternal solicitude she asked, Tell me, Salahuddin, do you attack the Pak soldiers armed with artillery and guns? Raising his two close-fisted hands he affirmed to his mother, With these two hands we wield SLR and stengun for finishing off the Pak soldiers. In the battle field I keep to the forefront, Mother. Salahuddins mother looked with wonder and admiration at her son. This was the child who not too long ago would nestle in her lap, with his small feet he would toddle and run about the house and today the same child was dealing deadly blows to the formidable Punjabi soldiers. She was filled with pride to contemplate that she was one of those mothers whose children were fighting to liberate the country. Two hens were slaughtered, rice of a fine and flavoured variety was cooked, some ghee was procured. No one knows for how long Salahuddin hadnt had a square meal. Little did they know, alas, that the Razakars, collaborators of the occupation forces, were stealing close by. When Salahuddin had travelled 12 miles to their home from Jabarhat camp, over streams, marshes and bushes, walking and running, darkness in the eastern sky was thinning. In that faint half-light he was spotted by a collaborator of the occupation forces belonging to the Muslim League. However fast Salahuddin might reach home, he was outpaced by the collaborator rushing to inform the Pak troops positioned at Birganj about his arrival. From Birganj a wireless message reached the HQ of EPR at Thakurgaon. As the ferocious Punjabi 9th wing commander of the HQ, Major Mahmud Hasan Baig, received the message, he sprang to his feet. From there the Punjabi Captain Zaman Khan rushed to Kasaraniganj in a jeep. On receiving instructions the local Razakars had already surrounded Salahuddins house. Salahuddins mother ladled out on Salahuddins plate fine and flavoured rice cooked in ghee and chicken curry that she had cooked with tender care. Salahuddin lifted his right hand to take the first morsel of food suddenly an olive-coloured jeep belonging to the Angel of Death halted in front of their house. Salahuddins mother gave a scream and held the two feet of that Punjabi Captain. Both the parents wept and made entreaties to them. Take the two of us instead of him. Kill us instead but spare his life. Dont kill him. The Punjabi Captain shouted at the mother, Who told you we are going to kill him. We want to give him some task. Your son will prosper much. Terror gripped the mothers mind. She brought a copy of the Holy Quran which was resting in a niche a shelf that was buried in the wall. She handed that to the Captain and supplicated, Just promise, you will not kill my child. The faithless assailant touched the Holy Book and said, I will not kill him. With composed, fearless feet Salahuddin proceeded towards their jeep. Salahuddins father read Ayatul Kursi and breathed a divine blessing on his head. Tears flowing from her eyes, a grief-stricken mother of Kasaraniganj on that Friday of November stood by the side of the green-coloured jeep and read La illaha illah anta subhanaka inni kuntu minaz zwalemin. The jeep of the Punjabis went out of their sight with Salahuddin. His mother kept looking in that direction chanting Laillaha illah anta subhanaka inni kuntu minaz zwalemin. LaiIllaha illah anta subhanaka inni kuntu minaz zwalemin. La illaha Uttering this she fainted. At around 11 in the forenoon captain Zaman reached EPR Headquarters in Thakurgaon. Then began the hellish torture. Booted kicks and floggings failed to extract from him any information about his friends. Then the ruthless wing commander Major Mahmud Hasan Baig ordered that nails be driven into his fingers and toes. He began to twist and roll in pain like a bird shot with an arrow; yet those beastly torturers failed to make the valiant youth divulge any information. The Punjabi troops, the entire Headquarters was furious. By making announcement over the microphone a group of spectators was assembled at Thakurgaon Headquarters. A group of about 50 or 60 Razakar, Al Badr and local quislings were gathered together. Among them there were also one or two courageous men wanting to see what befell a Freedom Fighter. It was a few minutes past 12 noon. Salahuddin, bare-footed and his hands tied behind him, was brought out from within the Headquarters. In his front and rear were soldiers with automatic weapons and behind them was that Captain Zaman. The incidents that followed are simply incredible. He was being taken to a tiger cage in full view of the spectators. From before the war two big leopards were being reared in a cage beside the EPR Headquarters. No one knew that the two leopards were being kept unfed. Nor did anyone anticipate that the leopard cage could be the death cell for Freedom Fighters. If anyone was caught and brought to this headquarters, he was never seen again. No one had any idea of where he went and what became of him. But today something was happening before their eyes. The roar of the hungry tigers being heard at a distance filled them with terror. They could understand that the tigers were terribly hungry. Salahuddin was walking. Blood was dripping from his fingers and toes that were pierced with nails. A Pak soldier held the rope. The soldiers holding automatic weapons formed a ring round him and led him up to the tiger cage. With unwavering feet and head held high the great Freedom Fighter walked towards the cage. He looked straight into the eyes of the two big leopards. He was surrounded by 19 or 20 men of the occupation forces. They seemed to be waiting for something. Kabirul Islam brandishing his sten gun said, We will avenge it. We will retaliate. Who will go into action. Prepare yourself. Fair-complexioned Kabirul Islam, of tall and wiry build was another intrepid Freedom Fighter. He was commander-in-charge of a company at Birganj. Captain Suvram of the allied Forces, Havildar Mustafiz of the BDR, Subedar Kaiser were all amazed at the fighting skill of Kabirul. Many a time his grenades and bullets unmistakably hit the impregnable bunkers of the Pakistanis. He stood erect after giving salute to the memory of Salahuddin the martyr. He was accompanied by a group of fifteen Freedom Fighters. They rushed towards the village Kasaraniganj. When they left Jabarhat camp it was 35 minutes past six. After covering a distance of 12 or 13 miles when they set their feet on Kasaraniganj it was half past ten at night. The task was by no means easy. Kasaraniganj and the surrounding area of 12 miles were then under Pakistani occupation. Knowing too well that they were running mortal risk, they braved it thinking of their martyred colleagues. At half past ten at night Kabirul declared curfew in the entire village. They surrounded the village and began rounding up Razakars, Al Badr men and quislings. After a search of two hours they found two Razakars, a forest guard and two guns. Does the reader think that they perpetrated atrocity upon the captives to avenge the killing of Freedom Fighters? The sad part of the story is that no one came to witness how generous and humane our young Freedom Fighters were. It is true that some among them wanted to liquidate instantaneously the Razakars captured at Kasaraniganj at 11 at night on 12 November. But company commander Kabirul said, We have in our group two of those who caught our fellow Freedom Fighters and threw them in front of hungry tigers. But we will perpetrate no atrocity. We are Freedom Fighters. What they do, we abhor. We will try them and award them whatever punishment is decreed by the trial. Coming back from Kasaraniganj the same night they handed over the two Razakars and the forest guard to Major Zaman, Commander of Sector 7. This was our Liberation War. These were the Freedom Fighters. Let us not forget those three hundred heroes whose wails, pains, last gasps and the last cry of Mother haunt the bars of the tiger cage at the EPR headquarters of Thakurgaon. The screams of three million martyrs, and their last cry of Mother still echo in the sky and air of Bengal. Let us not forget them. The 16th December is the landmark date in our nations life. It is the date on which we saw light after darkness, a new sun-etched flag was raised signaling the birth of the Bengalee nation. We must renew our pledge on this day to build Sonar Bangla as dreamt by our Father of the nation Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. I appeal to the thirty crore Bangalees of the world to please hoist the flag on every house today and write on it in letters of gold: Bangalees are a nation of heroes, a nation of three million martyrs. The immortal soul of the Bengalee nation is Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. The writer is a Former Secretary to the Govt. of Bangladesh and War Correspondent of SwadhinBangla Betar Kendra