Memories of a Lacerated Heart 1971 A War Memoir From East Pakistan to Bangladesh

Memories of a Lacerated Heart 1971 A War Memoir From East Pakistan to Bangladesh

 
A FEW WORDS FROM THE AUTHOR’S SON
Disclaimer: “I promised my father that this book would be a true translation of his words. This is his book and I may or may not agree with the ideas and views mentioned in this book. No changes have been made to the course of events although I have divided the book into chapters, many with the same names as in his original writings. No event mentioned in the book is a personal attack on any religion, ethnic community, culture, society or country. It was the author’s wish that the readers be respectful to the deceased and honor their deaths, regardless of their cause, caste, culture, religion or creed during this conflict. The book consists of recollections from the author’s life as stated by him and in no way aims at inciting trouble against the families whose names have been mentioned and who helped the Pakistan Army during this conflict. Every effort has been made to correctly represent the names and places mentioned in the book, and the cities/towns/villages have been researched and verified wherever possible. However, some names may have been forgotten over time or inadvertently misspelt.” As far back as I can remember, my father Abu would settle at the corner of his bed at the end of every day, seize that particular year’s diary with a gold imprint of the year on the cover, and take up his pen ready to write. Whatever the circumstances, whatever the weather, every night Abu would sit in his room ready to recapture the activities of the day in his own dignified manner. As a child I would be fascinated at the thought of what was going into the pages of the diaries but, as a teenager, I grew curious about the words he had written. I often found myself sneaking into his room and touching his letters in awe and admiration. He was a candid man and would religiously record each and every incident of the day, recalling it in a story-like manner. I thought I was the only one interested in his diary but I later figured out that even my mother, Ami, and my siblings snuck in night after night to read it. We never really knew how he felt about that, though he often caught us with our noses stuck between the rustling yellow pages.
If I really began to talk about Abu this would turn into a book in itself, so I will struggle to condense him into as few words as possible.
When Abu returned from India in 1974 he brought with him an assortment of his diaries. I was nine at the time and when I read the diaries I often came across incidents and lengthy paragraphs erased or crossed out; Abu later informed me that this was to ensure they didn’t end up in the hands of the Indian army to be used against anyone. This deleted information identified the people who lost their lives during the bitter civil war and the names of the families who had helped the Pakistan Army in the conflict.
During his lifetime, Abu accomplished his dream of writing of his experiences in 1971 and an Urdu version was published in 2009. Though it was the result of Abu’s persistence, compulsion and many sleepless nights, I found myself not completely content with it. When I read it, I came across several errors and was unsatisfied with several things, such as the quality of paper used and the design and layout of the
book itself. For me the book was an extension of Abu’s heart and I preferred it to be as close to flawless as possible. For me then it was a treasure, and it is now a remnant of his gloriously lived life. Even more significantly, the book historically represents a true depiction of South Asia at that time.
As I read the book I understood it to be something far more than just a war memoir. It was not just an amalgamation of Abu’s involvements. It was a personal and intimate voyage of love, hate, isolation, suffering, death, pain, loss, gain and, most importantly, a poignant journey of separation from loved ones. I wanted it to be open and accessible to the world and not just be limited to a handful of people, the ones familiar with the Urdu language. This was why I decided to translate it into English and share my Abu’s journey with a much more eclectic audience. I told Abu of my intention while he still physically lived amongst us, and the smile on his face when he heard it was all the affirmation I needed from him.
I didn’t just want the book to be translated into English; I wanted it to validate all the qualities it possessed as a heart-wrenching story, so I began my research. I asked around and got in touch with all the people I knew in the constituent parts of academics, publishing and even those who had some background in working with translated books. I received a lot of support and several people told me it was an undertaking I would be able to accomplish with a deep passion. I remember being told by one of my friends, “Moeen, it is extremely difficult to translate a book especially if you want it to be close to the aesthetics of good literature. You are the best person to do it because you know your father well and understand the underlying emotions he had when he wrote the book.” I remember laughing at my friend when he said that to me, because never in my wildest imaginations could I have foreseen myself taking up such a daunting responsibility; I never thought I had it in me.
For several years I kept researching, looking for someone responsible enough to translate the book with the kind of honesty and understanding I felt it needed. It was an early summer morning in 2013 when I was struck by a sense of unease that if I failed to find a suitable translator I would never be able to share Abu’s journey as I wanted. Almost impulsively, driven by the urge to share Abu’s precious words with the world, I began typing a rough translation of the book on my laptop, completely oblivious to my surroundings. I realized that within a relatively short space of time I had translated a handful of paragraphs into English. That is when I understood what my friend meant; with every line that I read and translated, I realized how natural it felt. Most significantly, with every word sinking into my soul I could vividly experience the emotions and thoughts Abu might have had as he wrote, much as if the words were my own. The forty-eight years of knowing my father began making more sense than ever they had before. When I felt a little confident about the English manuscript, I shared the translated words with my wife, Fauzia, and her encouragement spurred me on. I can honestly say that the rest of the book flowed from there on.
I am a professional and it became very difficult for me to juggle my work with the translation of the book. Nonetheless, I completed it over an intensive period of 18 months. I am so grateful that my father was still with us at the time because whenever I was confused about something or hit an impasse, I would just call him to check a detail I wanted to add. I would often disagree with his ideas but I kept my promise
time.
Our lives were re-established, the dreariness of our routine banished and forgotten. From then on, my life and my family’s lives have been sheltered by him, guided by him and inspired by him. I remember my father as an honest, simple, hardworking, loyal and passionate man; he loved his family, but also his people, including the people of East Pakistan, and his country with a fervor that I never fully comprehended. Despite his loyalty towards his country and despite being a thoroughly professional army officer loved by his coworkers, he was also victimized as he was not promoted beyond the rank of major because of his forthright, honest and sometimes undiplomatic attitude. He didn’t really care about that as his priorities in life were not materialistic. He will always remain a hero for me, my family, and a thousand others whose lives he touched.
I am so honored to be presenting this book – written by a man loved and adored by many, a courageous man who lived his life how he believed it should be lived. I don’t love him simply by default, for he was far more than just a father. The only unfulfilled wish I have is that he could not see my final work, but I am content.
Moeen A. Bhatti, MD Gilroy, California, USA February, 2017
not to change anything as this was my Abu’s project. In January 2014, I showed my father the translation while I was finalizing it. As I held my laptop for him, he read a few pages, and then beamed a smile at me saying, “Moeen, reading this plays my past like a movie in front of my eyes.” This was the kind of endorsement and approval I was looking for and, by the end of it, I ensured that the translation remained honest to all the events, themes and ideas originally inscribed by my father.
I was six when my father was sent to East Pakistan for the second time. We lived in Model Town, Lahore at the time. Dressed in his uniform, he sat in his convertible military jeep. He kissed and hugged me tightly and whispered in my ear, “Moeen, this time it might be a while before I see you again. Take care of your mother and your sisters in my absence.” Those words, and the tears my expecting mother cried that day, have been etched in my memory ever since. Abu was right, we did not see him again for the next three years.
Those three years were really traumatic for all of us. Not only were we parted from my father, we did not know if and when he would return. As the only son at that time and very close to him, it was kind of the end of everything for a 6-year-old kid. My mother took on the role of being a father to us, and her strength never wavered, nor did her faith in her husband’s return. We received so much care from our extended family as well, the uncles, aunts and three grandparents. After three years of insecurity and waiting, we heard of his impending return but, before we could even rejoice at the news, his homecoming was cancelled and he was transferred to Agra Fort instead. This was far more painful than letting him go the first time. While Abu was away at war, Lahore was subject to constant blackouts because of the air attacks; that is still part of my childhood memories of 1971. My family and I were suffering severe separation anxiety and each passing day was just a repetitious cycle of sleeping, eating and breathing. We were all physically living apart from him, but it felt as though our hearts were with him while he was fighting the war and afterward in the POW camps. I remember I was in the 1st grade at the time and my school principal walked into the class one day, looked at me and said “Moeen, I’ve heard that the Indian army is cutting the fingers off the Pakistani army officers.” What an awful thing to say to a 1st grader whose father was away. I remember bawling my eyes out to my mother that night as she comforted me while holding back her own tears.
I can’t forget the day Abu finally returned. I was nine by then and I still vividly remember him stepping out of the military bus. He was in his uniform with a big black ‘X’ sign on his back; in one corner his uniform read “POW”. His Quran was hung around his neck. He was a lot darker than I remembered but strikingly handsome as always. Our tears could not be contained that day. He turned to hug me, and I still remember his smell, a distinct odor, Abu’s aroma. His arms were strong around me and I pressed my face against his chest, kissing him again and again after three long and painful years. He was reunited with my mother, my sisters and the rest of the family in an overwhelming display of excitement, passion and love. Once he had been thoroughly welcomed by everyone, he turned and said, “Where is Moeen? I haven’t greeted him yet.” He picked me up again and cuddled me with a strength much fiercer than a few minutes earlier. I still reminisce about this incident with my own kids; it was the happiest I had been in a very long
ABU’S FORTITUDE
We would sit on the sofa and eat Deep fried treats and you’d laugh in glee. I froze that voice again, In a gold box this time, Not knowing it was a souvenir for life.
If you are reading this page, it is because you are about to begin your journey through my grandfather’s book and venture into his soul. You will come across him as an army officer, a son, a husband, a father and as an individual. You wouldn’t, however, see him as a grandfather, Abu, to his grandchildren, but I will tell you.
Since 1992 Little by little I grew. I was named, I was loved, I was held, by you. You grasped my fragile finger, Looked deep into my clueless eyes. “Never make a promise if you cannot keep it, Never break one if you have.” My first lesson was in a car ride home with you. We stopped by the park and drank a sugarcane drink The drink I last drank, only with you.
In 2013 On December the 7th I rode with you one last time. Little did I know, I’d soon sit with you, Preparing your eulogy in my mind. I somehow knew, Somewhere abyssal and deep-rooted, You would combat and triumph. I opened my gold box To let your chuckle fly free. It circled around you and settled back down.
In 2000 I used to sneak into your room Steal dainty little treats from your coffer. Wait for the sky to roar and clasp and cry, We would circle in its tears, With colors and glide Across as you sat and laughed heartily. That echoing sound of your voice is preserved As a memento of who you were.
In 2014 On March 20 I let your chuckle out again. But you still breathed Deeply, quietly. I held that pure pale finger, That once held my petite one. I heard sobs around me, Fainting hearts encompassed. You and I, you and I, Amidst all the obtrusion, Sat in lull and concord. I kissed you, I kissed you. The pins were retrieved. The mask was removed. I felt a lingering sugarcane zest, On my tongue. The cologne you wore, aromatic.
In 2012 I would sit on your bed, Looking into your grey as you once did mine. Caress your aging shoulders And massage that silk scalp. My face was your canvas, Where you left broken kisses.
ABU’S VITALITY
A son’s understanding of an irreplaceable father.
“My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give a person; he believed in me.” Jim Valvano.
Engulfed me. The verse you chanted, The justice you taught me, With implicit words. The concealment of nostalgia, The bathos of love. I sat in captivity. My mind paced back. And before I could tell you, You left hastily. So I say it now, Like the secrets you told me, I secured your love in my heart, I don’t probe for your pictures Or rely on your movies. Because dear Abu, Your endearment surrounds me, And makes me the woman I am. Till kingdom come I’ll cross that gravel path, And reach my no more elfin fingers, Above the mulch, The scented rose petals, That make me cringe. I would shed tears, I would speak. To you, just to you. I promise Abu, I promise the promise you taught me, To never let anyone see, The tears that I shed. The reminiscences I keep.
When I read the above quote I wonder what exactly Valvano was referring to. My whole life, however, has been the culmination of exactly what he said. This is the story of the youngest child of a wholesome Pakistani family, the one who was pampered and babied the most, not just by his parents but his siblings as well.
I opened my eyes to be introduced into a patriarchal society. As a boy, I was welcomed with a great deal of joy because I was the much-awaited second son after four sisters. Living in such a culture and family set-up, I saw my father as a man of dignity and honor, respected by all who knew him. Given the societal values my mother had instilled in me, his standing came as no surprise; I took my father’s integrity for granted. It was with time and age that I learnt the true value of my father’s presence; his status was the result of his sacrifices and the unconditional love he had for his family.
By the time I entered my angst-ridden teens all my sisters were married with kids, well settled into their lives. My only and older brother had moved and settled in America with his wife and two kids. I was alone with my parents, to be raised and loved without interference. It was this time of my life that I so enjoyed; it almost felt like I was the only child. I accompanied my father to several reunions he attended, his Baluch Regiment gatherings in Abbottabad, and walking into a room full of retired and serving army officers with my father by my side was what I looked forward to the most. The look on his face when his colleagues stood to greet him and salute him, together with the pride I felt in being his son, is something I can never find enough words to express. Attending these ceremonies and then reading the Urdu version of my father’s book felt almost like someone had simply documented the evenings I spent listening to officers voice their opinions about the 1971 war.
More than once I seriously considered the prospect of pursuing my education abroad but in the end nothing mattered more to me than staying close to and looking after my parents. Besides, attending the patriotic army ceremonies of my father’s battalions had only strengthened my love for my father and my country. Perhaps attending those events over the years is one of the reasons I am content to live under the comforting wing of my mother even today.
I grew up knowing my father as a man of his word, straightforward and objective. It was this innate morality that often got him into ridiculous trouble with his seniors and course mates. My father told the
From an eternally bereft granddaughter to her affectionate Abu. Rida Khalid Bhutta, BA (Honors)
truth as it was and never sugarcoated it. But it was the same underlying transparency of his intentions that made his seniors, once so unsettled by him, become his closest friends after retirement. He would tell me stories of his battles fought during the war and I would listen to him totally engrossed for hours. There was nothing more rewarding and fulfilling than listening to my father recollect his past.
In 1986, after my father’s retirement, we moved into our then permanent residence in Model Town, Lahore. There was no smile brighter than my father’s when he returned to his family after 28 years of service. He then began to focus on his religious reincarnation: he became the president of the Anjuman-eEid-Milad-un-Nabi in Model Town and, by default, I was his tag-along at all the gatherings held under its auspices. It was in Model Town that I was exposed to another facet of his personality: helping and caring for strangers. But it was with utmost responsibility and sincerest dedication that he did everything. Not only was I his assistant in achieving the targets he had set for himself, I was also his personal chauffeur, ensuring he arrived on time and left without tiring himself. It was during these proceedings that I understood and witnessed his diligence and concern when it came to the requirements of his religion and country.
Our last year in Model Town was 2005, when my wedding date was decided. Due to irreconcilable family differences, my father had to sell his beloved house and move to the Punjab Cooperative Housing Society in Lahore. The distance was no deterrent for my father’s dedication. Despite being half an hour away from Model Town, he remained an active participant in his old activities and a mentor for many. His contributions are what stimulated decisions in the Model Town Society, and his affiliation and bond with Model Town could not be, and never was, broken by his relocation.
A year after shifting to the new house, my father suffered a stroke. I was not home at the time when I received a peculiar call from him, his speech slurred as he told me something had gone wrong with him. The memory of the frantic rush home is not something I care to recall. I immediately admitted him into the CMH in Lahore. Coincidentally, it was the same night that my wife learned she was expecting our first child. It is these feelings I cannot put down in words; the pain of my father’s situation set against my reaction to the news of my first child. My emotions were in turmoil. My father gradually recovered from his stroke and within a few months of treatment was up and about like his old active self. I know of hardly any men who have recovered from such an attack with the grace of my father, but then again not everyone had his power and strength.
Nine months later I welcomed my daughter into the world and she became such a significant part of his life, one that even I was not. An hour spent apart from my daughter was an hour of unrest for my father, and if my daughter was ever sick it was his care that cured here every single time. Any medicine she needed was readily available with him; I cannot recall a single incident when I had to rush my daughter to the doctor. My daughter was his distraction from the world; he would welcome her each time with a pocket full of treats that he knew she was fond of. On entering the house, he would take a deep breath and call out for her till she was resting in his arms tickling her treats out of him. When my daughter was five years old I welcomed another little girl into the world. This was another perfect activity for my father to
look forward to every day and every night. Though she got only three short years with her dada jee, she turned out to be just like him even at the tender age of four. I think it would be an understatement if I said I see my father’s reflection in everything she does.
With the inevitable journey of human life, Abu’s age had reached a critical point. Though I lived and breathed subconsciously aware that I would lose him some day, I remained in utter denial and refused to face this reality. But, in December 2013, I was forced into this reality regardless of my struggle to shun it. I learnt of my father’s illness, one I still cannot bring myself to name, and the distinct lack of a treatment for it; I had never felt so helpless and so purposeless in my own self. Nothing in the physical world seemed to matter to me without my father’s presence. My sisters’ and my mother’s eyes were on me and I felt that the way my family could get through this depended on how I dealt with his illness. Little did I know that all those years spent under Abu’s tacit guidance would suddenly give me the strength that I like to believe he had. So I gathered my own strength and I resigned from my job, and then I dedicated my days and my nights to looking after him with my sisters’ assistance.
I wanted to fix his image in my eyes forever – the way he moved, the way he breathed, the way he ate, sat and spoke. Those last days I was told I looked after him as he did me ever since I was an infant. However, deep in my heart I still believe that, regardless of what I did for him, it can never amount to the unconditional love I had received from Abu. It would be safe to say that those days transformed me into a better man and gave me the strength to keep myself together in his absence. His piousness granted him a strange fortitude in facing his illness which my own fragile faith was not willing to accept. His strength, and the bleakness of the situation, was perhaps what I could not understand or accept and I found myself unable to face it with the same courage. I found myself weakening when it came to responding to his unfathomable grey eyes that called for me several times a day. I could not exist unless I had him by my side which is why, against all odds, against all rejections from the finest doctors all over the world, I believed he would triumph and be himself again.
My brother has always been a great support to me but when I received him at the airport on March 17h, 2014 he was in that moment something far more than the strongest pillar I could ever have. I could take every word of the English language but none would express the full depth of my sorrow when I walked into my father’s room the morning of March 20, 2014. My brother, my sisters and their children surrounded him as he lay completely still. It was then that I knew my life had frozen and nothing would ever be the same again. It was then that I lost my father.
He left with the highest rank of honor and respect, surrounded by all those he loved and all those who loved him. His funeral was one I had never experienced in my life, nor have I yet. Men I had never met were nudging each other aside just to see his face; with swollen eyes they looked at him, kissed his hands and moved away. He may have been my father, but he was a mentor, a guide and a confidante to several others. Assisted by my brother, I buried him with my own hands in the ground where he had wished to be laid. It is there where my father resides and will continue to do so, till kingdom come. He left me with the same sense of responsibility I had for him now directed towards my mother. It is in her that I see him and
it is with the same dedication that I will continue to love her and shelter her. Mohi-Uddin Ahmad, MBA.
DIARY OF MAJOR IFTIKHAR BHATTI
This meeting with Iftikhar was coincidental. I had returned to Lahore after spending a few years in San Francisco when, one day, I arranged a meeting with the administrator of Model Town Society in his office. During our meeting, I noticed an elderly bearded man sitting on my right; it seemed that he was waiting for me to end my conversation so he could begin his.
As my tête-à-tête with the administrator stretched out, I thought that as a courtesy I should apologize to the old man and, with that in my mind, I turned to him. When my eyes fell on his face for the first time, my mind sent me a signal that the face was a familiar one. When I looked again, closely this time, I realized that the face hidden behind the beard was of my companion from my college days; it was the face of Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad Bhatti. The awkward silence changed into two companions greeting one another warmly.
Iftikhar had participated in both the plays during 1955-57 in Government College, plays which I participated in too. In March 1957 we performed in ‘Bakheel,’ a play directed by me. And Julius Caesar’ directed by Zia Mohy-Ud-Uin, in which I played Brutus and Iftikhar played another character.
I met Iftikhar several times again during my stay in Lahore. It was 2001 and 46 years had passed since we were adolescents in college; some time was needed to remind us of our friendship again. During our meetings I found out that after college, Iftikhar had joined the Army; however, most importantly, he was in East Pakistan in 1970 onwards. What surprised me most was that later he was taken as a prisoner of war with other soldiers, for a long time. It is weird how several people spend four years in college together, make unforgettable memories, achieve their diplomas together and set out to start their search to make a living and, sadly, scatter in such a manner that no one knows where the other has disappeared. The remaining part of life is spent searching for lost companions and friends, remembering the good old days. I always wished that I could find an old college friend and hug him and ask him: Where have you been? How did life treat you?
When Iftikhar told me that he had written a diary about his experiences in East Pakistan and as a prisoner of war, and when he told me he had been successful in saving it and bringing it to Lahore, I got curious and wanted to read his memoir. I wanted to know what Iftikhar had gone through and wanted to read his first-hand experience and details of such a tragic national disaster. So I insisted that he let me read his diaries. Iftikhar promised but somehow during my stay in 2001, that promise wasn’t fulfilled.
After a year when I returned to Lahore again, I once again expressed my desire to read his diaries. This time, I was successful. One day, Iftikhar visited me and left two handwritten registers containing his recollections of the past. The title on the cover said: ‘Memories of a lacerated heart, 1971.’ I read all 314 pages of the diaries within the next few days. It was a remarkable story; every word was real and spoke of
A HARD RAIN
personal experience. It was a story of war, disaster and bloodshed but at the same time it depicted a cultural, social and political study of 1971, and above all, in every event, Major Iftikhar Bhatti’s emotions were imbued with patriotism, morality and his love for God.
A few things would startle a common reader, e.g.: not caring about one’s own life even in the most lifethreatening circumstances, to shoot and to kill someone either as a need or as per principles, showing the highest form of character at a young age when being face to face with beautiful and attractive young women. More than that, his book was a sincere effort to bring the lost youth onto the right path despite them being ‘enemies’. I was also astonished that during military training and war, the value of one’s own life and enemies’ lives becomes so fragile.
Besides his own personal story, Major Bhatti has done an excellent analysis of the geography and politics of East Pakistan, which is now Bangladesh. These personal observations are highly plausible. His diary has stories of brutality that made one human being thirsty for the blood of another.
There is also an honest confession in the writings. These confessions are of negligence, arrogance and injustice. It is a journey of how these aspects caused a seed of hatred to penetrate in the hearts of the Bengalis and how that hatred was represented by the majority of the Punjabi population in the country. There is also a confession about the unprofessional strategy used in 1970-71 by the army; it includes the details of the prolonged life in POW camps, in spite of efforts to escape from the camps. Major Iftikhar Bhatti was amongst the special prisoners of war, ones that were considered extremely dangerous and ‘sinister criminals’ and therefore had to be sentenced in the courts for war crimes.
Iftikhar was, is, and has been a man of faith and has always relied on God for help. It is this that made him confident and ultimately freed him from the wrath of the Indians; a true miracle indeed.
It’s amazing that Iftikhar mentions all of this in extensive detail in his memoir. All the ground realities of the war and conflict should be known to the nation, these realities are a part of our national history. After a long time, the truth is being provided to the citizens of this nation.
The diary of Major Iftikhar Bhatti is a rare mirror bringing the facts of the nation to the surface. I believe his book to be nothing less than a national service and favor to the people of the country. Truth should be an inherent part of history.
I congratulate my friend on providing this national service. I am confident that, though the readers may not agree with his ideology or attitude, they will not be able to deny the facts as they do.
It is strange to be revisiting a time which one would rather forget – a painful memory of subterfuge, denials and jingoism on an epic scale. Not long before, there had been the 1970 election. A time of elation and hopefulness, but the euphoria evaporated soon after. Yes, one would rather not revisit all that. Much more agreeable to go further back, to Lahore of the late 1950s and ’60s. The city of music, conferences and mushairas, bookshops and restaurants, crowded with spirited Lahoris. A bustling city, astir with ideas, arguments, and controversies of every kind. Ever the city of storytellers and poets, Lahore was also home to charlatans and peddlers of shady repute. But for me, a young girl growing up and entering college, it was college and university life which seemed the most exhilarating. The debates, exhibitions, dramatic and musical performances were rousing events. They engaged the imagination, stirring idealism and faith in one’s future in nation-building.
There were particular institutions which took the lead in stimulating discussion and nurturing the ‘academic life’ which Lahore took pride in. Government College, Lahore was easily the leader of the pack. Another was Kinnaird College for Women, a highly conservative, nunnery-like place. The boisterous Islamia College for Men could not attempt to rival its neighbor Government College’s academic excellence, but gave them a run for their money on the playing field. These were days when the annual presentation of the Government College Dramatic Club (better known as GCDC) was the highlight of the ‘season’. Lahore’s seasons were marked by music conferences, college debates and declamation contests, cricket matches, and mushairas, which defined the year more effectively than the months on the calendar.
Looking back, one is struck by the sheer innocence of those times, even though one was aware of the political gloom following the military takeover of General Ayub Khan. The wide-sweeping incarcerations which took in trade union leaders, writers, journalists, intellectuals and so many others. The takeover of the Progressive Papers Limited was the first sign of the muzzling of the press, and the beginning of the infamous ‘press advice’ tradition.
But for the young it was still a time for optimism, animated dialogue and passionate exploits. The debating societies of colleges and universities were the forum for testing one’s ideas and rhetoric. Oratory more often than intellectual depth won the day in these jam-packed sessions in Lahore, Karachi, Peshawar and Rawalpindi. As with all young people, it was the joie de vivre that one remembers decades later. Lahore provided the most exacting of audiences, and the young listened with rapt attention when the intellectuals held forth. There was more learning in the corridors of colleges and in the streets than in the lecture rooms.
The Ravians (the name by which the Government College boys were known) were the elite-about-town – not in terms of vulgar financial status, but for brains, brawn, excellence in sports, good looks and a
From the pen of Naeem Tahir April 15, 2003
AUTHOR’S BIOGRAPHY
ready wit. They moved in packs and were recognizable for their guffaws as well as their courteous manners when on display. Among them was Iftikhar Bhatti, one of the GCDC crowd. Those were heady days for all of them and they were soon over as the young men made their way into the Foreign Service, the Civil Service, Law, academics or, in his case, the Armed Forces.
One cannot quite reconcile that time of innocence and idealism with what was to come later. Among his Ravian friends was Shoaib Hashmi and, a decade a half later, their worlds were radically different. By then, Shoaib was my husband and we were both critics of the government’s policies in what was then East Pakistan. Our views had been informed by our years in London from 1966 to 1969, interacting with students and intellectuals from both wings of the country. The events of 1971 were therefore no surprise to many like us in the western wing of the country.
Reading this account by Iftikhar (whom I never knew personally) exemplifies what one knew intuitively. The naivety of the young men came to grief through ill-conceived policies and circumstances not of their making. They became accountable for great suffering and much tragedy which lingers on, because it has still not been confronted. In Iftikhar and his pals of Government College lay the hopes of his generation which have yet to be studied, dissected and finally resolved. We now know war was never an answer.
Salima Hashmi February 05, 2017
Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad was born on June 1″, 1933 in Patti, a town in the Amritsar District, Lahore Divison, India. He was the first son and the second child of seven siblings born to Chaudhry Abdul Hamed Khan and Rasheda Begum. When Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad was a child, his father served as Tehsildar in the Chaburji quarters on Multan Road in Lahore.
In 1938, at the age of five, he was enrolled in the 1″ grade but soon after, the family had to relocate to Patti when his father was transferred there. Along with his family, Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad lived permanently in Patti until 1947, the year the subcontinent was partitioned into Pakistan and India. It was here in Patti that he completed his middle school education from the local D.B. High School.
Due to his father’s frequent job transfers, Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad’s family often moved from place to place. During the first eight years of his life, he lived temporarily in places like Ahmad Pur Sial and Zillah Jhang where he graduated from the eighth grade and completed his middle school education.
After the division of the subcontinent, Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad’s schooling was disrupted for a couple of years as a result of ongoing political unrest, the division of the country and a distinct lack of properlyrun schools in his side of the country. However, in 1949 he moved with his family to Hafizabad, a city in the newly-created country, Pakistan. Here, he was enrolled in the gh grade and started his high school journey. The educational system in that city was still not fully established and so he moved to Lahore, a far more developed city, to complete the rest of his education. In Lahore, Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad lived with his paternal uncle and graduated the 10th grade from the Islamia High School on the Lower Mall. After completing his schooling, he enrolled himself in Government College in Lahore in the year 1952 at the age of 19. He remained in Government College until 1958 and graduated with an Honorary Bachelor of Arts degree.
Apart from his educational accomplishments, from a very early age he established himself as an aspiring young athlete. As a young college student in Lahore, he distinguished himself by obtaining the first-ever Government College Color in rowing, the Punjab Color and then the West Pakistan Color, demonstrating his skill with utmost honor and achievement. He later made it on to the prestigious and highly sought-after Roll of Honor in Sports of Government College, Lahore. During his time as a student he remained an active member of the Dramatic Club. His fellow members later went on to become wellknown Pakistani artists, whereas his acting career was brought to an abrupt end by his father after he landed a minor role in a famous Hollywood movie of the time, Bhowani Junction, in which he appears in a clip.
After such sporting and artistic achievements, Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad joined the OTS in Kohat in the year 1958 as a GC and received his commission in the Pakistani Army the year after. He was appointed as
a 2nd lieutenant and joined Sixteen (16) Baluch Regiment officially in Fort Sandeman in Baluchistan. In the year 1960, this battalion moved initially to Quetta and eventually to Lahore.
It was in Lahore that he met Obaida Baig, an eligible woman from a well-established Mughal family of the time with which Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad’s family had been well acquainted for decades and generations. He was engaged to her in 1959 and on June 15″, 1960 they were married. Immediately after his marriage he was posted to Dir Bajor for an operation and was later transferred to the Pakistan Army EME center in Quetta as an administrative officer. During the course of his relocations in 1961 his father, Abdul Hamed, passed away, leaving him profoundly affected; echoes of this deeply-felt loss are evident in his memoir.
On March 27, 1961 he and his wife welcomed their first child in Lahore, a daughter they named Sobia, and from then on the family expanded and grew in love and unison. In 1963, Iftikhar-Ud-Din was taken into the Eleven (11) Baluch Regiment and transferred to Lahore. His job required him to relocate periodically and after being transferred to Lahore he was later ordered to move to Fort Sandeman again, near Quetta. There in Quetta, three years after the birth of his first child, he had another daughter on January 12, 1964 who was named Tayyaba. Shortly after her birth, Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad participated in an operation against the Bugti tribe during the India-Pakistan war of 1965, the year he was promoted to Captain. Later that year, he was posted to Kashmir while his family lived temporarily in a small village away from Lahore – for safety reasons as Lahore was under attack during the war. The same year, on September 10%, Iftikhar-Ud-Din’s third child and first son Moeen was born while he himself was still in Kashmir.
Due to his commendable ability, he was promoted to the rank of major in the year 1967. After a secondment in Zhob Militia, he was posted to Parachinar in the North Western Frontier Province where he stayed with his family for the next couple of years. Two years after this posting, he joined the Seven (7) Baluch Regiment and moved to Bagh. Later he was relocated to Azad Kashmir and eventually to Dara Haji Pir.
At the beginning of 1969, his battalion was ordered to move to Sialkot with the advance party and his family moved with him. The next four years of his life are the ones mentioned in his memoir: 1970 to 1974. On February 11″, 1970, before he left for the war, Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad and Obaida welcomed their fourth child and third daughter, Hafsa, into the world. When her husband was sent to East Pakistan for the second time, Obaida was expecting and gave birth to their fifth child and fourth daughter Aisha on June 20″, 1971 in his absence. Aisha saw her father for the first time when she was three years old. It is these four years Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad was separated from his family. After returning in 1974 he joined the Forty-One (41) Baluch Regiment in Lahore. Along with his battalion he moved to Chamb in Azad Kashmir and was at the border for the next couple of years of his service in the army. Throughout this time, his family resided in Lahore but his son Moeen would often visit him and spend his school holidays with his father.
At the end of 1974, he moved to Quetta to attend the Infantry School and received his training in
Infantry School. During this time his wife and son, who were permanently settled in Lahore with the rest of the family, visited him for a few weeks after a memorable two-day train journey. Later on, his family moved to Baral Colony in the Mangla Cantonment while Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad commanded a Mujahid Battalion in Chamb, Azad Kashmir. In the year 1976 he and his family moved to Mardan, as a result of his posting to the Punjab Regiment Center as an Accounts officer. On January 28″, 1978 Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad welcomed his second son and last child Mohi-ud-Din, which completed the family. In late 1978, Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad was posted to the Baluch Regiment Center in Abbottabad where he resided with his family for 5 years until 1983; his son Moeen spent another year attending high school in Abbottabad.
It was in the summer of 1980 that he married his oldest daughter, Sobia, to his nephew, Captain Zahid, in Abbottabad.
He did many projects for the Baluch Center, such as establishing a printing press, organizing Baluch Regiment Reunions and holding a yearly Meena Bazaar. In the same year he again moved to Mangla Cantonment with his family where he was put in charge of the women’s guard in Mirpur, Azad Kashmir. He met with a terrible accident on a scooter while he was traveling back with his daughter Tayyaba from Mirpur to Mangla; it damaged his left shoulder and the pain never left him till the end. He loved his family so much that his son Moeen, who was away in Abbottabad taking his high school final exams, was not told of the incident until he returned to Mangla.
In 1984, he was posted to Lahore Cantonment with a battalion of the Pakistan Army’s EME corps. After living a nomadic life, often apart from his family, this was his last posting as an officer of the Pakistani Army. It was in December the same year that he retired and his family threw him a surprise retirement party. After his retirement from the army he took on board the task of constructing a house for his family in Model Town, Lahore in 1986. After creating a permanent residence for his family, Iftikhar-Ud-Din Ahmad joined an insurance company on a part-time basis and signed up as a member of the Model Town Society. He remained the president of the Anjuman-e-Eid-Milad-un-Nabi in Model Town, Lahore till his last breath.
Two significant and traumatic events happened in his life during his stay in Model Town: in the early 1990s, his mother passed away and later his oldest sister, who had been very close to him all his life, also passed away.
Until 2005 he resided in his new house in Model Town, in the place where he had grown up and had spent his childhood and school and college years, and where he saw his second daughter Tayyaba married to Khalid, in a union that produced a son and a daughter; his son Moeen, who moved to America to complete his medical training and still permanently resides there, to Dr. Fauzia who bore him a son and a daughter; his third daughter Hafsa to his nephew, the younger brother of his eldest son-in-law Baqar, in a marriage that produced two sons and a daughter, and his last daughter Aisha to Majid Qureshi, who now live happily in Germany with two daughters and a son. After nineteen joyous years, he moved to Punjab Cooperative Housing Society, accompanied by his wife and youngest son Ahmad.
He sold his Model Town house because of the intolerable attitude of his siblings, who he had raised as
world.
“A great man is one who leaves others at a loss after he is gone.” Paul Valery
his own children, and he moved to Punjab Housing Society, Ghazi Road in Lahore. During the nineteen years of his retirement spent in Model Town, he had developed a strong personal relationship with the people and the community in the town he had considered home. Because of this, long after leaving for the Punjab Society, he continued his social life in Model Town. Along with his personal social activities, he ensured that he attended all the military functions of the Baluch Regiment and his old battalions and the alumni events of Government College, Lahore. He remained outgoing and sociable throughout and stayed in touch with the officers from his old battalions and his Government College friends.
Another traumatic event that happened in early 2008 was when his nephew and son-in-law, Major Zahid passed away.
In 2009 he published his memoirs in Urdu after roughly compiling them over the nineteen years he lived in Model Town.
After his retirement and throughout his residence in Model Town and in the Punjab Cooperative Housing Society, he remained in good health and in good spirits, physically and socially, an active member wherever he went, while welcoming and indulging all his grandchildren. However, in May 2006 he suffered a minor stroke, from which he completely recovered. In 2007 he saw his youngest son married to Rabia. The couple had two daughters, and he lived happily and joyfully with them in the Punjab Society for his remaining days. He would often visit Model Town for a stroll and brief meetings with the people he had grown so fond of, but always enjoyed returning to the company of his large and wholesome family.
In December 2013 he was diagnosed with an abdominal tumor which was declared inoperable by all the doctors in that field. His family was desperate to find a cure for the cancer and after contacting specialists all over the world, tracked down a specialized treatment facility in Frankfurt, Germany. They began the preparations to take him there for the treatment but, as his family were arranging the travel plans for him, his condition rapidly deteriorated as the tumor started compressing his ureters. On March 20, 2014 between 10:30 and 10:35 a.m. he breathed his last in his bed in the residence in Punjab Society. Surrounded by his wife, his children and his grandchildren he left in utter peace with a contented smile on his face, one that has been indelibly etched in the hearts of his family. His oldest son counted his last breaths and he left in peace and comfort. In accordance with his wishes and the handwritten will found in his diary, he was buried in a graveyard in Model Town, only a little distance away from his mother’s and son in-law’s graves.
His legacy, his magic, his aura, his wisdom and his lingering inspiration left a deep and vivid impact on his family and friends. His loss was an unbearable one and brought several people from across the country to visit his wife and children after his departure. Around 3000 people attended his funeral, every one of them anxious to see his face for the last time. He was an individual full of life and spirit and possessed the ability to charm any person who was in his company even for only a short time. He lived a blessed and blissful life with all his wishes fulfilled even after he departed.
The English translation of his memoir is another one of his wishes. Although the fulfillment of this wish was initiated while he still breathed, it is being published few years after his departure from this world.

مشرقی پاکستان سے بنگلا دیش تک)
PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR
(مشرقی پاکستان سے بنگلا دیش تک)
BASHA
20(1)
Real
یادیں
کی دلخراش
اے
Book Cover of the Urdu Book published in 2009
December the 16th has always triggered several powerful memories in my mind. It was on this date that Dhaka fell – a significant event in history. The lives lost might have been forgotten, but incidents retain their value for a long time. Several intellectuals and writers have written about the fall of Dhaka based on their limited perceptions of what happened. As a soldier and a non-intellectual, I have grappled with the decision of whether or not to speak my mind about the incidents in Dhaka. The fall of Dhaka is something that cannot be forgotten or become too distant a memory to recall.
There has always been a restless ache in my heart that urged me to overcome and lessen the burden on my soul. It has been approximately 30 years since the historic cyclone of East Pakistan, the national and provincial elections, and the civil disobedience movement initiated by our Bengali brothers in 1971. Those stressful times also include the military action in Dhaka in 1971, the 10-month long civil war fought between our own people, the disgraceful surrender followed by the eventual two and a half years that I endured in the Indian prison camps. I remember all these events as if they were yesterday. How I saved these bitter memories until my final release from India is an entirely different story.
Many writers and intellectuals have written, evaluated and expressed their countless and endless views regarding this incident, often blaming one other. The disturbing thing is how no one had in them the strength or courage to pose a question to the culprits responsible; a question that demanded an answer as to why East Pakistan was discarded like some personal property handed over as an heirloom. One’s duty is not fulfilled simply by making statements and remarks – why were the criminals, the responsible parties and individuals not punished for their heinous acts? Not only were the masses of our nation misinformed regarding the real scenario, they was kept ignorant of the numbers of the Pakistani Army soldiers, the actual conditions they were subjected to, and their perilous position in facing the enemy. Apart from instigating heated conversations within the confines of our drawing room walls, we failed to take a stand against such an extraordinary incident, such a massive disaster. The criminals of the time may no longer be alive, but there are still some such individuals who could be questioned. I am forced to assume that perhaps the reason for such an indifferent response can only mean one thing: everyone is and was at fault.
Despite the fact that the politicians and a number of generals in 1971 were responsible for the crime, how could the nation not have been informed about the criminals, how could no precautionary steps have been taken to avoid future calamities? I find it rather wretched that such a major incident in the history of any nation was ignored almost as if it was insignificant. A nation that initiates boycotts and processions for minor and petty issues remains oblivious, even today. I have not witnessed a single procession, or boycott, or civil disobedience movement on a national level that has demanded investigations by the
refused to learn from it. Instead, we remained entangled in hatred involving provincial affairs, and lust for personal power, fooling the world in the name of Islam. Our leader’s chanted slogans that promised food, clothing and housing for the masses but remained obsessed in filling their own bellies. The landlords greedily built their own wealth as the leaders of the nation continued to put the nation’s interests in extreme peril. I wonder what else the leaders, politicians, and other so-called influential people could possibly want from our poor country. When will our eyes truly be opened?
Our history clearly records how we have forgotten the sacrifices made; closed our eyes to the statistics of the women raped, to the guardians of our nation taking on the role of looters and thieves; when the promises made to God were shunned and forgotten; when selling the interests of a nation and plundering became the norm, and when extravagant parks, recreations, malls and buildings were constructed on top of the crushed homes of the poor and destitute. Who will live in the monuments, when there is no life left to live? This is the law of nature and this is what our history indicates has happened.
The actors of the East Pakistan drama eventually met their fate; some were killed by their own guards and soldiers, some hanged in the same city where they once lived an ostentatious life; some were bathed in blood along with their family at the hands of their own communities and some, who had lived a life characterized by women and wine, met an abrupt end to their empty lives. I had hoped that the ones who survived would learn a lesson from the painful demise of others. But it is an unfortunate fact that those who live on earth as gods never learn a lesson from history.
For inevitable and unavoidable reasons, I was forced to keep these bitter and rather shameful memories suppressed in my heart. But now I have the courage to set them free for my nation. I solemnly swear that I will only recall events I witnessed and conversations I heard. I will also document my own weaknesses and faults, the downsides and positive points of the individuals involved, with honesty and integrity. The underlying purpose in writing this book is to present the events of 1971 to my people in the hope that it might impact their hearts as it did mine. At the same time, I pray to God that He provides us with an opportunity to seek His forgiveness for our sins, so that we may not repeat our mistakes and perhaps regain the grace and respect that we once had and lost.
There is no doubt as to the bitterness of the events I am about to recall, but there is hope that these occurrences might unite us all as a nation and touch our national sentiments. This country was birthed in the name of God; more than a million lives were sacrificed for its creation. Countless women were raped, people died en masse, families migrated from their birthplaces, homes, properties with this one aim and ambition of getting to a country that promised equality, social justice and an Islamic culture. But what we see today is the same country being looted by wealthy landlords, investors and military generals. If only they had the heart to share the blessings they are so busy hoarding with the individuals that make up the nation. Quaid-e-Azam once said that the ice always melts from the top; unless the leaders of our nation stand shoulder to shoulder with the common man, unless they find the earth to place their feet, unless they establish social justice and Islamic equality and begin to consider the ordinary man as they consider themselves, no problem will find a concrete solution. The fertility of a land has no value if its leaders are
they establish social justice and Islamic equality and begin to consider the ordinary man as they consider themselves, no problem will find a concrete solution. The fertility of a land has no value if its leaders are ignorant of it.
Fear should only be welcomed if it is in the name of God. It should be shunned if created by a dictator or worldly power. The people of a nation should be served instead of simply fulfilling one’s own desires. Such a simple change in approach can turn any nation into one that is exemplary and prosperous, especially if it is a country that has boundless resources and blessings as this one has.
Before I narrate the story, I want to apologize for any mistake that I made when in East Pakistan. I also pledge that I am writing only the truth. It took an immense effort to document this bitter memoir during the civil war in East Pakistan and later as a POW in the camps of India. As a serving army officer I had limited resources and could not publish my encounters, so many years have since passed.
The atrocious situation of East Pakistan did not occur in a few days, weeks, months or even years. The background of these events goes as far back as a couple of decades. It began with the birth of Pakistan because of the negligence of our own people and the conspiracies of our enemies. However, the chief role was adopted by none other than our own leaders, who brought about a rather gory end. These leaders were declared the “Pride of the Nation” and the “Pride of Asia.” I am dismayed to report that it is these very leaders who played the principal role in the drop scene story of East Pakistan; they enacted the darkest chapters in our Nation’s history.
It is also a fact that non-Muslims never accepted the breakup of India. Along with a few of our own selfish and incompetent people, the non-Muslims of East Pakistan and India also played a big role in this event. With a little assistance from India, they used all means available to directly induce hatred against Pakistan, the PML and Islamic values. The young generation of East Pakistan, where the PML was born and which had a majority Muslim population, was made the enemy of Pakistan and manipulated with liberal propaganda. I am dismayed to report that this mission was achieved with competence, dedication and diligence. There is no harm greater than one that is brought about by destroying the social, moral and cultural values of a nation.
Before this preface becomes a story in itself, I will end by mentioning a few things in direct correlation to the events of East Pakistan. Despite the existing transparency regarding the participation of nonMuslims and Indians in the incident, it is the participation of our own people that brings me the greatest grief. For example, the behavior and derogatory attitude of the civil servants towards the Bengali brothers, ones who were serving in East Pakistan and were from West Pakistan, was hateful and worse than the British. These officers, who aspired to be British, kept Bengalis at a distance and considered them inferior. This clear distinction was one I witnessed myself during the 1970 elections in Khulna Club when the civil servants allowed only the prominent and rich Bengali men and women to enter their residential areas or even come near them. Such a demonstration of loathing towards the Bengalis by our own people gave the perfect opportunity to the Indians to ignite the fire and succeed in producing a perpetually burning hatred between East and West Pakistan, such that each became thirsty for the blood of the other.
elections of 1970, which ironically our President Sahib declared as the most transparent and the fairest in the history of Pakistan. These elections gave the historic victory to the AL which was not given the legal right to form a Federal Government. As a result of this denial, more disgust was engendered in the hearts of the Bengalis, which was the sole doing of the leaders of West Pakistan. These elections were followed by the civil disobedience movement, a movement instigated by the aggravated East Pakistanis. The movement caused bloodshed on both sides of the nation, to the extent that it was declared unique in history. The communities that had subsisted together for 25 years craved the blood of the other. This is something we as a nation should ponder over – how easily we can turn our brothers into our enemies.
What little that remained between two brothers was obliterated by the military action of March 254, 1971. The Bengali units of the Pakistan Army, the police and the EPR became rebellious. Brothers wanted the death of one another. The records of barbarism displayed by the Bengalis during the civil disobedience movement were probably less significant; there was more bloodshed after the direct armed conflict. The situation could have been alleviated by the politicians through comprehensive negotiations. Involving the military was an appalling decision. The leaders of West Pakistan were thrilled as their vision of “Udhar Tum, Idhar Hum” was being confirmed though only supported by half the country. Their opportunity to become the rulers was drawing nearer, which is why they made an immediate statement after the military action that “Yahya Khan has saved Pakistan”. No sensible person endorsed the military action and the result was civil war.
The Bengali military soldiers in the Pakistan army and all the other groups started destroying everything in East Pakistan. They approached India where they were welcomed by the Army; unfortunately their dreams were also becoming a reality. The Indian Army was ready to work with our exbrothers and our new enemies to destroy facilities in East Pakistan. The Pakistan Army in East Pakistan had limited resources but they responded to the Mukti Bahini and the Indian Army by establishing resilient check posts along the border. Nevertheless the Indian commandos, with the help of Bengalis, penetrated deep into East Pakistan and began eliminating all that was left of law and order.
This dangerous and immensely critical situation demanded increased force from West Pakistan; two infantry divisions began arriving in East Pakistan without heavy equipment and ammunition. India had already dramatized the Ganga plane hijacking, blocking Pakistan’s air route over India. West Pakistan could now only approach East Pakistan through the longer route of the sea or over Sri Lanka. The vast land of East Pakistan was peppered with hurdles, hazards and difficulties, turning the long border with India into a challenge for the Pakistan Army. The resourceful Indian Army with the help of local Bengalis created a situation for the Pakistan Army that they had neither been trained for nor had any experience of. Despite the odds against them, the Pakistan Army remained patriotic and, through their excellent conventional war training, not only responded effectively to the Indian commandos but also kept the upper hand on all the war fronts.
From March 25% to the middle of November 1971, the Pakistani Army was deprived of additional soldiers, new ammunition and equipment, and had lost a great number of jawaans. Despite these
From March 25% to the middle of November 1971, the Pakistani Army was deprived of additional soldiers, new ammunition and equipment, and had lost a great number of jawaans. Despite these immense and seemingly irreparable losses, they remained patriotic and did not allow their spirit or courage to fade. I believe it was faith that kept the Pakistani Army resiliently fighting to save East Pakistan. On the other side of the border, Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi traveled all over the world driving home the message that the Pakistan Army was ruthlessly killing the citizens and mercilessly raping the women of East Pakistan. This was India’s principal diplomatic and political victory which not only changed the world’s perception of the people of West Pakistan but also convinced them that the Pakistan Army was leading the atrocities in East Pakistan.
The ground reality was that the Pakistan Army was suffering as a result of limited resources, support and equipment. It was occupied in saving East Pakistan, and facing extremely harsh circumstances. The Pakistan Army, instead of being commended, was defamed. For this I blame the circumstances and the incompetence of our leaders and rulers. They were incapable of articulating a coherent response to the Indian propaganda. It is a clear fact that the Pakistan Army was striving to save Pakistan as a whole, whereas all of East Pakistan remained an enemy. Had it been some other nation, the bravery of the Pakistan Army would have been commended in monuments. It was only through the faith and bravery of the soldiers that Pakistan remained intact against an army which was stronger in every respect. It is with faith that they stood firm against the treason of their own brothers. It is this struggle to save the beloved country that remains a golden chapter in history. Although the moral character of the head of the Pakistan Army in East Pakistan was questionable and inexcusable, the sentiments, assurance and valor of the junior commanders and the jawaans, was worth praising. If such a great army could have been spared and this issue could have been resolved politically, this black chapter would not be a part of our history. Such incidents require an unbiased perspective and a just approach to truly evaluate the situation and its consequences, uninfluenced by the Indian propaganda.
Just for the information of the readers, I want to compare the Pakistan Army with the Indian Army. Based on my comparison, the readers will be able to better judge the conditions under which the Pakistan Army fought the enemy. Our nation has been deprived of the facts. Instead of a traditional and conventional war, one for which it was trained, the Army was forced and ordered to fight a political war. A similar war was fought between India and China in 1962 under the powerful pressure of the Indian Prime Minister as he sat in Delhi and faced disgrace. The Pakistan Army was also disgraced by the cowardice of the rulers and generals who remained in Islamabad. The courageous army whose bravery and skills were once praised by the entire world was forced to meet a reprehensible fate. As the Pakistan Army fought the civil war and battled the Indian Army, no political leader or general from Islamabad or the GHQ in Rawalpindi showed any signs of concern to defend the ground realities or even visit East Pakistan. They maintained their positions in Islamabad, releasing irresponsible, misguided and inappropriate statements that had the entire world mocking the nation. Had any general or political leader visited East Pakistan even once and witnessed the realities with their own eyes, this episode in history might have been very,
common sense and bipartisanship. Items
Indian Army: Infantry:
104 battalions (with support)
Pakistan Army 30 battalions included)
(old
soldiers
0
Mountain Brigades Paramilitary
and
Few police platoons
10 battalions (7000) Uncountable (police Mukti Bahini included) 3 battalions (3000) 10 battalions (1000) 16
2 battalions (1,300) 1 (with old tanks)
Regiments:
Paratroopers: Commandos Tank (Armored) Artillery (All kinds)
150 regiments (65,000)
Few field regiments and little mortar battery (2000)
Aircraft Carrier
16 modern squadrons 1 F-816 Sabre squadron (16 (unlimited aircrafts)
aircrafts) 1 (Vikrant)
0 Few
Airships: Naval fighter ships:
I would also like to remove a misunderstanding that was created at the time and remains till today. Our so-called leaders and even educated elitist Pakistanis mention that 90,000 Pakistan Army soldiers surrendered in the year 1971. However, the truth of the matter is that the Pakistan Army soldiers and paramilitary personnel numbered a maximum of 45,000 to 50,000. They were kept under prolonged imprisonment as POWs for the political gain of our own leaders. There was only one division of the Pakistan Army in East Pakistan; the other two divisions entered Pakistan hurriedly with their personal weapons and consisted mainly of retired and worn-out soldiers who were called in under emergency circumstances. This fact is illustrated by the comparison of the two armies. It was only the courage of the Pakistan Army that enabled them to fight a commanding opponent under such circumstances for ten months, even forcing them back on every front. But when the Indian Army attacked with full force under the banner of a conventional war, it became extremely difficult for the Pakistan Army to fight back. Had the Bengali brothers not accompanied the Indian Army so willingly, the Pakistan Army with her faith and courage would never have allowed the Indian Army to prevail.
I wish this legendary story of the Pakistan Army could somehow be mentioned in the history books being taught. Even today, it is not just the foreigners and the enemies but also our friends and fellow citizens who blame the Pakistan Army for the surrender. They also don’t realize that their Army was forced to fight an unconventional and political war for which they had no training whatsoever. We junior officers used to ask our seniors why we were being ordered to fight such a war. The valuable land of East Pakistan was not being used as a defense by our army and when we asked why it was so, the remorseless answer would be, “That is an order. Wherever you are, if the place is inappropriate or insecure strategically, fight till your last breath and don’t give an inch of your land.” Perhaps our insecure politicians were fearful that if we gave even an inch of our land, the absconded East Pakistan AL workers would establish Bangladesh straightaway. The result of this incompetent policy and ignorance was that the Pakistan Army was deployed on the borders in small numbers and the Indian Army, with the constant assistance of the Bengali brothers, was approaching Dhaka. The most dangerous aspect of this strategy was that after the start of an open war, the Pakistan Army would be stuck between the Indian Army and the countless natural obstacles. The very terrain of East Pakistan which could have afforded an advantage to the Pakistan Army instead made them vulnerable to attack.
But the Army still carries the blame for losing the war and surrendering. Besides this culpability, enemies, friends and even our own fellow citizens alike lost no chance to point their finger at the Army. They were called womanizers, barbarians and individuals with the worst of characters. It was fully propagated that the Pakistan Army had occupied East Pakistan with the sole purpose of looting, killing locals and raping their women. Nothing could be more shameful than this allegation. The reality was that the Pakistan Army stranded in East Pakistan had such sentiments and faith that no similar example of patriotism can be found in any history book.
The troops who were not at the border of East Pakistan were dispersed deeper into the country, away from the major population, and overwhelmed with civil responsibilities, might have made some mistakes
13
A Rough Comparison of the Indian and Pakistani Armies
This comparison might not be completely accurate and the Indian Army might have been considerably larger than this estimate. The Indian Army jawaans and commandos who entered East Pakistan with the help of our Bengali brothers could not have been counted with any accuracy. Apart from this statistical approximation, the Indian Army was fully backed up by equipment and ammunition throughout. Its strength was reinforced by the Pakistan Army Bengali jawaans and officers who deserted, the Bengali police, volunteers, and the EPR, all of whom had joined forces with the Indian Army. On the other hand, any jawaans or officers in the Pakistan Army who were lost were never replaced. As a consequence, with each passing day, the Indian army gained strength and the Pakistani army diminished. This was neither a traditional nor a conventional war, and there was also no clearly-defined border. The Pakistan Army was literally surrounded by the enemy from all sides. In spite of this, the Indian Army didn’t have the courage to send the full strength of the country’s forces into East Pakistan until December 1971; whenever it tried to do so, they received a robust reply from the Pakistan Army.
I would also like to remove a misunderstanding that was created at the time and remains till today. Our so-called leaders and even educated elitist Pakistanis mention that 90,000 Pakistan Army soldiers
my heart sinks at such a vision.
Instead of adapting to other ideologies, I wish we could have taken guidance from the religion. It is only then that I believe the suicidal attacks will decrease and so will the insurgencies we observe today.
I apologize for such a long preface.
Humbly, the writer, Major Iftikhar Ud-Din Ahmad (Retired) PTC 5733 The Baluch Regiment Pakistan Army 2009
such a time? The army which had to withstand the unbearably daunting conditions of an entire country? The Pakistan Army was well aware of the fact that the men and women of East Pakistan were their fellow citizens, they had been residing there for more than 25 years. I would only like to make my fellow citizens aware of the fact that the role of the Pakistani army in East Pakistan is historically significant. No one could or can have the faith and patriotism these jawaans of the Pakistani army possessed and demonstrated. This smokescreen, this propaganda against the army was a strategic plan to disgrace Pakistan in the eyes of the world. The country was unlucky. How? The incompetence and lack of character of the petty politicians is what drove them to look out for their own personal interests and gains. They cared not at all for the country and singlehandedly lead it to disgrace.
As I state the facts, I must also reiterate that no individual of Pakistan possessed the level of faith, patriotism and heroism as the members of the Pakistan Army struggling in East Pakistan. And today we see Pakistan as a lawless and barbaric land. It is a land where just subtle hints of faith and patriotism can make it a safe haven and an exemplary land. I request my nation to rid itself of the misconceptions, the misunderstandings and influences disseminated and driven by our enemies. The circumstances of the country, the continual martial laws, it is these that have badly impacted the army. I believe, Insha’Allah, that if in the future Pakistan ever does face critical times, the army will prove its worth again. It will prove that it does indeed possess high moral character and will fight for this nation till its last breath. How can an army be blamed for the wrongdoings of a handful of greedy generals?
As I write this I know that there are many citizens out there who will disagree with my sentiments and approach. Every human being has the freedom to contemplate and understand history as independently as they choose. I simply plead with the nation to keep Pakistan as Pakistan: a single united nation free from individual inflexibilities and beliefs. A single wave separated from a river or ocean has no purpose. The readers are free to criticize me and my mistakes. I am confident that with the prayers and actions of my fellow citizens, God will never impose a situation as brutal and life-threatening as I witnessed in 1971. Let us all unite as Pakistanis and not as Punjabi, Sindhi, Baluchi and Pashtun. Let us be true Muslims and honest Pakistanis. Let us not become puppets in the hands of the super powers of the world. Let us all be sincere servants of our nation and Insha’Allah we shall never face hardships such as those of 1971.
I hope my words sink into the depths of your heart. Perhaps one day we will learn from the mistakes of the leaders of today. If their attitudes had existed before the creation of Pakistan, we would not be able to claim to be Pakistani. We would still be Bengali, Punjabi, Sindhi, Baluchi and Pashtun. Our nation is being weakened by the poison of our provincial and local nationalism. Had such circumstances existed in 1947, the vision of Pakistan would never have been realized. The Muslims of the subcontinent would have lacked any aspirations towards provinces and independent ideologies; God could never have given us a free land. It is the venom of individualism and local nationalism that spreads in all directions. May God lead us on the right path of thought. Even today, we lack unity as a country; we seek personal gains and my heart sinks at such a vision.
Instead of adapting to other ideologies, I wish we could have taken guidance from the religion. It is only
Map of Bangladesh/Old East Pakistan
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Map of Bangladesh/Old East Pakistan
NEPAL
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Map of East Pakistan
PART I
ELECTIONS AND CYCLONE
1. 1970 – Elections and the Historical Cyclone in East Pakistan
In the fall of 1970 I returned to Sialkot from Quetta after completing my professional course, and it was here I learnt of my transfer to East Pakistan for temporary election duties. Despite the fact that these duties only required me to stay in East Pakistan for a few weeks, I was thrilled. I had never visited this exotic part of my country, but, I had always wanted to. The transfer was to happen four weeks after notification, and I spent those four weeks in impatient anticipation.
Finally, on November 12″, 1970, I took a van from Sialkot to Lahore, where I spent the night. On November 13″, at 1700 hours, I was on a PIA plane bound for East Pakistan. As the plane ascended, I took a last look out my window. The high buildings, the far-off roads of Lahore, began to disappear below me, and my plane soared into the sky, thousands of miles above the ground. As the plane flew over India, I was almost glued to the window trying to sneak a little peek at the towns. The flight attendant made an announcement as we crossed Delhi. Though I could not see it, I was thrilled to be above a city I had heard so much about. The Red Fort, the Shahi Masjid and the river of Yamuna could be seen below, almost like a long, thin, curving thread.
Just thinking about the Red Fort and Shahi Masjid transported me back to when the Muslim rulers once ruled the entire subcontinent. I could picture the Muslim flag waving proudly above the buildings. Once we crossed Delhi we came to Lucknow, formerly a cultural Muslim city. Lucknow disappeared from beneath me just as quickly, leaving me with the nostalgic tales of Wajid Ali Shah. As I watched from the plane’s window, the twinkling lights below lit up the earth like stars light up the sky; it was almost surreal. At 2200 hours, the air hostess told us to buckle up; it was an indication that we were close to our destination. The plane began descending and soon enough I could see the faint lights of Dhaka airport slowly becoming visible. The closer we got to landing, the more vividly I saw the roads of Dhaka lit up by street lights, and the movement of people. The plane landed, we taxied towards the airport building and, as the door opened, I felt the smell of the earth of East Pakistan blow in my face from a refreshing breeze. Pakistan has often left me overwhelmed with feelings I find hard to describe. It was with a tingling feeling in my gut that I walked down the stairs along with the other passengers.
I was welcomed at the airport by an officer who drove me to my new place of residence in an army jeep. As he drove, I looked out the window at the magnificence of my country – still feeling the gentle breeze on
my face. It was almost midnight and I was exhausted from the journey, but I gazed on East Pakistan in awe, a part of my country I had never visited before. I was so fatigued that I slept the moment I lay on the bed. It was Ramazan, but I could not fast, nor could I enjoy the blessings of this holy month, as I was on a voyage.
On November 14′, early in the morning, I boarded a plane for Jessore where I had to report to a Baluch battalion. Unlike the PIA plane, this one was a small Fokker and did not travel at a very high altitude nor at a fast pace. This gave me a chance to see the lakes, the streams, the rivers – the land of East Pakistan. Here was their agricultural land, the large and small farms, the villages and green fields encompassed by water. The scenery was a sight for sore eyes and it uplifted my soul.
Soon the Jessore airport came into view. It was a small airport with just a few people. Everyone quickly got off the plane and headed off to their respective destinations. A Baluch regiment Subaydar Sahib greeted me and we headed towards the Jessore cantonment which was quite a distance from the airport. This gave me the rare opportunity to closely observe the people as they went about their daily chores. The roads were not too crowded since it was Ramazan. There were several sights I witnessed for the first time in my life. I saw half-naked and dark-skinned men wearing nothing but lungis and dhotis – our Bengali bhai pulling rickshaws. The extent to which hunger and starvation can push a man is unbelievable. I felt a sense of pity as I saw men pulling other people on wheels using only their strength and their bare hands.
Throughout this journey, the road was surrounded by coconut and betel trees. For all my other recent experiences, I had never seen these before. The trees somehow seemed far more graceful and poised than the half-naked men pulling other humans on wheel carts – they were aligned in a straight formation, seemingly representing integrity and dignity. Troughs on both sides of the road were filled with water and the air was damp, almost as if a thunderstorm had just drenched the land. There was no dust. Then again, how could there be dust when all you could see was water and green fields?
When our jeep arrived at the Officers’ Mess, a few young officers came out of their rooms and greeted me warmly. Despite it being Ramazan and despite all of them fasting, they had made arrangements for refreshments for me. Even though my excuse not to fast was legitimate, I felt ashamed for disrespecting such a holy month – but I appreciated the hospitable nature of these officers. A young jawaan who was assigned to me as an orderly made my bed for me. After a while I excused myself from my new-found friends and retired to my room for a nap. By the time I woke up everyone was preparing for iftar – surprisingly, even those who were not fasting. I took a shower, changed my clothes, and came out onto the veranda where the meal table was set for everyone. There were freshly fried samosas, pakoras, jalebies and more set out on the table. As the food steamed, everyone (including those who, like me, were not fasting) impatiently waited for iftar and the azan to be called out to open the fast. As soon as iftar was announced, all of us attacked the table and, in the blink of an eye, the wonderfully displayed table of food was emptied. All that remained were crumbs of food on otherwise empty plates. After this, everyone had tea and went to their rooms for namaz.
2. A Night in the Sundarbans
On November 15, 1970, another officer from West Pakistan joined us for the election duty. Though the cool and refreshing breeze of Dhaka and Jessore was completely new for me, I later learned that just a few days earlier a devastating cyclone had struck. The Bhola cyclone had affected far-flung areas of East Pakistan, and its aftermath was still being felt several days later. It had destroyed all communications, it had disrupted all the postal services and the army had been alerted; all the units were given orders to move out to the areas that had been affected. The 21C of our battalion had earlier planned to explore the Sundarbans, before the natural disaster struck. Since our unit was given orders to move to the affected areas after a couple of days, we decided we could still spare the time to visit the Sundarbans for just a day and return before the time of our departure.
The 21C, Major Butt, was from Lahore (he has passed away, he was a good man and may God bless his soul). Perhaps because of our connection back in Lahore, he gave me an opportunity to see the historical and exotic place of the Sundarbans. I was elated that I would get to see such a fascinating place just a couple of days after landing in East Pakistan. As our battalion had to move through Khulna, we decided that we would join them there. The 21C, his wife and another local guy, who himself was from Khulna, left with me the next day for Khulna in an army jeep.
The coconut and betel trees were once again on display, standing proud and erect on both sides of the road we traveled on. A small nadi flowed parallel to this road. We had heard a peculiar story about this nadi. Apparently, it travelled in one direction throughout the day and in the opposite direction from the afternoon onwards and through the night. It was certainly new to me and I thought this was very odd, but the locals didn’t think that. They explained that this was merely because of the temperature variances. The streams changed their directions all over the country.
One thing caught my attention during this trip. Every individual I came across seemed like the embodiment of poverty. Their attire and their health both screamed of the scarcity of their life. I often came across children smoking a cigarette or chewing on a paan. As I took all of this in, the scenic beauty at odds with the poor folk, we reached Khulna. Not only was Khulna famous for being one of the biggest cities in East Pakistan, it was also renowned because of its sea port. It had the biggest buildings and factories and, more significant than that, it was the one city in East Pakistan with the largest paper mill in the region. The roads were crowded; the seaport was located right next to the city, a city that teemed with countless steamers and ships, large and small. It was a lively yet strange city, unique in its own way, with the tall buildings, bamboo huts and mud houses making it exotic and attractive.
The day we reached Khulna was also the day of the flea market. Traditionally called hat in East Pakistan, it was where people from all the neighboring towns would gather to sell their produce such as chicken and eggs, fish, fruits, vegetables, and other various household items brought from the city. This was a useful trade because the items were always reasonably priced; things were cheaper compared to the main bazaar, and this one feature of the hat would attract old and young men, women and children to this
market. It was also our first opportunity to see the market.
After a little strolling around, we reached the newspaper mill rest house and met with Major Butt, who had already made arrangements for our stay there. The general manager of the paper mill himself came to receive us and showed us around the mill, explaining the process of paper making out of a piece of wood. The Khulna Paper Mill was a place worth seeing and, for the very first time in my life, I witnessed how paper was made. Besides, being there filled me with a unique sense of pride that our country had developed and was running the largest paper mill in all of Asia. Later, the general manager took us to his office where he handed us a few gifts from his factory products and served us some tea, after which we headed to our rooms to rest up.
Our Bengali officer, who was a captain in the Pakistan Army, had invited us over to his place for dinner that night, informing us that each dish served would be authentically Bengali and personally prepared by his wife. Captain Sahib had studied at the Khulna University and, despite enlisting in the army, he had a house in the Khulna University colony and it was here that his wife and children lived. Major Butt and his wife stayed in their room as they were exhausted after a long day. Captain Sahib took me over to his house in the evening. Apart from myself, there were a few Khulna University professors there too. The captain and his wife welcomed us warmly and after some time we all gathered around the dining table.
Our host had truly outdone himself with delicious Bengali food and a few fish dishes that were very new to me. Begum Sahiba insisted that we try every dish and ensured we skipped none; though the food was absolutely delightful, it was the hospitality and generosity of our hosts that was truly remarkable. After dinner was over, the conversation took a turn from the recent natural disaster that had hit East Pakistan to politics; I believe I was perhaps the least informed individual in a room full of intellectuals and professors. A strange sadness overwhelmed me as they began to discuss politics. Despite being welleducated and great intellectuals, they seemed to get carried away with their emotions and sentiments, both of which were far from on-the-ground reality. The seed of hatred against West Pakistan and nonBengalis had been sown so deeply by the local population, that it was unsurprising it would have the same effect on them as it would on any other unknowing individual. The conversation concluded with the guests agreeing that West Pakistan was being unjust towards East Pakistan, and that East Pakistan was being suppressed and deprived of its rights.
It was true that the bureaucrats of West Pakistan had an unacceptable attitude towards our brothers in East Pakistan but the professors, despite being asked repeatedly, could not provide me with any concrete evidence for the conclusion they had arrived at and ended up replying, “If our leaders tell us that West Pakistan is suppressing us and taking away the wealth of East Pakistan, they must be right.” I was disappointed, because saying someone is behaving unacceptably and alleging that someone has taken away someone’s wealth are two very separate and different things. Watching these highly educated individuals blindly follow the propaganda being led by the leaders of East Pakistan was heart-breaking and almost improper. When these intellectuals remained unable to provide me with any proof of their claims, I thought I could at least help rid them of their misunderstandings even though I might not be able
to change their opinion. Although I was not as educated as them, I was aware of certain facts because of my military training and first-hand knowledge. I began to explain my point of view to them, which appeared to have a surprisingly profound impact on them, as far as I could tell. I felt that now at least they could tell a friend and an enemy apart. I acknowledged the deplorable behavior of the civil servants and officers in West Pakistan towards our Bengali brothers, while also indicating how the Bengali leaders and the hostility between Hindus and Muslims had triggered off a fight between brothers. I was amazed at the manner in which the body language and attitude of these scholars altered as they began to comprehend the point of view of someone as modestly educated as myself.
After partition, the animosity of non-Muslim Bengalis toward Pakistan had caused a rift between East and West Pakistan, and I tried to express my point of view on this in a logical manner coupled with examples and evidence. It almost felt as if these professionals had become my mureed after this particular discussion. Some of them told me how they had had no idea of the information I had shared, a few wanted their picture taken with me, someone even asked for my contact details. I believe it was my patriotism and sincerity that impressed them and not my education and knowledge. I simply expressed the realities earnestly. At the very end of the discussion, I urged them to clarify misunderstandings through concrete discussions and not through hatred. When one brother mistreats another, it should be talked about and dealt with, not misunderstood and dismissed as the work of an adversary – this only serves the purpose of the opponents. Even today, I feel proud of that night, because someone like me did something for his country, by the grace of God. Despite being completely thrown by the selfish and short-sighted actions of our politicians, I was pleased with my humble attempt.
I returned to my guest room quite late that night and went straight to bed. Thinking about going to the Sundarbans and being content with the night, I was soon asleep.
The next morning, we took the VIP launch called ‘Khewra’, owned by the paper mill factory, and departed for the Sundarbans. The launch was named Khewra after the Khewra salt mines near Jhelum in West Pakistan, and I was pleased to see the name of a certain part of my country being acknowledged in another part of my nation. We were also provided with some hunters and anglers along with chefs from the paper mill. The launch left the jetty of Khulna, drifting over the sea as it headed towards the Sundarbans, and soon we could see nothing but water and different types of sea vessels. Whenever a small boat passed us by, it seemed as if it would sink in the gigantic waves, but the half-naked person sitting in the boat would handle it expertly, making it move as smoothly as it could over the water. In East Pakistan, most of the transport was on water which is why we came across countless small boats, launches and ships during our journey. The captain of our launch was quite an expert himself; it would have been impossible otherwise for a layman to figure out the directions. I would sit with the launch master and ask him all kinds of questions and then return to my room.
Our launch was almost like a complete house – it had three beautiful cabins that were almost like bedrooms with attached bathrooms. There was a dining room, and another larger room for other people, a kitchen, and a storeroom, and outside on the deck was a wide open space, almost like a veranda. The
rooms were furnished with comfortable furniture and a bed with a foam mattress. The veranda also held a few comfortable chairs for us so we could sit on them and enjoy the scenic beauty around us. Every now and then, another launch would pass us by and blow its horn, and it sounded like music to my ears.
After traveling for a while we came across larger ships and buildings still under construction. We were told that it was another port of Khulna being made to cater to larger ships since they found it difficult to navigate to the jetty at Khulna. I could tell that the construction was being done rapidly under the strict observation and efforts of Field Marshal Ayub Khan but alas, one can only imagine how it ended given the later conditions in East Pakistan.
That day, we saw people getting off the larger ships, climbing into smaller boats and rowing their way to the port. Several ships there had arrived from different countries, we could tell by their flags. We also stopped and walked around for a while. There were several foreigners and items such as cigarettes from different countries were being sold. At the time, it was anticipated that there would be a tremendous increase in import and export in Pakistan once the port was completed, but such a time never came.
After a while, our launch headed out again towards the Sundarbans, drifting above the hefty sea waves. This was my first experience of traveling by sea and I was thoroughly enjoying it. Far away on the horizon, after journeying the entire day, we watched as the sun prepared to set. Though the Sundarbans was still quite far, it appeared like a thin black line, and it seemed a naturally exotic place. The entire jungle was submerged in the sea as the water channels snaked their way throughout. As we neared our location, smaller streams (or ‘sea roads’) and trees came into view. We could see small boats and the Bengalis were gathering a special kind of plant from the jungle. According to our local companions, it was common for these Bengalis to be killed by tigers but this was their livelihood and they had no choice. These plants were used for making huts, and they could not give up this essential commodity.
The captain of our launch took us to the area where the laborers were cutting down trees for the paper mill; they would make bundles of wood from the felled trees and then transport the wood to the mill in Khulna. When the laborers saw us, they gathered around. Even we were happy to be around people at last after traveling across and seeing only water for so long. Once we got off the launch, it was not just difficult to walk through the jungle, it was almost impossible. We came across another miracle of God. For the very first time, I saw the roots of the trees actually pointing upwards like sharp thorns, making it difficult to walk on them. Only the laborers were brave enough and familiar enough with this environment to attempt to walk here. The sun had not yet set when the launch master took us to a place where crocodiles were known to be in abundance. However, that particular evening only God knows where they were hiding, and we saw hardly any.
We had not yet actually entered the Sundarbans and were still on the jungle periphery. The sun was also setting now as we followed a small water road and went deeper into the Sundarbans. Animals, especially monkeys, began to yelp and swing from tree to tree because of the noise our launch made. This part of the jungle was also taken over by thorny tree roots. Though the sun had not yet completely set, this part of the jungle was darker. There were a few beautiful deer standing at one edge, just staring back at us.
launch master informed us were first class rooms. In comparison to the paper mill launch I had travelled on to the Sundarbans, this one was more like a joke. The lower portion of the launch was crowded and had a pungent smell of fish – we escaped from it to our rooms, only to be confronted by mosquitoes and overpowering heat.
The launch traveled through the night and my journey was only made bearable because of the company of Major Tarar. Journeying through the night over sea was still a new experience for me. The launch would often stop to pick up new passengers and drop off others and this made the journey even longer than it was. The launch reached Barisal in the morning, where I learned that my battalion had already left for the disaster areas. A jeep took me to the rest house where I met with a lieutenant who gave me further details of the tough situation. I stayed the night in the rest house in Barisal and joined my battalion in the disaster-affected areas the next morning.
Barisal had also been severely affected by the cyclone. It was largely populated by Hindus. There was only a single road that went to Faridpur and the rest of the transportation was over water. Though I was trying to catch up to my battalion, all the arrangements made for me made my journey quite comfortable.
3. The Disaster-affected Islands
They looked stunned, perhaps because a boat with an engine rarely travelled this deep into the jungle. The Bengali hunter traveling with us took full advantage of the moment and fired a few shots at the deer. One fell to the ground as the others galloped away to save their lives. Though the wounded deer was not too far from where our launch was, the thorny branches of the trees made it seem a daunting task to bring the deer to the launch. But the Bengalis used their expertise and somehow managed. The hunter who had shot the deer tied a rope around its neck, dragged it onto the launch and then slit its throat. He then removed the skin of the deer and began to chop the meat into several pieces before handing them over to our chef.
It was now completely dark as the sun had set and the launch’s generator was started to light it up against the dark night. Our launch now looked like a lighthouse in the middle of the deep jungle, and the sounds of the animals became fainter, perhaps because night was falling. Our chef had also caught some fish on the way over and, paired with the deer, it made a mouthwatering meal for us in the middle of a jungle. We were also exhausted from the journey and were starving. I still remember tasting the meat curry made from the deer meat, the hot chapattis and the appetizing fish. We ate until we had our fill, had a hot cup of tea on the deck and later went to our rooms to sleep. Our Bengali friends were to guard the launch at night. Despite being told that the tigers of the Sundarbans were far away from where we were, there was still the danger from other jungle animals. We slept free of worry. In my room I offered the Isha namaz and asked God for forgiveness for not fasting and praying.
I was the first to wake the next day. I came out on the deck and was startled when I could see nothing beyond our launch; it felt like we were traveling above clouds up in the sky. I could not see the jungle, or the water – nothing. I stared at this sight like an amazed fool but soon realized that we were surrounded by a thick layer of fog that had reduced visibility. I performed my ablutions and offered my namaz though I had no idea of the direction of Mecca. The fog slowly began to dissipate as the sun’s rays penetrated, the trees and the water reappeared, and with them the sounds of the different jungle animals. All of this was so soothing for both my eyes and ears. I felt something profound within my soul as I witnessed such a wonder of God; nothing could surpass watching a morning emerge from within a jungle rising above the sea. The night in the Sundarbans became a memorable one for me, the scene of the fog slowly disappearing and the sound of the jungle animals welcoming the morning will always remain etched in my memory.
By this time, everyone was awake and out on the deck. The chef whipped up a delicious breakfast for us: omelets, fried eggs, deer meat and parathas. We had a hot cup of tea after and began our journey back to Khulna, without stopping on the way this time.
When we reached the paper mill, I learned that my battalion had already left for Barisal, in the cycloneaffected area. My order to join them awaited me. Major Butt, his wife and the Bengali captain had to leave for Jessore and they did so after dropping me off at the Khulna jetty. Luckily a civilian launch was preparing to leave for Barisal the moment I got off at the jetty. Here I also came across Major Irshad Allah Tarar, a Baluch Regiment officer (Major Irshad Allah Tarar retired as a general). I was relieved to know I would not be traveling solo now. We were allotted two rooms on the second story of the launch, which the
On November 24h, 1970, I left to visit the disaster-affected islands in an official launch, accompanied by a few of my companions. My battalion had already arrived there. We had hardly left Barisal than the aftereffects of the cyclone began to reveal themselves: small streams and rivers were displaced from their original routes, tiny villages were completely wiped out and people were busy rebuilding their reed huts. Only an expert could negotiate such a large launch through an area so devastated. The torment was etched deep on the faces of the people living there and the air was stagnant and deathly still.
Late in the afternoon, we arrived at Bhola city after witnessing the distressing impact of the cyclone our entire journey. Bhola city was the worst hit. My battalion was in town and I was rather relieved to meet them since I had been on my own for the past several days. The civil administration was also in the town, including the DC, SP and officers from the electric and telephone departments. Later that day, our CO arrived after meeting with the commissioner and called us all for a meeting where we were assigned specific roles and responsibilities. Though the major parts of the town, including houses and transportation facilities, had been completely destroyed, some damaged buses and trucks that had survived were allocated to us so we could ensure their occupants’ safe departure off the island. Though we were traveling with just our personal arms, ammunition and luggage, it was almost impossible for us to cover much ground on foot. My company was also provided with transport and, after we had our meals, the jawaans and I left for the disaster areas. The cyclone had destroyed practically all the roads and it was impossible to move around without the help of a local guide. I came across a few local guides and with their assistance we headed out for the town.
Our destination was the Tazumuddin police station area, located deep in the south and one of the areas
severely affected. It was clear that the natural disaster had spared nothing in its path – not only were the trees ripped apart, broken and bent, the entire ecology had been changed. Burnt grass, twisted trees ripped of their foliage, devastated towns and bhasas – it was a most dreadful sight. The place was enveloped by the terrible stench of human and animal corpses strewn everywhere. This was the first time that I had experienced such a harrowing sight and smell, but I had to continue on my journey with patriotic fortitude. On our way we reached the bari of Daulatpur before sunset – no bhasa or reed hut was left standing. Every bhasa had been completely demolished and the few residents who had survived sat among the remnants of their life and homes. Overwhelmed and consumed by dread, the uncertainty and the horror were stark on their worn-out faces.
As we approached the area, people began surrounding us. They were desperately lacking clean drinking water and fresh food, the thirst and hunger driving them to the brink of insanity. We were carrying clean drinking water in jerry cans and a decent amount of rations. So, before we began asking them about their sad and painful stories, I ordered my senior Subaydar Sahib to start the lungar and provide the survivors with water and food without delay. The group of people was served a hot meal. They were overjoyed at the sight of drinking water and fresh food, and we took unimaginable pleasure from seeing the distraught expressions on our fellow citizens’ faces being replaced with a little hope and comfort.
Once the meal was over, the survivors began sharing their distressing stories with us. I do not possess the heart in me, nor the courage, nor even the skill to put those stories down on paper in words. Extended families had been lost forever in this disaster. The ones who survived had nowhere left to live, they longed for their own death now that they had lost everything that held any value for them. Only God knows where their families were carried away to by the sea. The survivors were huddled together under shelters made from torn and threadbare clothes. Though our job demanded that we move on, the stories left us so deeply troubled that we could not find it in ourselves to leave them alone that night. We helped set them up for the night and served them all a hot cup of tea. In the morning, we gave them as good a breakfast as possible: puris. But it was the morning that revealed to us the true extent of their misfortune. The daylight exposed the havoc wreaked by the storm, the half-naked bodies of the survivors and their haunted faces.
Once we were done, we left for Tazumuddin. After our visit here, we thought we could not expect a worse scenario, but we were proven wrong as we arrived at Tazumuddin. I was reminded of my childhood stories of djinns destroying towns, where no living thing could be seen for miles, the handful of people who had survived, were moving around the barren land like zombies. Our guides, who were from amongst the locals, informed us that the area had once been a populated one, but now we seldom came across a human being. We traveled and observed this for three hours, after which we finally arrived at our destination. Some civil administrators, the tehsildar and the police were here. Although some concrete buildings were left, their windows and doors had been torn out by the sea leaving only the walls and ceilings still intact. I ordered my company to take up residence in a similar building to ensure their safety – a school building. Once we were settled I met with the civil administrators to find out more of the actual details of the storm but no amount of information I received was less gruesome than what I could see. To
make matters worse, the aid assistance was being badly mismanaged. Pure drinking water was unavailable apart from a few hand pumps that provided water fit enough to drink.
The aid coming in was stored inside a large shed and I gave charge of the aid to my jawaans. Though the civil officers disapproved of this decision, we had to take initiatives that we deemed best given the situation and the civil officers had to follow my instructions. I was informed that once the same building had been surrounded by trees but now there was nothing but a handful of betel trees that were dry and lifeless amidst all the damage. Some bushes were still clinging to the betel trees and it was this that gave us a rough idea of the intensity of the storm. Based on what we observed, we arrived at a rough estimation that the sea tides that had entered the island powered by strong winds were possibly more than 20 feet high. Given the damage, it was not a difficult task for us to imagine the manner in which the cyclone must have struck
The very next day we received more aid from the air and sea terminals, and the quantities were truly amazing. Countries from all over the world had sent aid for our brothers and sisters: blankets, shoes, tents, canned food, tea, rice, milk, kerosene oil and several other minor and major items. We were especially pleased at the welcomed arrival of a few doctors and nurses sent by the Red Cross from various countries. Despite it being Ramazan, we were ready to put in our best efforts. I divided my company into smaller groups, and appointed the doctors and the nurses to accompany our jawaans who were picking up the survivors still stranded along the coast. The Red Cross team was sent to give them the necessary medical protocol and care.
The disaster experienced here cannot be put down in words. The survivors, though alive, were nowhere near being in a normal state, and it was inevitable that all of them were going through acute mental and physical stress. I saw, for the first time, that the foreign doctors were treating even the deepest wounds simply with Dettol, an antiseptic solution. I was even more amazed to see that these same wounds that seemed horrendous would begin to heal in just a few days as a result of the same solution. It was then I realized the importance of Dettol and of self-healing.
During this holy month of Ramazan, while fasting, my jawaans would set off early in the morning with rations, clothing and aid balanced on their heads, to visit every house and assist the survivors that had been left behind. They were providing these people with basic items to sustain their daily life as far as possible. Before we arrived, the civil administration would organize an event, making the survivors stand in a queue and handing out some rations to each person. How could these people, who were hungry and distraught after surviving such a terrible storm, be expected to live through the day if they had to travel and stand in line and wait for aid? This is why the way we managed the aid encouraged the survivors. Not only did they commend the efforts of the Pakistan Army, the will to live began to flicker in them again. The satisfaction and contentment we felt in helping them is impossible to explain, especially when we saw their happy faces, and felt their respect and love. We were not concerned with helping Hindus or Muslims, we helped everyone in the same spirit and with a single motto: to better the lives of our fellow citizens. Although the majority of the population was Hindu, the service we gave was free of any kind of
discrimination. I believe this was the very first time the locals saw the true tolerance and significance of the Pakistan Army.
The entire location was strewn with human and animal corpses, and the naked dead bodies of men, women, children, young and old, lined the streams and rivers where the water flowed comparatively slower, and it was almost as if the bodies had been carefully placed there. The bodies were now decomposing and the putrefying odor hung over the land, a stench that would eventually lead to various diseases if not dealt with, an issue that the civil administration carelessly ignored. I therefore ordered my jawaans to begin burying the bodies wherever they found space. There were far too many bodies for them to bury which is why I tried to enlist the people who had now started coming in from far-off areas for aid. I advised and urged them to help my jawaans in the burials, but they flatly refused with the excuse that the bodies did not belong to their relatives. I was disappointed and shocked by such a response and informed these people that the bodies were also not the relatives of the jawaans of the Pakistani Army, and yet they were busy in burying them.
Then there were the people who would come for aid in neat and tidy clothes. They clearly did not appear to be in need of the aid. The clothing was always a clear demarcation between a survivor and an ordinary person, and their expressions were comparatively calm. Our suspicion was later proven right. They were not the survivors of the storm, rather they belonged to the educated and well-fed class of Dhaka, with doctoral and professorial backgrounds. Upon hearing of the free aid, they came to us with false sob stories that their relatives had been affected by the cyclone. It was distressing that these people were unwilling to assist the army in ridding the area of the smell and dead bodies, but they were willing to take the aid from the people who deserved it. My anger got the better of me in one such situation and I informed these avaricious and callous individuals that, as long as I was on duty there, they would not be given a single scrap of aid.
On the one hand, the army was ceaselessly burying the dead bodies and helping the survivors, providing them with aid day in, day out, while diligently fasting during the holy month. On the other hand, the selfish and quisling Bengali leaders were busy conspiring against West Pakistan, especially the Punjabis. Apart from just a few volunteers from JI, no political worker from East or West Pakistan, sent by or from any political party, was at the site to help these poor people. Rather, this was an open opportunity to incite more hatred between the people of East and West Pakistan. Moulana Bhashani, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and other Bengali leaders were persistently making statements against West Pakistan, all the while the soldiers of the Pakistan Army were helping their Bengali brothers and sisters.
The aid arrived in such overwhelming quantities that all of our sheds were eventually filled with it. The faith and intentions of the civil administrators was called into question when they saw uncountable ration packages arriving unremittingly. It was the army that ensured the complete safety of the rations, guaranteeing that they were given only to those who were truly suffering and in need of help. It was utterly disheartening when we found out that once we had departed from the area, all the aid packages were stolen and the fancy blankets along with other more posh items were sold as far away as the markets in
in Calcutta. Not only were these people cruel to their own Bengali brothers, they were pointing their thieving fingers at the Punjabis and blaming them. I did the best I could to fully explain this dreadful situation to our brothers and sisters. I would gather the locals and inform them that the men assisting them in survival and caring for them endlessly were people from places like Lahore, Gujarat, Jhelum and Rawalpindi. I told the locals that the army helped the survivors because their hearts were filled with nationalism. I also informed them that the propaganda of the Bengali leaders was being wrongfully administered; the brothers of West Pakistan were not the enemies. I do not know to what extent I was successful in conveying the message I wanted but I was hopeful that my attempt might lessen the hatred, even though it might not eliminate it. I am still honored to have performed my national duty alongside the army, the duty of helping them.
As I said earlier, it is unbearable to write the justiciable details of the disaster we witnessed. Sometimes I could not help but feel that the kind of disaster we faced might have been the result of our own wrongdoings. If not that, what other reason would there be for us to face such a catastrophic time? It takes a strong heart to witness human bodies being dishonored and disrespected because of such a disaster. I could never have imagined that I would ever witness such a thing; it was like a nightmare. However, the frightening sensation still lives with me and lingers on. It is difficult enough to face just a single corpse lying naked beside a stream; I had to witness thousands of such corpses ranging from men to women, from old people to children. In those days and even now it seems like nothing but a nightmare, a forgotten story that God made sinners like us witness in the land of Bhola.
We only had a few days to devote to the privilege of serving the suffering people because our main responsibility was the election duty. So we handed over all the aid along with other responsibilities to the civil administration and returned to the city, where we had to take a launch and leave for Barisal. By the time we departed, the conditions of the locals seemed to be improving. The remainder of my battalion had already left for Barisal with our Co, and jeeps and trucks were waiting our arrival at the Barisal jetty. I reported our safe return to our CO who was at the rest house, and my company spent the night cleaning their arms and ammunition. However, since it was my first evening in Barisal, I went out into the town with one of my fellow officers.
Everyone seemed so engrossed and busy with their daily routines that it felt almost as if no one cared about the tragedy that had consumed another part of the country. The theaters were overcrowded and people gambled and drank their nights away, the Hindus, Muslims, local officers and the businessmen completely involved in their gossiping and chatting. It felt like we were the only people the disaster had had any impact on. I hadn’t expected the people to show such selfishness. Although Barisal was a Hindu majority city, it was both the Hindus and the Muslims who were tragically affected by the disaster elsewhere, yet no one seemed to care.
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4. 1970 – The so-called ‘Free and Fair’ Elections
Our Battalion stayed in Barisal for two or three days, during which time we were informed of our election responsibilities. It was also during this time that I was able to visit the Zillah of Barisal after our CO Sahib described all the details with maps. Barisal was a Hindu majority area in the south of East Pakistan with only a single dry road running along Faridpur. All other transportation was over water. I was assigned the Police Station of Gournadi which was on the Faridpur road, just a few miles away from Barisal. One had to cross a few streams in a launch just to get to my assigned location.
Early in the morning, in the last week of November 1970, my company and I left for Gournadi. We crossed the streams in a launch, with our jeeps on board, and reached Gournadi within a few hours. My company was billeted in a school building, since the schools had been shut down during the elections, and I set up my HQ in a veterinary hospital building nearby. The entire area was lush green and absolutely breathtaking. The local population that I came across looked well-off, well-dressed and content with their lives, or perhaps they only seemed this way to us because recently all we had seen were people living in the disaster-stricken areas. Gournadi had a girls’ and a boys’ high school and a government college. East Pakistan had comparatively few roads, but it seemed that where there were roads, people were well-off.
A massive Hindu temple was located here too, famous for its yearly Hindu rituals and puja. There was also a large Christian missionary being run by a foreign lady. Right in front of my headquarters was a movie theater and, though the power was out in Gournadi, the theater was kept running with a generator. Luckily, this generator supplied enough power for our surroundings as well.
Upon our arrival we were joined by the SHO, a magistrate on election duty and a security inspector. With them I discussed the overall conditions of the local residents, important details about the town, the extent of the population and the number of polling stations that were located in the vicinity.
Sheikh Mujibur Rehman also belonged to that area and was not too far from where we were. I also came across another Mujibur Rehman, a candidate of the National Assembly belonging to the AL; he seemed well-mannered, nice and rather civilized. The area itself appeared to be the residence of peaceful and cultured families, apart from just a few criminals whose names were available with the SHO. The Hindu families residing here also seemed educated, smart and shrewd and the SHO spoke very highly of the local population, though I reserved judgment. After talking to the civil servants, I learnt that they never really considered it an issue being non-Muslim; they were peaceful people and considered themselves true Pakistanis. Knowing that nothing I could say would make any difference, I listened to them but said nothing. That night the SHO invited me over to his place for dinner but I had to excuse myself as I had already made other arrangements.
On December 4″, 54 and 6″, the police inspector, the magistrate and I began inspecting the polling stations. After scrutiny, the arrangements and everything in respect to the stations seemed to me to be in order. Each time we visited the polling stations we would call out the local population, urging and pleading with them to remain peaceful, and encouraging them to continue cooperating with us. Though I noticed something strange – each polling station was under the control of a non-Muslim. Nevertheless, I met with my juniors and explained to them in thorough detail what their responsibilities would be during
the elections, urging them to follow the instructions to the letter.
On December 5h a local postmaster, a Muslim, visited me along with the SHO and invited me to his daughter’s wedding. I was not keen to attend the function but, along with my Subaydar Sahib, was forced to accept the invitation as he was very insistent. Later that night, I went with the SHO and witnessed firsthand the traditional wedding rituals of the area. The postmaster seemed highly satisfied with the arrangements. I remained there for a while with the Subaydar Sahib, gave the bride her salaami and returned home. The way the women had covered themselves up at the wedding was something that pleased me very much as the local women generally did not seem to care about the way they dressed, let alone how well they covered themselves. I will admit, though, that the reason we left the wedding early was because of all the attention we were getting. People seemed more interested in us than in the bride and groom, and this was not fair to the newlyweds on their special day. The SHO insisted that we should stay for dinner, but we had to return and had dinner in the HQ.
As I mentioned earlier, though the majority of Gournadi was dominated by non-Muslims and was a central stronghold of the AL, the enormous banners of the PML and the JI gave us the impression that even they had a lot of support from these areas; the banners of JI were particularly prominent. It was certain though that the victor would be from amongst the AL as they had almost one hundred percent support from the non-Muslim population in East Pakistan, and, of course, they were backed by the people in India also. Unlike the aggressive followers of the other political parties, the supporters of the PML seemed like dignified people; their timid people would often approach me with complaints regarding the intimidation of the AL supporters. It was anticipated even by the SHO and the security inspector that the supporters of the AL might get uncontrollably aggressive during the actual elections. In order to give them some peace of mind, I instructed the security inspector to make a list of the individuals he feared would resort to severe aggression during the elections. Once the list was formulated, I ordered these individuals to temporarily be placed behind bars on December the 66. I called together all the student leaders, guaranteed my support and advised them to maintain law and order during the elections, while also warning them of the grim consequences of any unlawful disturbances; each student leader assured me of their cooperation. I could not control all the polling stations given that we were so few in number, so I made up a number of mobile squads and allotted them certain areas. I instructed them to immediately inform me over the wireless in case of insurgency or disruption of law and order. I also ensured that I was assisted by a squad big enough to control law and order during anticipated emergencies, and I ordered a few jawaans to guard some polling stations that were in particularly sensitive positions. Due to my arrangements and frequent reconnaissance and warnings, I believe it became clear to everyone that no aggression, terrorist act, destruction of property or breaking of law and order would be tolerated.
On December 7, before the polling began, I conducted frequent surveys of the area. I was well aware of the fact that I could not inspect or control the entire area on my own, but I still wanted to do the best I could. Thanks to God, the day ended peacefully; I was especially grateful to the student leaders as they kept their promises and cooperated with us fully. Despite their cooperation, however, the supporters of
the AL behaved as we feared; they assaulted the supporters of the other parties and rigged the voting to the extent that their relatives came in from India just to cast votes. I kept track of the whereabouts of the troublemakers, and I frequently updated the HQ on the actions of the AL supporters, but was ordered not to intervene and let the rigging go on. I was told that, regardless of the circumstances, the elections had to be completed. We were particularly ordered not to get involved with the incidents occurring inside the polling stations; our job was to maintain stability outside.
And thus, the so-called ‘fairest and freest elections in the history of Pakistan’ were accomplished. At several locations I was met with distressed and weeping villagers who recounted how when they went to vote, their votes had already been cast. Despite knowing who did it, we were ordered to do absolutely nothing about the matter. I do not know how the elections took place in West Pakistan, but what I witnessed in East Pakistan cannot be declared as rightful, free and fair casting of votes. It is indisputable that Indian citizens came to help the AL, assisted the supporters and, alongside the non-Muslim polling officers, carried out massive rigging openly and without fear. Though this made it obvious that the AL would achieve the maximum number of votes, it was truly surprising to learn of the number of votes the other parties managed to achieve. Our claims and the constant complaints made by the supporters of the other political parties remained unheard and, at the end of the elections, General Yahya Khan declared them to be ‘the fairest and the freest in Pakistan’s history’.
After the announcement of the unofficial results, the MNA Mujibur Rehman came to me, hugged me and congratulated me after his victory. I congratulated him as well. Any rally or procession was still prohibited and I warned him regarding this. I advised them all to celebrate in a civilized manner and to remain indoors with their supporters.
At around 2300 hours I heard a group of people chanting with joy in front of our HQ. Although the procession might have been an unplanned one, it was still a large crowd and against the security policies so, to further assess the situation, I sent my hawaldaar to see who the group of people was representing. I was astonished to hear that they were the supporters of the AL and were chanting “Jay Bharat, Jay Indira.” The incident so disturbed me that I was inclined to take extreme action, but instead I tolerated it to maintain stability. However, I anticipated calamity and anarchy in the future. I was dismayed and could only wonder how much damage the Pakistani brothers’ chants for India would cause to the land. Nonetheless, I sent some of my jawaans to stop the chanting. I called the MNA and yelled at him for breaking his promise. He apologized and promised that it would not happen again. Though our aim was discipline and order, all I wanted to do was rip out the tongues of the people chanting for and praising the enemy. The Bengali brothers had now made their future plans obvious to us and, had our rulers even realized the sensitivity of the situation at that time, the forthcoming disaster might not have been so atrocious.
On December 84, I received orders from the Battalion that I needed to send back one of my platoons to help the disaster-stricken areas. We, the visitors from West Pakistan, were distraught over the situation of the cyclone survivors but our Bengali bhais were too busy celebrating their success in the elections. I was
ordered to remain on duty in Gournadi for the provincial elections that were to be held in the next couple of days, and I decided to utilize that time in learning more about East Pakistan’s political situation. Each morning I was visited by the SHO and the security officer who would report to me that the situation was “All good!” but I decided to inspect the area myself assisted by the magistrate and the security officer to get first-hand information directly from the local population.
Every day at dawn we would head out in a different direction. The difference in the lifestyle, clothing and demeanor between the non-Muslims and the Muslims was apparent. Muslim men wore caps and the women would be completely covered by their saris. Non-Muslim women never seemed to care when it came to covering the more sensitive parts of their bodies, and they wore saris without a blouse, exposing their bellies and chest. While passing through the bari, I witnessed how the working women would often be topless with their pallu trailing on the ground; it seemed that exposing the most sensitive and erotic part of a female body was not a big deal for them. This was an entirely new ordeal for me. Sometimes our path was too narrow or we had to avoid standing water, which necessitated crossing through the area very close to the bari. Being forced to see the topless women up close, I became so curious about it that eventually I asked the magistrate why these women never seemed to bother about covering their breasts. The magistrate responded by saying “This is how it is, sir.”
As I mentioned earlier, I was residing in a veterinary hospital, and this place also had an indoor badminton court. At my request, I was also introduced by the SHO to a college lecturer there, as I wanted to learn more of the art, literature and culture of East Pakistan from him. The lecturer was fluent in Urdu and considered his English to be ‘exceptionally well’. One evening he sat before me as I performed my ablutions before prayer. I switched the lanterns on as the sun was setting and, upon seeing this, the professor sahib exclaimed “Oh God! You have litten’ the light?” I laughed out loud.
One day, I asked the professor to play badminton with me in the evenings as it would give me a chance to increase my daily physical activity. The professor offered to introduce me to one of his friends who was a decent badminton player. As a result I met with a slender and dark-skinned young man, though I have forgotten his name now. I remember him introducing himself to me as an Islamiyat teacher in the girls’ high school. I was completely taken aback at the idea of a non-Muslim male teaching Islamiyat in a girls’ high school; it was appalling. Professor Sahib told me that no Muslim teacher was available to teach Islamiyat to the girls. To make matters worse, even the Arabic teacher was a non-Muslim. No matter how bizarre these incidents were, they were in fact the raw truth of East Pakistan. Such was the planning, rationale, and perhaps even the belle négligence of our Education Ministry. Upon reading this, some might suppose that this recollection of mine is fictitious. Sadly, however, this was indeed the sorry state of affairs in East Pakistan.
Returning to the story, the dark-skinned, slender young man who was to play badminton with me was indeed a good sportsman; he also informed me that he was in charge of the female physical education at the high school and head of the sports department. Needless to say, I only played badminton with him for a few days as it became impossible for me to tolerate him. I was uneasy and wanted to ask why the schools
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could not hire a Muslim teacher for religious education in a girls’ high school. Though the schools had been closed for the elections I was informed that the headmistress resided within the school building. I understood the woman to be married and living with her family but later realized that she was single and living alone. I wanted to meet with her and discuss my concerns. I was aware that it was not my legal obligation to ask such a personal question but I also believed that it was my land, they were my people and I had a moral, if not a legal, obligation to question the matter.
One evening I visited the school to meet with the headmistress. Her room was on the upper story of the school, where she invited me into her bedroom. I was convinced that I would face more surprises and perhaps more regret. As I stepped inside the room, I saw an extremely attractive young woman sitting next to the same Islamiyat teacher. It goes without saying how a patriot like me felt in that very instant: an unmarried Muslim teacher was alone in her bedroom with a non-Muslim youngster. Without hesitation, she began to converse with me, informing me that her parents resided in Barisal and, though she could live with them, she found the lifestyle boring and had grown emotionally attached to the school. She also made it very clear that her time here was made less boring by the Islamiyat teacher. I am certain that the intellectual readers of this book would claim that this was her personal choice, but I was fuming. I suggested to her that since the schools had been closed due to the elections and she was off duty, she should perhaps return to her parents for the time being. I could not bring myself to speak to the teacher, nor did he make any attempt to interact with me. She did, however, go to Barisal later. I developed a dislike for that teacher from that point forward and I am rather glad I never got to see him again. It was only later that I learnt that the headmistress was a rather famous ‘character’ in Gournadi.
The reason for dwelling upon this incident for this long is simply my incredulity: how was such a thing possible in Pakistan? And when our seeds turn into big trees and start bearing ‘fruit, all the intellectuals are surprised? Were we ill-prepared to take over a nation? Such was the aloofness of our Bengali brothers and the utter carelessness of our government.
The way the East Pakistanis lived was also strange to me. I believe many people might already know that in East Pakistan, the homes and houses were called bhasa and the small towns and dwellings were called bari. There were prominent differences between the non-Muslim and Muslim baris. Even the smallest of all the baris fulfilled all the essential requirements; it would often consist of a large pond surrounded by three or more bhasas. The pond would almost always be surrounded by a few fruit trees such as betel, coconut, banana, lemon, mangoes and jamun, all of which were considered sufficient for the needs of the people living in the bari. Fish would be in abundance in the pond and a fishing net would hang down from one of the trees. The water was used for various purposes: bathing, washing clothes and vegetables, lentils, utensils et cetera. The Muslim baris were often far cleaner.
My room was located next to a pond across which was a non-Muslim bhasa surrounded by trees on all three sides, except for a small portion of the wall that was attached to the veterinary hospital. The window of my room opened directly on to the pond and what I observed could be considered their typical culture and civilization. In some comparatively better areas, hand-pumps were used to provide clean water but in
most parts, the water from the pond was used for drinking and cooking.
The clothes of the residents were enough to tell whether they belonged to a well-off bari or a poor one. I noticed how there was always someone at the pond, either women washing vegetables or clothes, or men bathing. I saw a particular group of girls there. I am still shocked at how they seemed to know each time I entered my room, but whenever I did they would find their way to the pond. Cavorting around the pool of stagnant water, they laughed and teased one another. A few amongst them were rather attractive and pretty and often louder than the others. They would pull off the pallu of the other girls’ saris to reveal them and, surprisingly, while doing this they would always stare at my window. This particular activity was generally performed in the afternoon as there were fewer people around and their men would be away at work. Being a normal and hormonal young man, I would enjoy the sight: they would often get completely naked and splash around in the water, or they would swim like fish and rise up out of the water with their bosoms up, teasing the others.
One fine day, these young girls were at play again as I sat with the professor sahib. Despite having rather enjoyed the sight before, I felt compelled to ask the professor why and how these girls were so comfortable in revealing themselves out in the open like this. The professor smiled and, “Shir (Sir), you are a very innocent man. This is not new for these women; they simply do all of this to attract your attention.” The professor also suggested that I could have any one of the girls up in my room without a problem. My response was instinctive and I conveyed my aversion to this. I know I enjoyed the stimulating show the girls would put on but I was driven by morals. The professor seemed very surprised by my response. He tried to persuade me that all is fair and just when one is young. I, however, admitted that I was a rather weak man who could only belong to his wife. I would often put down the shutter of my window to pray but other times I would watch and enjoy the scene. Even my jawaans found a way to enjoy the sight.
One day the SHO and a Hindu feudal lord came to invite me over for dinner. They were going to celebrate the harvest of the rice crops in a traditional festival. I accepted, hoping to observe the elite Hindus first-hand now that I had seen their other classes up close. The large Hindu temple I had mentioned earlier was located right next to the residence of the feudal lord. In fact he was in charge of maintaining the temple, and it was also the first time I had visited one. The feudal lord had also invited all his sons and daughters to the dinner, all of whom held very respectable posts all over East Pakistan. I left for their house accompanied by the SHO and my Subaydar Sahib. The temple displayed several of the Hindu gods; some possessed several heads and arms, some smiled blankly, some seemed enraged, some held a sword and some a spear, some held a trident, some a man’s head and some a lion’s. The Hindus were similar to their gods; they varied in their moods. The Hindu feudal lord was waiting outside his house to welcome us. He took us inside a large room to a massive takht-posh surrounded by small, round pillows. We all sat down just as the family members began to arrive. I have forgotten the feudal lord’s name. One of his sons was a doctor, another son a lawyer and one an engineer; all married, they entered
the large room one after the other along with their wives. They greeted me in their traditional Hindu way, touched my feet and sat down.
Several of his married and unmarried daughters also joined us and soon the room looked like Raja Inder’s palace. At a signal from the feudal lord, each girl would stand up and begin to sing and dance gracefully. Though the songs were Bengali, music and dance has no language and, despite not understanding what the lyrics of the songs meant, I enjoyed the entertainment. After a while, however, it became rather dull and all I wanted to do was return to my room. I tried to excuse myself but was forced to remain as dinner had not yet been served. Soon, however, the dishes were brought out; there were plenty of them and somehow all incorporated rice. I could not eat all the dishes but did taste all the desserts. I was informed that they had all been made by the feudal lord’s daughter-in-laws who sat across the room covered in jewels. It was a rather opulent Hindu household where the head of the family enjoyed entertaining as the women danced and sang to the guests. I believe it was then that I realized no Hindu function would ever be complete without dance. Music, dance and songs were all an inherent part of their culture, something they were very proud of. Eventually, I quietly excused myself and left.
For several days I would sit with the professor sahib, magistrate and SHO and discuss with them the Islamic culture, the traditions, God, His Prophet and His sayings. It was truly disheartening that even as Muslims they were more inspired by the liberal Hindu culture, though they would listen to me considerately. It was also obvious that their hearts held a brooding hostility towards West Pakistan. There can be no stronger weapon than immorality to use against Muslims. Even today, our younger generation has completely forgotten the wretched reality of the fall of Dhaka and blindly follows the Indian culture, with a weakness for erotic Bollywood films and half-naked women dancing onscreen. This was the moral downfall of the young generation of East Pakistan, the birthplace of the All India Muslim League.
It was this that made me despair over the incompetence and negligence of our rulers who remained concerned only with their power. What happened in 1971 was inevitable as today the Pakistani television and media portrays the same culture as the Indian media; the concept of ‘media’ has been reduced to singing and dancing. As this continues in Pakistan, people remain oblivious with their heads buried in the sand. Only God knows how much more we had to tolerate after the disaster of 1971. The fall of East Pakistan was no surprise; the seeds had been sown years in advance by our devious enemies. But it saddens me to have known the carelessness and abjuration of our rulers; if they could have anticipated the destruction and anarchy, then the fall of East Pakistan could have been avoided. As the old saying goes, “the cat doesn’t run away if the pigeon’s eyes are closed, she grabs the head of the pigeon.”
The way in which young girls in the educational institutions of East Pakistan were influenced back then continues to prevail now. Our present day generation cannot differentiate between right and wrong, music and dancing is proudly advocated as art amongst the elitist and respectable families of the country, and the expensive and ‘prestigious’ institutions are training young people in professional dance and music in the name of arts and culture, diminishing the presence of Islamic culture, art, literature and history. Parents no longer care whether their children pray or not, or if they follow the Islamic traditions or not.
Instead, parents lose sleep to ensure the success of their children in a music and dance competition. Do not get me wrong – I am not idly maligning people here. I am simply mentioning the things I witnessed and recounting my own experiences. The roots of Islamic culture were being gnawed away and our leaders, eyes closed, allowed it. The same thing continues to happen now and it always takes me back to the time I spent in East Pakistan as I realize how, even today, the people responsible seem not to care at all. The rulers in the past were not sincere enough to address such matters, nor are the present rulers willing to open their eyes. They are all talk, but their character and practices speak otherwise. I know I have let myself be carried away by my emotions while writing my memoir of East Pakistan. If my younger generation were ever to get a chance to read this, they would think me a conservative and old fashioned man. Some might even issue a fatwa on the basis that I am an illiterate man, one who should be loathed, or someone who is spreading hatred, but after what I observed in East Pakistan, I don’t care if someone makes such rash judgments about me. The sole purpose of this is to learn from history so that it does not repeat itself.
Returning to the 1970 elections in East Pakistan, I would frequently discuss the realities and my concerns, the ones I mentioned above, with the professor sahib and other people. God only knows what they thought, perhaps that I was either foolish or just unwise. To me, however, it seemed as if they respected my emotions, even if they did not understand them.
The ambivalence of the Bengali jawaans, with the different undertones of conversations, was also a concern for me. After Gournadi, towards Faridpur, was a town by the name of Madaripur. One of my colleagues had been temporarily posted there. One day, I visited the place for a meeting with a few other army officers. We had lunch and somehow ended up discussing the present election scenario in East Pakistan. One of my Bengali friends, Captain Lushkar, asked me, “Sir, how would you feel if I became a brigadier after the elections and you remained a major?” I could not ignore his provoking question; I was astonished and sad at the same time by such a remark. He continued asserting how the Bengalis would not be deprived of their rights and would replace their seniors after being promoted. The tactics of the Bengalis were slowly being revealed to me.
By December 171, 1970, I had seen most of Gournadi on foot. I had become well aware of the lifestyle and cultural difference between the Bengali Hindus and Muslims. One day a Bengali captain from the Baluch Regiment visited me. He had returned from West Pakistan and was on his annual leave and very cheerful. He told me he was now tired of taking showers and bathing in bath tubs – his home was located near Gournadi and he missed swimming in the ponds. I was surprised that they frowned upon the orderliness in West Pakistan and did not appreciate its clean atmosphere but enjoyed taking a dip in the ponds of East Pakistan.
At last, the provincial elections came to an end and the AL got an extraordinary victory. When the law and order situation improved over the next few days, I was ordered to return to Barisal with the rest of my company. I received a depressing order when I reached there – I was permanently posted from the Baluch Regiment to the Bengal Regiment. The Bengal Regiment was also a part of the Pakistan Army but I had a
PART II
WAR
1. 1971 – The Revolutionary Year. Return to East Pakistan
very long and strong affiliation with the Baluch Regiment; I could not imagine joining another Pakistan Army regiment. At the time, a new Bengali Battalion was being organized and the officers were being transferred to the new regiment from the Punjab, Frontier Force and Baluch Regiments. I thought I might be able to talk to the Senior Baluch Regiment officers when I returned but I knew that the orders in the army could not be rescinded. The battalion moved to the affected areas again and only the adjutant was left in Barisal along with a few jawaans and heavy equipment.
I got another opportunity to see the lifestyle of the locals of Barisal and, not surprisingly, I found an astonishing difference in the people. The West Pakistan people hated the non-Muslims and the people in East Pakistan followed an unrestrained lifestyle. I lived with the adjutant who was a lieutenant and I heard him talking on the phone several times. I was surprised at the sort of people he knew and speculated how the senior officers in my regiment could give such responsibilities to an inexperienced and immature junior officer; he was free and independent. Once I picked up the ringing phone and heard a woman’s voice on the other end. Before I could excuse myself or hang up the phone, she began talking rapidly and in an increasingly intimate way. Before I knew it, she was insisting on meeting me and developing a physical relationship with me as she was unhappy in her marriage. I was already planning on leaving Barisal in the next few days. You may call me a coward or whatever, but one night her calls got so frequent, I feared she would arrive at my door in the middle of the night. Driven by this fear, I took the jeep and left for Madaripur. There I met with Major Baig and told him of my dilemma. He listened with concern and surprise, but also laughed and teased me. I stayed with him and the next day I left for Dhaka on a launch.
We spent the entire day there walking around the city. We saw the area around Moti Masjid and the Bait-ul-Mukaram Masjid. I also shopped a little for my kids. The atmosphere was calm after the elections and the AL workers were very pleased and satisfied. However, there were still banners and flags of ML hanging across the ends of the streets.
On December 26″, 1970 at 1400 hours our PIA plane landed at Lahore airport. I felt a deep sense of satisfaction and calmness upon reaching Data ki Nagri. Apart from the allconsuming happiness of seeing my wife and kids again, I was thrilled to be back in the arms of Lahore. This is why they say: Lahore Lahore aaey.
I reported to my unit in Sialkot the very next day, while trying to bear the difficult parting from my parent Baluch Regiment. Once I reached my destination, I received the DO from the Colonel Commandant of the Bengal Regiment, General Wasi-Uddin. I also received several letters from other senior officers who congratulated me on joining their regiment. I, on the other hand, had to adjust to the new circumstances and reluctantly accept the change. I was ordered to report to the Bengal Regiment located in Chittagong in East Pakistan on March 271, 1971. The AL had already won the majority there, while the PPP had a majority victory in West Pakistan. However, it seemed that the PPP was not yet ready to take over the responsibility they had been given, whereas legally, logistically and technically speaking and as per the principles of democracy, AL was supposed to be the ruling party in Pakistan. It was apparent that the PPP was willingly giving up the wellbeing of its country simply to fulfill its own egotistic desires for power and authority.
The PPP leaders consisted of the characteristic feudal lords in their political party. They, along with the renowned womanizer, General Yahya Khan, created rather momentous and traumatic conditions for the country. As a result of this state of affairs, the hatred between East and West Pakistan became far more intense and the plans of the Indians seemed to be gaining impetus with each passing day. ‘Udhar Tum, Idhar Hum’ slogans were frequently heard in West Pakistan. Anyone who left for the Dhaka National Assembly meeting was threatened that their legs would be broken.’ Such life-threatening injustice shown by the leaders in West Pakistan presented the Indians with a golden opportunity, one they had impatiently been waiting for since Pakistan was first created in 1947. India took complete advantage of the greed shown by the vast majority of the Pakistani leaders in the West, and this also reinforced the conviction of our Bengali brothers that the people of West Pakistan hated them and were resistant towards treating them fairly and equally. Due to Bhutto’s greed and at his insistence, General Yahya postponed the General Assembly session multiple times, perhaps also because he was determined not to surrender his presidential position. As a result of these disputes, the Bengali brothers lost patience. They were in the vast majority and deserved to be the presiding party of Pakistan, and they couldn’t tolerate such injustice. In accordance with democratic ideology, justice and the generic framework set by General Yahya, if the elections had been ‘free and fair’ as he claimed, the AL was the deserving party. They should
the central government. Even General Yahya had accepted and claimed that Sheikh Mujibur Rahman would be the prime minister of Pakistan. But as a result of subjective avarice and Bhutto’s hunger for control and supremacy, paired with Yahya Khan’s ignorance and desire to retain his position as the head of the state of the country, India began sending thousands of insurgents and commandos into East Pakistan. They wanted to manipulate the Bengali citizens by offering them the help West Pakistan seemed uninterested in offering.
As a result of these calculating moves by the Indians and the witless indifference shown by the leaders of West Pakistan, East Pakistan became the massive slaughterhouse of Biharis and other non-Bengali Pakistanis. Their blood was being shed left, right and center in every major city and even in the areas where Bengalis were in the minority. Never before in our history had such slaughter and carnage been recorded. The locals completely disregarded the savagery of the Hindus and the Sikhs during the partition of 1947, and now the non-Bengali Pakistanis were being killed and raped. The Bengali Police, EPR and the Bengalis in the Pakistan Army joined forces. This blind and ruthless brutality and grisly holi seemed to have no impact on the avaricious leaders of West Pakistan; they made no effort to stop the bloodshed. The jawaans, the officers and their ‘unlucky’ families who were stationed in the Bengali regiments were not spared; they were not safe nor could their women be protected from rape.
It was a Genghis Khan storm that spared no one, and all historical, national and religious relationships were torn asunder. The Pakistan Army witnessed this spectacle of gruesome bloodshed with as much fortitude and bravery as they could muster. The Army was confined to Dhaka and other cantonments and they waited for some kind of intervention from the leaders of West Pakistan, but nothing ever seemed to happen. The entire situation could clearly have been controlled with an effective political solution but Yahya Khan remained mired in his greed, awaited a sign from the Quaid-e-Awam of West Pakistan and, upon receiving that, made yet another colossally fatal blunder.
On March 25″, 1971 the Pakistan Army was ordered to attack the city of Dhaka, as if it represented the enemy. This offensive acted like fuel on burning wood. The remaining Bengalis in favor of Pakistan set the seal by losing faith as well. The leader of West Pakistan made an announcement: “General Yahya has saved the country by giving the orders to attack Dhaka”. Paradoxically, the orders were given to save West Pakistan and not East Pakistan. He was very aware of the possibility the future held, the separation of the two meant one thing for him: he could fulfill his earnest wish to rule West Pakistan.
It was still not over and yet another mistake was made. Prior to the army action, the leaders of AL were left unmonitored. Apart from Prime Minister-elect Mujibur Rahman, all the leaders had managed to run to Calcutta in India, and stayed there with the complete support of the Indian government. The propaganda this mass fear and brutality created was certainly successful all over the world. It was broadcast that the AL had been deprived of accomplishing peaceful power based on their victory in the elections, and that their intellectual and cultured people were being murdered by the Pakistan Army. Not only did this vilify the Pakistan Army, the entire Pakistani nation was labeled as barbaric.
After this particular condemnation, all the Bengali national units, the police, the EPR and voluntary
army personnel were armed and united against the Biharis and the Pakistan Army and a civil war started within East Pakistan. Innumerable army units began pouring in from West Pakistan, and a horrifying situation of historic proportions began to prevail. People of a united nation were slaughtering each other and the aims of our enemies were being fulfilled. Our egotistic leaders and inept generals finally got the opportunity to ignite the spark that had flickered quietly for many years, and the resulting flames engulfed the land and left it stained with blood. Because of these rather sudden circumstances, my transfer from the Baluch Regiment to the Bengal Regiment did not happen, though in this situation the decision failed to excite me as it would otherwise have done. Instead I wished, with a heavy heart, that I could somehow become a Bengal Regiment jawaan and my nation would somehow remain united. I longed for my beloved country not to be broken into two pieces, two separate countries.
I was ordered to join another Baluch battalion, thirty three (33) Baluch Regiment, which was all set to move to East Pakistan. Though I could not join the Bengal Regiment, I was prepared to go to East Pakistan in the company of my Baluch battalion. With a small suitcase and my rollover bed, I travelled to Kharian and then back to Lahore, since I had to leave for East Pakistan the very next day.
On April 4*, 1971 my company was given a Boeing aircraft and we took off from Lahore roughly around 1600 hours. I was unaware of the terrible prevailing situation in East Pakistan at the time, so it was a long and ironically peaceful journey. The hijacking by Kashmiri separatists of the Indian Airlines Ganga plane two months earlier had given India an excuse to create a no-fly zone for our aircrafts. Because of this, our plane had to take a longer route over sea and via Sri Lanka to reach our designated destination. Our air hostesses served us well and remained refreshingly unaware of the disasters to come and the atrocious prevailing situation and we rested while we could during our long journey. The nationalism demonstrated by our air crew was not only impressive but also almost quaint. We were astonished to see how the women in the crew worked diligently over such a lengthy time to serve us faultlessly. They worked for a continuous and relentless 48 hours without resting and never flinched or complained. They performed their duties with energy and a pleasant smile. Our airline pilots displayed the same enthusiasm and flew the planes day in and day out without respite. I asked my jawaans to allow our air hostesses a break and to let them rest, after which the crew provided us with complete freedom of the plane, even the minor elements like the microphone et cetera were handed to us. The jawaans sang national songs while the airline crew rested a while. We tried our best not to disturb them. Our air hostesses at first refused to stop but we persuaded them to, at least for a few hours or so. The reason I am mentioning this particular, seemingly insignificant, detail is to pay tribute to our nation and national pride, one that was remarkable under the circumstances. The conduct shown by PIA and its employees during those times should be honored and commemorated.
After a while there was complete silence and for the next few hours the only sound to be heard was from the plane’s engines. I knew the pilots were exhausted so I would often go in the cockpit and chat with them to keep their spirits high. They were fatigued and I wanted to distract them and keep them energized; I wished the entire nation could somehow possess the same enthusiasm. The darkness of night
began to be bathed in the golden light of a new day. I saw the sharp red horizon from the cockpit for the first time in my life; it was an invigorating sight. The jawaans and the crew members were awake and breakfast was served, following which an announcement was made and we fastened our seat belts. Our destination was close and on April 5″, 1971 at around 0900 hours our aircraft landed at Dhaka airport, stopping in front of the airport building.
I was the first one to step out on the ladder and my jawaans followed me. There was something peculiar in the air of Dhaka, an absolute stillness and wretchedness in the atmosphere, unlike anything I had experienced the last time I was there. There were a lot of people in the vicinity but they seemed frightened; the Biharis and the non-Bengalis with their women and children were ready to migrate out of East Pakistan in a heartbeat. I couldn’t see any Bengali, and the entire atmosphere and the people seemed unfamiliar to me. We were dumbfounded.
A few army vehicles arrived and stopped near our plane. My senior Subaydar Sahib conducted a head count and gave me an‘all good’ signal. As we got into our vehicles, women, children and old people rushed to form a line to hurriedly board the plane standing next to ours. PIA became one of the busiest airlines during this trying time; they would bring the army into East Pakistan and carry the civilians back to West Pakistan. It was heartbreaking and disturbing to see such a mass migration from a country. A few army officers came to the airport to welcome us. We were transported to the MNA hostel which was initially meant to be a place for the elected representatives but evidently had become an army HQ. There were military men everywhere. The journey from the airport to the hostel was rather quiet and there was not a car, bus, bicycle or rickshaw in sight. The last time I was there, the roads were crowded with people and buses and I began to comprehend the mystery of the atmosphere. The hostel building we were to reside in was built during Field Marshal Ayub Khan’s time; this made the place even more nostalgic than it was. Our company was given a hall in the hostel. I was restless and impatient to know the concrete details and the true situation of East Pakistan, so I gave instructions to my senior Subaydar Sahib to settle the company and went to visit one of my senior Baluch Regiment officers residing in the Dhaka Cantonment. I knew where Colonel Jamal Mohammed lived as I had previously spent a night in his house during the elections. He was astounded yet pleased to see me. I had come to him thinking I would finally get to know the facts of the situation since he played a major part in the eastern command and was G2 – OPS.
The family of the East Bengal Regiment Center’s deputy commandant was also there. Impulsively and inquisitively, I began questioning Colonel Sahib in front of them. When I was told of the situation, I was astonished beyond belief. According to Colonel Sahib, 90% of the Bengali police and army had joined the rebellion against Pakistan. They were being assisted by the Indians in fighting the Pakistan army, the means of communication had been destroyed, houses were being burnt, and there were countless stories involving the ruthless bloodshed of the non-Bengalis and Biharis. These atrocities were being carried out by the Bengalis. He also informed me that initially even the cantonments were unsafe, although the limited number of Pakistan Army personnel had been able to control the situation in the big cities. Outside the cities, the Bengalis were killing people alongside the Indian plunderers. He advised me to be
careful and cautious. According to him, the first duty of the Pakistan Army would be to somehow keep the Indian insurgents and plunderers away from the borders. The second would be to gain complete control of the Indian border which was impossible with the Army we had in East Pakistan but, with the speed with which we were being sent more jawaans, there was hope that we would soon be able to accomplish the target.
At this time, civil war had started and the future became unclear and unpredictable. The morale of the Pakistan Army in East Pakistan remained high and with reinforcements pouring in from West Pakistan, hope still prevailed that the situation could be recovered. I had lunch with my senior officer, Colonel Jamal, during which he told me more about the current situation of East Pakistan while also advising me about my own safety. I learnt that the situation was a precarious and sensitive one, but my morale remained high and I was prepared and willing to do anything to keep my nation united. I could not believe the atrocious details of the behavior of the Bengalis with the non-Bengalis and Biharis in East Pakistan. How could the Bengalis be so willing to shed the blood of non-Bengalis after being their brothers and countrymen for decades? Although this was not completely unexpected and sudden, it was still a painful situation. As a nation, we had to go through this because of the egocentric abandonment by our leaders and our rulers. Whatever the reason, the situation was indeed a wretched one. The enemy was taking complete advantage of the situation and was determined to make the nation as internally weak as possible. The patriotic Pakistani Bengali citizens were in a state of shock and were witnessing a cruel situation with mounting horror. I returned to the MNA hostel late that afternoon with a heavy heart and carefully explained the sensitive circumstances to my senior Subaydar Sahib and my fellow officers.
On April 6h, 1971, our Colonel Sahib reached Dhaka along with the rest of the battalion and he went to the HQ straightaway to receive the next orders for our battalion. He returned to the hostel and gave orders to everyone. I was ordered to go to Comilla with my company on a C-130 aircraft to take charge from an artillery unit in the Comilla cantonment. The brigade in Comilla was struggling, given that the enemy kept coming in from the Chittagong area. I asked my CO for some time off so I could visit Colonel Jamal Mohammed again (much later he also commanded the Baluch Regiment Center in Abbottabad, retired as brigadier and passed away a few years ago). I was unsure whether I would have the opportunity to see him again in the circumstances, so I wanted to spend a few hours with him. In the end, I stayed on longer with him and returned late that night; the city of lights was noiseless because of the curfew and I went to my room to sleep.
On the morning of April 7, 1971, I went to the airport with my company after breakfast. A C-130 was equipped for our departure, but the flight was delayed as the luggage and equipment was still being loaded. I took a chair and sat near a PIA Boeing aircraft. Suddenly the aircraft door, which was right above where I sat, was whipped open and an air hostess appeared exclaiming, “It’s you, Major Sahib!” I recognized her as one of the crew members of the aircraft we had traveled in when we came to East Pakistan couple of days earlier. She had returned to West Pakistan after dropping us off. When she found out that I was traveling to Comilla along with my company, she went back into her aircraft and returned
with several packs of cigarettes, a variety of magazines, a load of candies and paan masalas. She insisted and pleaded with me to accept the things as they were the only possible way to demonstrate her love for the Pakistan Army under the circumstances. I thanked her and developed an even greater respect for her that she should do this even though she wasn’t on duty with us. Another air hostess and I had a conversation until our plane was prepared to take off. I distributed all the gifts amongst my jawaans and we left for Comilla in the C-130. When we landed at the Comilla airport almost half an hour later, a huge crowd of non-Bengali and Bihari women and children was standing there, ready to depart for West Pakistan in the same C-130. As soon as we got off the aircraft, they rushed into the plane. Bewildered by the rush, we departed towards Comilla cantonment in army vehicles. Just like the PIA aircraft, there were several C-130s constantly flying to and fro between East and West Pakistan.
soldiers and officers in a public school building, where the families were treated as guests and were well taken care of. They were given regular hot meals and all their needs were diligently met, despite the fact that the men of these families were busy fighting their jawaans alongside the Indian looters. This was to the credit of the Pakistan Army.
The rebels were in the majority in the suburbs of Comilla, so even the cantonment was unsafe. However, as my company moved in, we established trenches and were later joined by more jawaans. Eventually, Comilla cantonment became a safe place.
3. The First Mission
2. Start of Action in East Pakistan
Comilla cantonment was one of the most beautiful cantonments in the country. I had heard a great deal about it and its natural beauty but, under the circumstances in which I was visiting the place, it was unremarkable and gloomy. The cantonment was almost deserted; we saw only a few artillery jawaans. Luggage was scattered all over the place, equipment had been left on the balconies by the departing Bengali units. I settled my company in the barracks of Four (4) Bengal Regiment and went to the Mess. I found out later that, at the time, the Four (4) Bengal Regiment was fighting the Pakistan Army in Brahmanbaria, a city near Agartala, under their 21C Major Musharraf (Major Musharraf was later murdered by his own men in Bangladesh. The poor man didn’t live long enough to witness his so-called Sonar Bangla).
I saw the floor covered with blood while passing the quarter guard of Four (4) Bengal Regiment. A few Bengali jawaans had been killed here by the Pakistan Army Artillery jawaans while trying to escape. The brigade HQ’s Mess only had a few army officers, a CSS officer, and an AC of Comilla, Tariq Saeed Haroon. I was very glad to see Tariq; he was an Old Ravian and fellow alumni from Government College in Lahore. He was saved by the Pakistan Army and his wife was sent to West Pakistan.
The Mess was large but empty. Every room held some of the luggage and certain personal items of the Bengali officers who had left them behind. An orderly had cleaned and prepared a room for me. I saw a box in that room with the name ‘Captain Zia Ud-din, Education Corps’ imprinted on it. I was taken aback by the cruelty of the situation, the time and the revolution. He was the same officer who had been a lieutenant in Quetta with me; we had lived in the same Mess in Quetta, we had both been soldiers of the same army, citizens of the same country, Now, however, he had rebelled alongside the Four (4) Bengal Regiment, so the room of my dear old friend and new enemy became my temporary accommodation.
The CO of the artillery unit, Colonel Yaqub, and another officer, Captain Bukhari, were celebrated as Ghazi in East Pakistan. Firstly, the artillery unit had controlled all the Bengalis in Comilla and had kept all the non-Bengalis and Biharis safe; secondly, they had placed the families of the decamped Bengali soldiers
In the evening, I went for a quick reconnaissance of Comilla city along with the MT and the Subaydar Sahib to find out more of the basic situation. Although several Bengalis were still in the city, they were scared and some even went into hiding in the surrounding areas. Most of the non-Muslim population had absconded. I went to one of their areas only to find that all the houses had been vacated, although we saw their gods still lying around, in different sizes and shapes. We had some shovels in our jeep and with passion and vigor I began attacking the idols with the Subaydar Sahib. As we were breaking the idols I felt deeply satisfied, though only God can say if our actions were even morally or religiously correct. I was experiencing a spiritual calmness simply by demolishing the gods of those people who were the real instigators of the current situation in my country.
After our return, our CO had our orders for the first mission; our unit was to clear out the insurgents from the area between Chandpur and Comilla. Chandpur was a huge town and a large jetty stood by the riverside of the Ganges. The majority of the population here was always non-Muslim and it was also identified as the headquarters of the local insurgents. Chandpur and Comilla were connected by a road and a railroad. Our CO kept me in the frontline to carry out such an aggressive mission and, being the vanguard, we knew we could and would face unpredictable resistance. We had to spend the night in Comilla, and our fellow artillery officers informed us that the rebellious Bengali officers fought the Pakistan Army with their best Bengali soldiers and several had been killed in Comilla during this strike. Brothers were assassinating brothers – this was the tragic reality. It no longer mattered who was responsible, but it had evolved into an ugly part of Pakistan’s history. Since Tariq had served as an AC in Comilla and Chandpur and was familiar with the area and the people, he was asked to join me. He also personally requested that he be assigned to assist me (although Mr. Tariq Saeed was a civil servant, he was a brave and courageous man, and he retired as a secretary of the Pakistan Federal Government).
The next day we left together in a jeep and headed towards Chandpur, with our battalion following behind. Right next to Comilla were the Lalmai Hills, and while we were turning towards them, we came under fire from all directions. The rebels were hiding behind the hills and were fully prepared and equipped to attack us. As we had been trained to do, we immediately jumped out of our jeep and assumed positions on the opposite side of the road. The entire battalion came to a halt and the CO was informed of
the situation. He ordered one company to move behind the hills and try to counter the enemy attack. As the company raced behind the hills, we began returning the fire and the enemy slowly began to disperse. The firing eventually stopped and we checked whether the enemy had actually left or was merely regrouping. Once we got the all-clear, we resumed our journey towards Chandpur.
Our aim was to get to Chandpur as soon as practicably possible and take immediate and full control of it. We faced no resistance up until Hajiganj. That day, a hat had been arranged in Hajiganj and the place was swarming with people who were busy shopping. When they saw our military vehicles, they thought we were the Bengalis and Mukti Bahini, so they began chanting loud slogans. At first we thought that they were shouting in support of the Pakistan Army, but when we paused and actually listened to their slogans, they were heard saying: “Jay Bangladesh, jay Mukti Bahini.” Naturally we were furious upon hearing this, but we didn’t want to stop anywhere before Chandpur, and we also did not want to harm them because they were our fellow countrymen. To control the tense situation, we fired some bullets in the air to frighten them off and continued our journey, though the air firing created further chaos in the hat. I saw two non-Muslim Bengalis riding in a rickshaw; they were well dressed and seemed to belong to decent families. I felt like shooting them on sight knowing that they played a vital role in the ongoing turmoil, but without any proof I simply could not do anything that drastic. I tried to gesture to the people to remain calm, but God only knows what propaganda had already been planted in their hearts against the Pakistan Army that the people were running away from us.
We headed towards our final destination of Chandpur and eventually arrived at a school just before sunset. Our CO decided we should spend a night there to observe the situation in the city before we moved forward. Our battalion was ordered to stay in the school building and told to keep it secure. The jawaans started cleaning their arms, and we noticed that one of them had been injured and needed immediate and skilled medical care. Unfortunately, we lacked decent medical backup at the time. Tariq told us that he knew a physician in Chandpur who was a good surgeon and a friendly individual. We had no way of contacting him, so we rushed to the principal’s office and were fortunate enough to find a functioning telephone. I asked Tariq to try and contact the doctor and he dialed and was connected to an operator in the exchange. Speaking fluently in Bengali, Tariq asked the operator to connect him to the doctor sahib. We still do not know how the operator found out that the Pakistan Army was in town but the phone suddenly went dead. The operator must have told everyone in the city about our arrival because people started escaping from Chandpur. I wish we had gone straight to Chandpur without stopping on the way. Perhaps then we would have been successful in arresting a few rebels, although there was an equal possibility that we would have faced complete resistance. We decided to spend the night inside the school building and unwittingly made yet another blunder. We fired a few mortar shells towards the city and the people and this unfortunately confirmed their belief that the purpose of the Pakistan Army was simply to kill them.
Our CO had planned to capture the city and the jetty without any bloodshed; he wanted to use Tariq to convince the local people to remain peaceful and that the army meant no harm. After midnight Colonel
Sahib decided to send one company towards the city as silently as possible. By the time the company reached the city, people had already escaped or gone into hiding after placing several barricades in the path of the army. However, the company reached the railroad station and the jetty without meeting any resistance. Just a few people remained who were peaceful and didn’t want to abscond. The crowd was shouting in favor of the Pakistan Army and began approaching our company. Because of the language barrier, the company commander thought the people were moving forward to attack the jawaans and so he ordered them to open fire. Some people were injured and perhaps a few died as well, while the remainder took shelter.
The next day, the battalion blocked all the routes to the city and, apart from a few damaged launches and boats, there was nothing left on the jetty. The warehouse of the jetty was full of stored crops such as lentils, and there were big, heavy barges which were used to move loads. Chandpur was mainly a large jetty with a rather small seaport for large-scale transportation of food items.
The next day our battalion was ordered to move back to Comilla although we had just arrived and the condition of Chandpur was still unclear to us. As I was a senior major, our CO asked me to remain in Chandpur along with my company and try to maintain peace and allay the fears of the people concerning the army. We were ordered to somehow win the confidence of the locals. After I received the instructions, the battalion moved back to Comilla. I had a small company and was now faced with a large city, so the locals who were in hiding could have come back and attacked us from any side. However, by the grace of God and the love we held for our country, my small number of jawaans was sufficient for our purpose.
Instead of trying to take full control of the city, I built a strong defense around the railroad station and the jetty. I took a strong party and left to run a thorough reconnaissance of the city. There were still a few people around. According to our intelligence reports, there were AL and Bangladesh flags proudly waving on top of each house, but instead we were surprised to see that every house exhibited a Pakistani flag. It remained a mystery as to who replaced the political flags and how every house in the city had a single national flag. I realized that perhaps there were still some patriots and peaceful people remaining in the city. In particular, I learnt of a political personality by the name of Haji Abdul Manan. I met him eventually and shared my proposed procedures with him; he was pleased and assured us of his full cooperation. He propagated our peaceful mission in such a manner that soon several people returned to the city. At my request, he also gathered people in the center of the city where I delivered a powerful speech and talked about India’s strategic schemes. At this the people became emotional and began chanting slogans in favor of Pakistan and the Pakistan Army. The current AC of Chandpur had taken shelter in a bari. He was a peaceful and pleasant man, so I contacted him through Haji Sahib and formed a peace committee to try and win the confidence of the local people. With the assistance of Haji Sahib, the peace committee became pretty effective. He provided me with regular reports every night and gradually people began to turn against the rebels. Eventually, boats started arriving at the jetty, turning it into a busy place in just a few days.
One day, early in the morning, an elderly man along with his wife and two children came to meet me.
The woman was wearing a modern outfit and the children were delightful. The family didn’t seem like the traditional Bengalis. The man’s name was Khusroo and he was general manager of a jute mill, a Muslim Leaguer who loved Pakistan. He was also scared of the Mukti Bahini and the workers of the AL, and he and his family were hiding in the house of one of his juniors. He came to us after he learned of the Pakistan Army being in his town. He belonged to a Nawab family of Dhaka and claimed to be a close relative of the late Nazam Ud-Din, and I believed him. He wanted to go to Dhaka but no steamer was available at the time so I invited him to stay with me for a while. A couple of days later, a reliable steamer was ready to leave for Dhaka and I made arrangements for his family to travel on it. He was very thankful to me and left praying for me; he had plans to permanently settle in Karachi.
One evening Haji Manan Sahib told us that the terrorists had misunderstood our lenient attitude and, with the connivance of the temple pujaris, the Mukti Bahini had started visiting them. They seemed to be involved in suspicious activities late at night. Personally, I loathed the anti-Muslim hatred and terrorist activities and I could not ignore this report under the prevailing circumstances. One night, along with Haji Sahib and my jawaans, I raided the Hindu temple. After interrogating the pujaris, it became clear that they truly had been involved in certain nefarious activities. I arrested the pujaris and had it announced that a terrorist and enemy of the country would be punished the next morning in the center of the city.
The following morning a massive crowd gathered and the head pujari was ordered to confess his crimes in public. I asked the crowd to suggest a suitable punishment for him, and the entire crowd roared in a single voice that he should be shot dead. It came to light that his previous activities had also been anti-Pakistan and based on these allegations the peace committee recommended the same punishment. I ordered the culprits – their head and his companions – to stand in a straight line. I instructed my jawaans to load their guns and shoot them all on my count of three. Those men became frightened as they heard the clicks of guns being loaded; they began trembling and I could see their faces turning pale. I consulted with the peace committee again and decided to let the pujaris go, all of them except their leader. I ordered one of my jawaans to fire in the air before shooting him. He fell to the ground and could not believe that the bullet had missed his body. God knows how many non-Bengalis and Biharis he had killed with the Mukti Bahini. I moved closer to his writhing body and kicked him; he grabbed my legs pleading for forgiveness but he didn’t deserve to live, and he was shot dead. The crowd was pleased after his death and chanted ‘God is Great’ when his filthy spirit left the body that had killed and tortured so many.
The reason why I had to have him killed was to send a message to the Mukti Bahini and other terrorists and insurgents that the Pakistan Army does exactly what it says. I wanted to remove any doubts. I made it clear that the decision to kill the head pujari was according to the wishes and agreement of the peace committee and the local crowd, people who had suffered. I delivered a short speech afterwards, informing the people that the Pakistan Army was here to serve them but wouldn’t, under any circumstances, tolerate any anti-state activities. After this incident, according to Haji Sahib, all the people under suspicion became more careful and went incognito. I ordered all the statues of Hindu gods to be removed from the temples as I couldn’t allow the enemies to worship in a place where they planned to harm the state. In any
temples as I couldn’t allow the enemies to worship in a place where they planned to harm the state. In any case, the non-Muslims had destroyed the peace of my beloved land.
Before this incident, before we arrived in Chandpur and on the night we had stayed in the school, a leader of the AL had been arrested because of suspicious circumstances. Tariq Saeed told me that he was a millionaire and a very chauvinistic, bigoted and even psychotic non-Muslim. When Tariq introduced himself to this individual, speaking Bengali, he dropped his façade. I ordered him to be shot dead as well. In Chandpur, I never made a decision to kill anyone on my own nor did I kill anyone with my own hands in East Pakistan. I always involved the peace committee and took their advice. The committee had thus taken on the role of decision-makers and established themselves as a reliable body. In the next few days, the railroad and road traffic resumed, people were now less frightened and began returning to their routine lifestyle.
On April 17h we saw a big steamer stopping some distance from the jetty. It flew a huge Pakistani flag, and through my telescope I saw Pakistani Army jawaans disembarking. I took a motor boat and went to the steamer and found out that it was a unit of the Pakistan Army’s Medical Corps. I suddenly saw Major Maqsood behind the railing and was very pleased and excited to see him. I began calling out to him. Major Sahib was from my own battalion and we had served together. The Unit Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Mirza, who was later a POW with me for 2 years, had come to take over charge of Chandpur from me though I had not yet received such orders from HQ. The big steamer couldn’t come any closer to the jetty so we transferred the entire unit and their luggage onto it on smaller boats. Major Maqsood and I talked about the past and current situation of the nation and I updated the unit officers about the status quo of Chandpur. In the meantime, another Lieutenant Colonel who was a staff officer at Comilla HQ arrived and gave me my formal orders to give the medical unit charge and report back to the unit, which was busy along the borders fighting insurgents. He gave me another order which I will admit I didn’t appreciate. He asked me to destroy all the non-Muslim baris along the way to Comilla. I was aware that such an action would intensify the non-Muslim Bengalis’ abhorrence of the Pakistan Army.
4. Departure from Chandpur
Late one afternoon, I introduced the peace committee to the new unit. Haji Manan Sahib was very sad to see us leave but we were helpless when it came to obeying orders. I spent my last night in Chandpur and left for Comilla along with my company the very next morning. I witnessed several things during the journey. A few families were so terrified of the growing Indian propaganda that they fled from Dhaka and other neighboring cities to hide in the baris. I met the families and tried my best to reassure them about their safety. They seemed surprised at our sympathetic approach and it pleased us to experience their trust and satisfaction with the Pakistan Army. At several places, however, we came across armed young men and they were immediately arrested. We later discovered that they were students and Mukti Bahini, so we dealt with them as they deserved and continued on our journey. On our way, we heard a strange
loudly reciting the Quran in a united voice; some of them were even crying. We tried to remove any negative perceptions this group of people had regarding the Pakistan Army. I was dismayed to see the terrified faces of innocent women and children. In a country that I belonged to, my people feared their own people and were driven by their fear to escape far from their residences; most of them belonged to Dhaka. I communicated with them as well as I could as I didn’t speak Bengali. Luckily all of them were educated enough to easily comprehend both Urdu and English. I tried to assure them that whatever they had been told about their army was solely Indian propaganda set to destroy the reputation of the Pakistan Army, whereas we were busy night and day serving them and protecting them in whatever way we could. As I spoke, a few elderly women approached me and placed their hands on my head as a sign of their affection, The other women and children also gathered around me. I could sense their relief from their expressions, as the terror that was so evident an hour before began to subside and their gaze became calmer. Soon, young men hiding above in the trees joined the growing crowd of men, women and children around me. Just a few minutes of my efforts had given them hope. I reassured them that the Pakistan Army was there solely to defeat the enemies and rebels and they all promised to return to their homes.
We had to reach Comilla soon; the weather’s unpredictability forced us to leave quickly. Dark clouds were moving across the horizon and with the increasing intensity of the wind, we could sense a storm coming so we increased the pace we were traveling at to avoid a substantial delay. By the time we reached Hajiganj, it had already started to rain. The bazaars were open and a few people had started moving away. However, several saw us and gathered around. I took advantage of the situation and began to inform people, as briefly but effectively as I could, that we had come only to defeat the insurgents and meant no harm to them. A few people told us that some non-Muslim families in Hajiganj were still busy carrying out anti-state activities. We didn’t have time to search for those families so we advised the Muslims of the area that if they couldn’t fight them off, they should at least keep the army updated regarding their whereabouts. We had hardly left the bazaar when a few emotionally charged young men attacked a Hindu mohalla and began burning down houses right, left, and center. We had not intended such a drastic thing to happen, despite the fact that we believed the terrorists’ houses should be burnt. The fire spread rapidly because of the intensity of the wind, and we could see the fire and smoke from afar.
The weather was getting worse and I gave orders for the vehicles to increase their speed so we could reach Comilla without further delay. The Lalmai Hills near Comilla were unsafe, and it was also getting darker as we finally reached Comilla. We had not been informed of the location of the brigade HQ nor did we know where the battalion was. However, we managed to locate both with the help of some jawaans residing in the cantonment. The two locations were towards Brahmanbaria at Katti Chowk and we left for Katti Chowk without stopping. It was dark and the area was new for us, but it seemed safe and we reached our destination. The brigade and battalion HQs were right on the Berlin Road and only a few people in the battalion had been sent here for administrative work. The QM Captain Warriach and the 21C Major Asghar were there; everyone else was with the CO along the border in Kasba village and Ganga Sagar, fighting against the rebellious Bengali army and Indian terrorists who had escaped. Our 21C had been
fighting against the rebellious Bengali army and Indian terrorists who had escaped. Our 21C had been expecting our arrival and was very pleased to welcome us. The jawaans were served hot tea and dinner right away. I met with brigade DQ Sahib, Major Nabi; he was an old officer from my Eleven (11) Baluch Regiment Battalion. I found out through him and our 21C that the enemy had been driven out and across the border and, as a result of the fierce fighting, some of our jawaans had been martyred. Our first martyr was our very own Naib Subaydar Javed. A few injured jawaans were currently being transported back to Comilla CMH.
I was to receive my orders to leave for a different mission. Though I longed to join my battalion to assist and offer my services in the current action along the border in Ganga Sagar, I was required elsewhere. All of East Pakistan was now a battlefield; we could hear the gunfire at the border. Though the Bengali Regiments had absconded with the Indian Army’s help, they had built strong posts all along the border. Our battalion had destroyed all their posts in just a single night and cleared the area all the way to Khewra railroad station. I got some time to rest with my company before I received the new orders. As daylight approached, we could still hear guns being fired along the border and at Katti Chowk. Since the rebellious Bengal Regiments had the complete support of the Indian troops, they could be forced out only after the army had overcome fierce resistance. The Indian Artillery was dropping bombs all the way from their territory to Katti Chowk. It was believed that this was their tactic to provide cover fire to the Bengali Regiments and Mukti Bahini.
I received my orders for the new mission early in the morning before breakfast – I had to leave for Brahmanbaria and take charge of the city and its suburbs from a Baluch Battalion as it had to transfer to Sylhet for a new mission. Brahmanbaria was a few miles from Katti Chowk and we were given a single jeep in which we had to carry the heavy armor and the necessary extra ammunition. The rest of our company had to march on foot carrying the remaining arms and ammunition. We were told that the rest of the heavy equipment would be sent on later and, since the Bengal Regiments had destroyed all the bridges while running away, it was challenging and problematic to take even a single jeep to Brahmanbaria. In any case, the Pakistan Army was short of transportation.
The first bridge was on the Titas River. It was repaired by our engineers and luckily, by the time we reached it, it could be used for light vehicles. Major Khokar, who was in charge of the Engineer Corps, allowed our jeep to cross the bridge very cautiously and fortunately our jeep crossed over safely without any mishap. The rest of my company’s jawaans crossed the bridge on foot along with me. After crossing, I came across someone that I was truly pleased to see – Lieutenant Colonel Raja Sultan Mehmood (Shaheed), accompanied by his adjutant and guards in a jeep. Lieutenant Colonel Sahib was an old acquaintance and a very friendly officer. He had arrived to meet with the brigade commander and to request him to give me charge of Brahmanbaria. When I told him I had already received the very same orders, he was delighted and left with me for Brahmanbaria. The road and the Indian border were parallel to us and we could hear the continuous sound of gunfire. Colonel Sahib had been fighting the Two (2) and Four (4) East Bengal Regiments and had pushed them till Brahmanbaria from Bhairab Bazaar and
border; they had escaped to Agartala.
Colonel Sahib had orders to move his battalion towards the south after handing over the responsibilities of Brahmanbaria to me. He asked me to join him in his jeep so that he could give me a thorough explanation of the situation on the way to Brahmanbaria. I left the command of my company with my senior Subaydar Sahib and joined Colonel Sahib. He described the action in Bhairab Bazaar and Ashugunj to me as briefly as he could, and he recounted how the Pakistan Army had protected the long, strategically important bridge above the Meghna River. He also described how they captured the strongest posts of the East Bengal Regiments with the help of the PAF, forcing them to flee despite the fact that they had the complete support of the Indian Army and had the advantage of every kind of equipment as well as security forces. I was beaming with pride at the bravery of my men, especially my Baluch Battalion, against the tiddi-dil East Bengal Regiments.
The area between Katti Chowk and Brahmanbaria was lushly green with natural magnificence but, alas, our people had set alight their own houses and all the baris had either been destroyed or abandoned. Apart from the bridge on the Titas River, there were countless bridges over various streams and smaller rivers, and all of them had been destroyed. Despite these obstacles, our Engineer Corps was working day and night to reconstruct the damaged bridges, making them usable again within a matter of days. I had been given a marvelous opportunity to see a beautiful part of my beloved land, yet I was deeply troubled as fires started by our own men engulfed everything, and the place was shrouded in silence and melancholy. Brahmanbaria was a subdivision of the Comilla district; the beautiful city, the bazaars, the buildings and the scenic splendor seemed haunted and ghastly. The railroad stations, the hospitals, colleges, buildings, everything that was once so full of life was empty and deserted. Colonel Raja’s Baluch battalion was stationed in an inter-college building and the jawaans were busy cleaning their ammunition and weapons. This was an essential task because of the high levels of humidity. When we reached the battalion headquarters, I had the pleasure of seeing more familiar and friendly faces; I met Majors Waheed Mughal and Aziz Khattak, and I was extremely pleased to see them. I learnt more about Bhairab Bazaar and the offensive in Ashugunj. Major Musharraf Bengali, who was subsequently promoted to Brigadier in Bangladesh and later killed by his own people, was the commander of the Second (2) and Four (4) East Bengal Regiments and had been chased all the way to Agartala after the defeat by the Pakistan Army. There was a long bridge in Bhairab Bazaar above the Meghna River. It had been saved from the enemy with bravery and God’s help against all odds; everything had been in place to cause maximum damage to it, and only a single matchstick was needed for the explosives, but the Pakistan Army had arrived just in time and saved it.
its female and male exotic dancers and singers was completely silent that night.
By evening I had stationed my jawaans at important posts after taking over all responsibilities from the Baluch battalion. I spent the night in the college building with my old friends, where we talked about past events and the current situation in the country and exchanged our views. It was still nighttime when Brigade Commander Sahib joined us and gave us the good news that the area up to Khewra railroad station had been cleared of the enemy. He also ordered a company commander to leave with the Baluch battalion to capture Sylhet and the Shahbaz Bridge on the Brahmanbaria road where strong posts had been established by the Mukti Bahini and EBR. This would enable the battalion to safely use the bridge by morning. My old fellow and battalion officer, Major Mughal, was given this mission but, by the time his company reached the bridge, the Bengalis had already destroyed it. Major Sahib’s company and the rebels exchanged fire as they made their escape, but eventually all of them got away. The late Brigadier Khusi Mohammad Khan had wanted to save the bridge but he was unable to succeed in this. (He was also personally known to me as the brother of a famous columnist in Model Town, Lahore – the late Mr. Meem Sheen Sahib.)
The next day, early in the morning, the Baluch battalion accompanied by Colonel Raja left for Sylhet, and I went to the city to investigate in further detail. Nothing was left besides destruction and rotting corpses; even the jail was full of dead bodies – the 52 non-Bengalis that had been killed on Major Musharraf’s orders. There were bodies in hospitals, even schools revealed a similar gruesome picture. I thought I would never see so many deceased people lying around like that. I was mistaken. A few yards from the railroad station, along the bank of the Titas River, right where the railway track ended, I came across more dead bodies than all of the ones I had just witnessed put together. These were bodies of children, old people, women and young men who had been brought from Bhairab Bazaar, Ashuganj and Brahmanbaria on the orders of Major Musharraf and slaughtered mercilessly at the hands of Bengalis.
6. Strange Story of the Survival of a Police Officer and a Bihari Hawaaldar
The departing Baluch Regiment left a police officer with me, he was found hiding in Brahmanbaria along with a brave EPR Bihari hawaaldar who had miraculously survived the merciless slaughter in the jail. The Baluch battalion officers had told me briefly how the two men survived and were spared. When the Bihari hawaaldar gave me the details of the miracle, I said Subhan Allah spontaneously. Major Musharraf had visited the jail the day before the Bengali battalions were overcome and as they were preparing to escape. He assembled all the non-Bengali inmates in a line and bound them with a rope behind their backs. He gave a gun to a Bengali hawaaldar and ordered him to shoot the inmates one by one. The hawaaldar obeyed the order and started killing the inmates, and they fell to the ground one after the other. According to the Bihari hawaaldar, when the inmate before him was shot, he also fell down, pretending to be dead. The Bengali hawaldaar continued shooting until all the inmates, except for the Bihari hawaldaar, had been killed. This happened during daytime, and the hawaaldar lay where he was
5. Stay in Brahmanbaria
Brahmanbaria was a crowded city of people who appeared carefree, but the city that was famous for both its female and male exotic dancers and singers was completely silent that night.
and patriots. I also didn’t want to punish the Bengalis to avoid any further atrocities for those who had already managed to escape with their lives. After some time, the Subaydar Sahib came to me with tears in his eyes and begged me to withdraw my ‘no-harm’ orders. He was in an emotional state and informed me of the way the Bengalis had slaughtered and mutilated the bodies of the Biharis and non-Bengalis; he wanted to kill any Bengali that he could lay his hands on. I advised him to come back to me once he regained control of his emotions and fortunately he realized that it was a sin to kill an innocent man. He then understood my approach to the situation. I was proud of my jawaans as they buried the dead bodies swiftly; this was another great service done by the Pakistan Army with utmost diligence. Brigadier Sahib was also impressed by their work and congratulated them. No one knew though, after seeing the brutality of the Bengalis in Brahmanbaria, I just wished to clean out all the Bengalis from East Pakistan.
in blood. As it was now dark, he sat up and tried to assess the situation. He saw another man a short distance away, struggling to lift his head. The Bihari hawaldaar was a brave man and he called out to the man he saw moving. The struggling man replied that he was alive but was bound and couldn’t untangle himself from the dead men tied to him. Somehow the hawaaldar succeeded in removing the rope around his own wrists and moved towards the injured man. It turned out he was a police officer. The hawaaldar untied his ropes too. These men were terrified of the Bengalis but when they realized that there was complete silence and not a living thing around them, they walked out of the jail, cautious and fearful.
The jail’s main gate was open and there were no guards or any living inmates around. They were thirsty and had been starving for God knows how long. Still terrified, the two entered a house, where they found drinking water and something to eat. They hid themselves in the house and waited for the morning to come while satiating their hunger. A little after midnight they heard some footsteps outside the house, and they thought the sounds could be of soldiers’ boots. Then, a little later, they also heard shouts of ‘God is Great’, Pakistan Zindabad and they realized that these couldn’t be the voices of escaping Bengali troops. They were sure then that it was the Pakistan Army outside. However, scared and hesitant, they left the house slowly and began walking down an empty road. Soon some of the Pakistan Army jawaans found them and arrested them, though they told the jawaans that they were non-Bengalis who had escaped being killed by the Bengalis. They were taken to the officers and it was confirmed that their story was in fact true. After seeing the dead bodies in the jail, the Pakistan Army offered them food and gave them due respect. They were kept with the Baluch battalion who handed them over to me before leaving. The Bihari hawaldaar was later sent to the Khewra check post where he executed his duties till the very end. The police officer was suffering from acute stress and did not seem to be in his senses after the traumatic experience he had been through. I sent him to Dhaka and later I found out that he was sent over to West Pakistan; he apparently belonged to Jhelum. The hawaldaar had told me that Major Musharraf also took Major Sadiq Nawaz, 2nd Lieutenant Naseem and the CO of Four (4) Bengal Regiment to India with him; they were all from the Punjab. During the official release of the POWs from the camps, I was very glad to hear on the radio of the release of Major Sadiq Nawaz and Lieutenant Naseem from India. Much later, I was also informed by Major Sadiq Nawaz, who was an old acquaintance and a Baluchi officer, that Major Musharraf had handed over these three officers to the Indian Army where they were kept as POWs. There is a famous Urdu proverb, “Jisay Allah Rakhay Usay Kon Chakhay.”
After the departure of the Baluch battalion from Brahmanbaria, Brigade Commander Sahib arrived and, after seeing the condition of the dead bodies scattered across the city, he ordered me to initiate a clean-up as soon as practicably possible to avoid the spread of any diseases. Apart from the jawaans on important posts, I ordered my senior Subaydar Sahib to supervise the burial of the dead bodies. I specifically ordered all the workers not to harm any Bengali who was still alive as I didn’t want to punish the few Bengalis who were left. Besides, most of the ones that had been left behind were true Pakistanis and patriots. I also didn’t want to punish the Bengalis to avoid any further atrocities for those who had already managed to escape with their lives. After some time, the Subaydar Sahib came to me with tears in
I had doubted the police officer who was the SP at the civil jail, and was now in the Daak Bungalow with his family, and was sure that he had played a role in the killings of the inmates. But after the testimony of the Bihari hawaldaar and the presence of the SP with his family, my doubts had been dispelled and I ordered that his and his family’s safety should be ensured, and allowed him to carry on with his duties. I performed a thorough reconnaissance of the city after this and came across some diaries and military maps in the circuit house; they belonged to the Four (4) Bengal Regiment. I handed the items to Brigade Commander. The SP also handed me the pay books and the personal property of the dead inmates, including cash and watches, in small bags. I became more convinced of his honesty and handed everything over to our Brigade Commander.
With the news of the arrival of the Pakistan Army in Brahmanbaria, those Biharis and non-Bengalis who had saved themselves, most of them by jumping into the Titas River, starting returning to the city. The majority of them were women and children and only God knows how they were spared the brutality of the Bengalis. Many of them were injured, including women, and several of them had been left behind as the Bengalis thought that they were dead, though they had somehow managed to hide in the neighborhood baris. I gathered all these people in the rest house. We didn’t have beds or mattresses for everyone but I arranged a langar for them and ensured that they got water, tea and hot meals at regular intervals. I asked the AMC doctor sahib to look after the injured people. My heart felt like it would explode with pain after listening to the dreadful stories of those widows and orphaned children. Everyone’s story was heartbreaking. It was particularly difficult yet moving to listen to the innocent children, and I knew the conversations could never ease their pain or make their sorrow go away. I often found myself struggling to keep myself from crying when listening to women who belonged to well-off families, and to children who were raised with care and love and were subjected to such a fate. The widow of a bank manager, an educated woman belonging to Bhairab Bazaar, told me how the Bengali Army gathered all the Biharis and Punjabis, squeezed them into one railroad carriage, and brought them to Brahmanbaria leaving them to the mercy of murderers and looters. The AL workers of Bhairab Bazaar aided in these brutal actions being carried out by Major Musharraf. I decided at that time that I would investigate the AL
witnessed was worse than what Hindus and Sikhs had done in 1947. Whenever I would go to the rest house with doctor sahib, all the children would gather around and cling to me and I could do nothing except shed tears with them and for them. How could I bring back their slaughtered parents and siblings when they would ask me questions like: ‘What places have our parents gone to?’ ‘When will they return?’ I would remain silent in response.
I regularly used to see a young man accompanying doctor sahib. It was only later I found out that she was a girl whose breasts had been cut off. This was such a terrible, heartbreaking and gut-wrenching situation that left me with a profound sadness and acute stress. Eid was coming and the orphan children didn’t have their parents to spend it with, which lead to questions about new clothes, Shoes et cetera. Their innocent, naive and small desires left me so emotional that I took the Subaydar Sahib with me to a modern bazaar in Brahmanbaria. We broke into a few shops with a stone pick and filled our jeep with as many clothes and shoes that we could. We placed them in a room in the rest house and gathered all the children there and told them, “These are Eid gifts for you, take whatever you like.” I will never forget the look on their tender young faces: it gave me a profound sense of satisfaction and happiness to see their expressions light up as they ran around picking new clothes and shoes. Each child picked whatever he or she could lay their hands on.
Many readers might think it was unethical of me to break into the shops and steal, but I personally believe that I did as noble an act as I could, one that gave me and those newly orphaned children extreme happiness and satisfaction.
was also assigned a doctor who was a Bengali and a patriotic Pakistani. The silo, which was a food tower, had been damaged during the clashes between the Pakistan Army and the Bengali deserters. The bedroom that had belonged to the German chief engineer was big and comfortable and I assigned that to myself and the doctor sahib. Its air conditioner worked too, so any free time we got during the hectic days and nights, we could spend comfortably in that room.
Ashuganj also had a theater and a big electric station – and they too were under the supervision of the German engineers. A few German engineers were still there. The first thing I did was establish strong check posts on the bridge of the Meghna River, which connected Bhairab Bazaar to Ashuganj, in addition to similar posts at other important places as well as the one at the railroad station. The station was located at a slightly higher level than the surrounding area. I opened another company headquarters there under the command of my Subaydar Sahib. Only Pakistani patriots were left in Bhairab Bazaar and Ashuganj and the remaining population, especially the AL workers, had been hiding in the outskirts. Ashuganj was famous for its massive jute market and Bhairab Bazaar had major food warehouses. Jute was abundant in the markets along with other food items, and they would be transported via the river routes in large ships. The railroads connecting Chittagong and Dhaka were also located here.
The owner of the Ashuganj theater was a bearded, friendly person; he prayed 5 times a day, was a man of faith and a patriotic Pakistani. He came to meet me as soon as we arrived, and did not leave his home for a moment during the civil war. He assisted the Pakistan Army a lot and provided them with valuable intelligence. The president of the AL in Bhairab Bazaar, also called Mujibur Rahman, had his house here and, although he had escaped and was in hiding, his family was still residing in the house he left behind. There was also the house of an influential gangster, Kaloo Mian, who had run away and was living incognito with his family. These two people played a big part in finding the Biharis, non-Bengalis and Punjabis and handing them over to Major Musharraf.
Bhairab Bazaar was a bigger town compared with Ashuganj; you could say that Ashuganj was mainly a commercial area with the minimum number of residents, whereas Bhairab Bazaar had a large population though the entire city was now deserted because of the clashes between the Pakistan Army and Bengali regiments a few days earlier. There were some anti-state elements still residing in the city. Dancers and prostitutes continued living a quiet existence in a neighborhood, though they had looted the homes of the people who had escaped from the city.
I found Jalilur Rahman, the owner of the theater, to be a pious and patriotic individual, and even today I remember him kindly. He didn’t look like a typical Bengali; he was fair-skinned, and his family was very religious. In just a few minutes, he explained the real situation in the city to me in relation to the good and bad people. He had been quite harassed by the Bengali Regiment but it moved neither him nor his beliefs. The name of the chief engineer of the electric grid station was ‘Pagal. He seemed quite an engaging and amiable man, but shrewd. He was against the Bengalis, specially the anti-state Bengalis, and he visited me frequently. He had witnessed the action in Ashuganj and was also a good source of intelligence. According to him, every morning before sunrise the Bengalis would pull apart the railroad on both sides of the bridge
7. Days and Nights in Ashuganj Bhairab Bazaar
After a few days my battalion completed the mission and returned to Brahmanbaria, and the Brigade HQ moved with us. Brigadier Commander Sahib sent all the Bihari and Punjabi women and children and the injured back to Dhaka by train where they were transferred into a muhajir camp. People had been forced to become a muhajir in their own land. We had secured all the borders but the deserting Bengali Army assisted by the Indian forces could still do anything to cause harm from the other side of the border and make their escape.
On April 28, 1971 I received orders to go to Bhairab Bazaar and Ashuganj to try and normalize the city life by ensuring the safety of the locals. The railroad service had not yet been fully restored so I moved my company from Brahmanbaria to Ashuganj on foot. Ashuganj had a large food silo but before it could be utilized, East Pakistan had already been bathed in blood. The German company who had constructed it had also built living quarters with it which were empty. They had also left behind some things which the Bengalis couldn’t take away with them as they escaped: a few beds, mattresses, chairs and tables et cetera. I established the HQ of my company here. I was also assigned a doctor who was a Bengali and a patriotic Pakistani. The silo, which was a food tower, had been damaged during the clashes between the Pakistan Army and the Bengali deserters. The bedroom
attacked. They had also fixed heavy explosives to all the pillars of the bridge so they could blow the bridge immediately if the army did attack. But when the Pakistan Army suddenly attacked them with the help of the Pakistan Air Force, they didn’t get a chance to blow the bridge and they all had to run away towards Brahmanbaria. This was narrated to me by both Jalil Sahib and the German engineers.
Another wretched personality was in Bhairab Bazaar, the son-in-law of the AL president who was a CSS officer and lived with his wife and parents. During our first meeting, he started talking in support of the AL workers and sympathized with them. It seemed that he was trying to prove that the AL workers were innocent and wanted them to come back to the city. His wife was also a shrewd woman dressed up in magnificently revealing clothes. I also took advantage of their sharpness and assured them of the safety of AL workers and advised that they could come back to their homes. I guaranteed that they wouldn’t be harmed, and that our entire purpose was to provide a sense of safety for the population so that they could resume their normal life, and the unrest and doubts in the community could be controlled.
Actually, on hearing of our arrival in the city, the son-in-law of Mujib had concealed all the significant people in the neighborhood baris. I gathered all the people in the school ground and tried to assure them of their safety, and they in turn guaranteed me their cooperation. They started reassuring me that they had no role in slaughtering the Biharis. I also got very emotional and delivered a very poignant and powerful speech (only God knows how I achieved that). I began by cursing them, and then told them that to witness barbarism and injustice being done and not help the poor victims is barbarism and injustice in itself. Even if they hadn’t participated in the killings of Biharis, they would also be answerable to God on the Day of Judgment for watching them being slaughtered. I became quite impassioned which led to several of the Bengalis, crying and accepting that they should have done something for the poor and helpless victims. I urged them not to participate in any injustice or let anyone else do so either. They seemed to have realized the terrible blunders they had made and were consumed by guilt. I have no idea how I became so tolerant on that occasion and stone-hearted otherwise; having seen the Bihari women and children I just wanted to set fire to the entire Bhairab Bazaar city. I thank God who guided me at that time and saved me from taking such a drastic step.
When the rumors about my speech reached the surrounding areas, many people started returning to their homes and the city began to return to normal. The markets reopened and the river traffic resumed. The railroad service from Kishoreganj, which was the biggest division of Mymensingh district, was also back on course. The railway passengers were mostly Biharis who had been hiding and waiting for peace after the arrival of the Pakistan Army. They were going to Dhaka which they believed was peaceful and safer for them. Some of them had been the victims of the Bengalis before March and some of them had suffered at the hands of the Bengal Regiments since March. They somehow felt safer traveling to Dhaka after leaving their homes in the rest of East Pakistan. It is sad that even Dhaka wasn’t safe for them and was just a place where they had nothing and waited in camps, hoping for the day when they would be lucky enough to return to Pakistan. The number of Biharis in East Pakistan was in the millions and now they can probably be counted in thousands. One day, some historian might ask this question from the
lucky enough to return to Pakistan. The number of Biharis in East Pakistan was in the millions and now they can probably be counted in thousands. One day, some historian might ask this question from the Bengalis: where did the rest of the Biharis disappear to?
A Syed family lived in a railroad station by the name of Sirar Chor, a short distance from Bhairab Bazaar. One day the head of their family came to see me along with his sons and made a couple of requests. First, he wanted to change the name of Sirar Chor to ‘Qadam Paak’ because he believed that Hazrat Moeen-ud-din Chishti had once passed by that town and his feet had touched that place. Secondly, he and his sons wanted to bring an end to all the anti-state and non-patriotic people in the area and he wanted the Pakistan Army to help him achieve this. It was impossible for me to accede to his requests. The names of towns could only be changed by government decree, and it was not the army’s policy to get involved in any kind of direct conflict with the Bengalis. The army’s intention was to convey a message of unity, that they were brothers belonging to the same country. So I advised the man and his sons that if they came across any anti-state activity, they should inform us and not get involved personally. I believe everyone was convinced of his sincerity. Later when I received orders to go on another mission, only some of the army was left behind in Bhairab Bazaar. I was upset to hear that the sons of the Syed family were martyred by the Bengalis, one after another. God knows where he himself went after that. I have no knowledge of his whereabouts.
One day I got a report that Kaloo Mian and Mujibur Rahman had returned to their homes and I sent for them. Kaloo Mian seemed like a common crook but Mujib seemed nobler and simpler. I found out that he had disagreed with Major Musharraf regarding the brutality and killing of Biharis and he had also been harassed and punished for his opinions by the Bengal Regiment. But, since he was the president of the local AL, I had to send him back to the Brigade HQ along with Kaloo Mian. I assume they were sent to the Division HQ afterwards but I heard nothing more after that.
8. Limited Action in Bajitpur Police Station
There was a small town called Bajitpur near Bhairab Bazaar but this area did not come under my jurisdiction. One day a retired Punjabi police hawaldaar visited me and gave me some vital information about the village. He told me that it was the headquarters of Mukti Bahini and AL insurgents and they had been killing people in the village and in the neighboring areas. They were harassing all pro-state individuals and were planning to destroy the railroads. According to him, the area came under the control of one of the army majors in Kishoreganj but he could not help from so far away. I also felt helpless since I had no say in the area either. However, after the hawaldaar visited me a few times and advised me about the sensitivity of the situation, I got permission from my CO to carry out limited and strictly controlled action. I discussed the details of the action with the Punjabi hawaldaar, and, early one morning, surrounded the village with my jawaans. We found Mukti Bahini there and cleared them out without any resistance. We assured the locals of our support and promised their safety in the future. The SHO of the
and the surrounding areas came to thank and praise us. I formed peace committees in both Bhairab Bazaar and Ashuganj which proved to be quite helpful for the army, and gradually life returned to normal in both the disrupted towns. Often people used to chant, “Bharat murdabaad, Indira Gandhi murdabaad.”
I remained in Ashuganj till May 84, 1971 during which time countless Bihari families visited us and I would help them by providing them with cash, jewelry and dry food before sending them to Dhaka. The cash and jewelry belonged to the non-Muslims. At the same time that the Biharis were escaping to Dhaka, the Bengalis had been running away from fear of the Pakistani Army. They had slaughtered the nonBengalis and were afraid that the Pakistan Army would avenge the bloodshed. They would make for India and often many of them were caught, when they were brought to me. I would take away their valuables, cash and jewelry and believed that though they may be sheltered by India, the Pakistani currency and jewelry should not leave the country. I always felt a spiritual satisfaction after distributing their valuables amongst the Biharis. I am not sure how the readers would react to this peculiar act of kindness but, based on the atrocities of the non-Muslim Bengalis on the Biharis that I witnessed, my conscious is clear.
9. In front of Agartala, India
Since the situation in East Pakistan had worsened, the Pakistan Army never got an opportunity to stay in one place for more than a few days as the army was small and the area they were responsible for was huge. After a few days in Ashuganj and Bhairab Bazaar, I was called back to the battalion headquarters on May 84, 1971; I had to be sent off on a new mission along with my company. By that time, Brahmanbaria had become far more crowded as a city and had gradually returned to its normal pace. People had begun to return to their homes, but the railroad service was only up to Brahmanbaria and did not continue as far as Akhaura. Beyond Brahmanbaria, the railroad was close and parallel to the border and this made it unsafe for us to restore the service beyond it. I was ordered to move to Akhaura. There were many unused passenger railway carriages and even two diesel engines in the Brahmanbaria railroad station but our company had no rail engine driver. Akhaura railroad was a junction from where one railroad went to Chittagong via Comilla and Chandpur and the other railroad went towards Agartala.
I was training my company and giving them instructions about our move to Akhaura, when a very patriotic Bengali, Siraj ul Haq aka Chand Mian, approached me. He owned a medical store in Brahmanbaria and was from Comilla where his family lived. Despite being a diabetic, he was always busy fighting the anti-state elements. He asked to accompany us on foot. He was a good orator and often delivered very patriotic and emotional speeches. I found out later that he was a rather rich individual and a diligent PML follower. With permission from my battalion I kept him with me. Another fellow with Chand Mian knew a little about railroad engines. I took him with me to one of the engines to try and start it so I could send the heavy equipment to my company. Our luck was in as we were able to start the engine with the help of Chand Mian’s friend. We were not sure about the safety of the Akhaura railroad station or
it so I could send the heavy equipment to my company. Our luck was in as we were able to start the engine with the help of Chand Mian’s friend. We were not sure about the safety of the Akhaura railroad station or the condition of the railroad itself but, after getting permission from my CO, we attached a couple of railroad bogies together and to the engine. We transferred the heavy equipment and having settled my company in the bogies, we left Brahmanbaria railroad station at a slow pace as the signal and communication system of the railroad had all been destroyed.
We reached Akhaura railroad station without any mishap along the way, which was miraculous given the circumstances. We unloaded the heavy equipment and ammunition and left the engine there. We began marching towards Azimpur. The railroad ran parallel to the border at quite a distance from the railroad station. My task was to secure the area of Azimpur; the jungle made it unpredictable, unsafe and insecure. Just to keep him safe, I dropped Chand Mian off in Akhaura. According to our intelligence reports, there was enemy presence in Azimpur. Akhaura was a strong post of EPR and the same Bihari hawaldaar who had survived in Brahmanbaria was the commander there, so I left Chand Mian with him. It was almost the same area which led to Lakshmipur, where Major Tufail Shaheed fought heroically for which he was posthumously awarded the Nishan-i-Haider. The entire area was covered by trees and bushes and, though it was just a few yards from the road, the railroad was hardly visible. There were pineapple trees along the road with countless pineapples dangling from them. There were also several kathal trees with their amazing fruits. I saw these fruits for the first time and was amazed at how well such a heavy fruit hung firmly from a tree – one fruit sometimes weighs several kilograms. A light breeze started as soon as we left Akhaura. I also had the support of limited artillery and the artillery officer accompanied me. The road was like a labyrinth; we had to find our way through the woods and had to move slowly and cautiously.
Some distance from Akhaura was the tomb of a saint where we found a few dervish men sitting around. After asking them a few questions we learnt that they were good Muslims and Pakistanis. I had to keep my jawaans alert while investigating these men as no one could be trusted in the circumstances, although the caretaker of the tomb was an elderly and amiable gentleman. I was satisfied after conversing with them. The elderly gentleman prayed for us and also assigned a man to us who could understand and speak Urdu well. We realized how useful this man could be to us. At first I refused to take him with us but I was surprised when the saint told me that he was an ordinary mureed and would remain with me for as long as I was in East Pakistan. He was to accompany me, serve and interpret the things I could not comprehend. I advised the saint that I could only keep the man with me if my CO allowed it, otherwise I would have to let him go. The name of that man, if I remember correctly, was Ghulam Muhammed and he was a non-Bengali. We started our journey towards Azimpur. Its railroad was parallel to Agartala and people told us that the road between was an infamous smuggling spot. By now the rain had stopped, dark clouds hovered over the area and a cold breeze prevailed.
We were still some distance from Azimpur when we came under fire from automatic weapons from the direction of Agartala. It was clear that the enemy had spotted us. My company immediately assumed
defensive positions and, accompanied by the artillery officer, I began to crawl towards the railroad to try to locate the enemy. Nothing was visible in the dense forest. I ordered some artillery shelling in the presumed direction of the enemy and when the firing ceased, we set off for Azimpur again. Moving cautiously and following standard war tactics, I sent a platoon alongside the railroad with the senior Subaydar Sahib. Fortunately, we reached Azimpur safely. Though Azimpur was itself a small town, the police headquarters was in a brick building, and there were also several ostentatious houses belonging to government servants. It was a beautiful town but devoid of human existence. The Titas River was at a distance from the town and this place was also famous for Titas gas. I established strong check posts at four separate locations as it was the Army’s first posting here. The insurgents had run towards Agartala after we arrived. There were multiple small baris around the area where some people still lived. After establishing my company’s strong positions, I took a few jawaans and completed a thorough protocol of reconnaissance all the way to the Titas River. We reassured the people that our purpose was not to kill but to save them from anti-state insurgents and Indian terrorists. Ghulam Muhammed proved to be a very good ambassador in this; he knew the local dialect and language and encouraged the local population to help us in our mission.
The whole area was full of pineapple, kathal, lychee and other local fruit trees. We were unused to seeing pineapples hanging from trees and we all enjoyed the experience of picking the fruit from the tree and eating it fresh. Ghulam Mohammed brought a very big kathal but somehow we didn’t like the smell or taste and couldn’t eat it. He, however, ate it with relish, all the while giving us a lecture on the innumerable health benefits of the fruit. He told us that it was a wholesome and very useful fruit; the animals liked its skin and its seeds were cooked by the locals. He also said it was only found on the Pakistani side of the border and was smuggled to India where the Bengalis loved it. As there was no clear demarcation of borders, it was relatively easy to cross over to the other country.
had not taken a defensive position because I was scared or thought there was any possible danger but because of basic protocol and procedures, so we let the soldiers do their job and began to talk.
We could see the aircraft hangers and barracks of Agartala airport from where we stood. After a brief discussion, we agreed that within 500 yards of both sides of the border, there should not be any movement whatsoever. If there was any firing in the future accompanied by any unusual movement, the commander on that particular side of the border would be held responsible. I also advised Captain Sehgal that since the Bengalis were running freely back and forth, in the event of any suspicious activity, both sides should respond with full force. During our meeting, our jawaans were scrutinizing all sides of the border so no insurgent or terrorist could engage in any insurgent activity.
As I mentioned earlier, we were not given the opportunity to stay for too long in one place, so I received orders from Battalion HQ to move my company to Brahmanbaria, which meant that a new responsibility awaited me. The very next day, on May 17″, 1971, I received orders to move to Comilla. All the bridges had been repaired and people had started coming back to the baris. With the arrival of the people, life seemed to be returning to normal. The city and cantonment of Comilla had become pretty crowded. I reached Comilla with my company and got an opportunity to once again meet Tariq Saeed in the Mess. He had been appointed AC of Comilla but for security reasons he resided in the Officers’ Mess in the cantonment. I spent the night at the Mess, my jawaans stayed in the barracks of Four (4) Bengal Regiment. During this time another great thing happened. I met an old course mate, a very humble and dear friend, Major Saleem. He was an intelligence officer and had recently been appointed as an OCFIU. I went to bed quite late as I had stayed up talking to Tariq Saeed and Major Saleem; we spoke about all things past, present and future before we finally went to sleep.
The next day, my company moved to a small railroad station by the name of Fakirhat, a few miles away from Comilla towards Akhaura. We were welcomed by a Punjab Regiment Captain who gave me responsibility of the area and informed me of the details of the current situation. I saw him off as he left for his own duties. I was informed later of his martyrdom in Gournadi.
The place was deserted and coconut trees were abundant. There were many ordinary baris but few people remained. They had been the victims of the political turmoil. They were either hiding or migrating somewhere else; the border wasn’t far, only a few hundred yards away. The drinking water in the villages and far-flung areas was impure in East Pakistan; this is why I only drank coconut water which was not only pure but healthy too and, above all, kept me safe from water-borne diseases. This was a necessary precaution since we had to keep healthy through the tiring days and nights and our erratic sleeping routines. Coincidently, there were no rivers and streams between Fakirhat and the border – it was a barren land.
Major Musharraf from the Bengal Regiment would attack the Pakistan Army from the other side of the border accompanied by the Indian Forces. He lacked the guts to engage with us directly and would only fire upon us under cover of night. We were kept busy night and day struggling to control the situation with the help of the patrol parties but, with the thick jungle and the deserted area, we were incapable of gaining
10. Meeting with an Indian Army Officer at the Border
Captain Sehgal, commander of the Indian BSF, was in charge of that part of the Indian border. He heard about me being on the other side of the border. I was reconnoitering the border area when he sent a message asking to meet me. I immediately contacted my CO on the wireless to ask for permission and arranged to meet him. I sent back a message of my plan through a Bengali and went to see him along with my senior Subaydar Sahib and a few jawaans at the agreed place. When we arrived, Captain Sehgal was already there and saluted me sharply. He began looking for a place where we could sit. I thought to myself: why should I let him come onto my land? So I decided to go a few yards into the Indian territory. When I crossed the border, he shook my hand and I joked that I had entered India without holding a passport. Nonetheless, he welcomed me. My jawaans immediately took positions facing in four directions; Captain Sehgal smiled and told me there were no danger and nothing to worry about, although his soldiers also held similar positions a little distance away. I smiled back and told him that my jawaans had not taken a
open wings. This most incredibly unlucky situation was because we could not determine the exact location of the enemy. We were surrounded from all sides, and all we had was our faith in God and the hope that perhaps our efforts would and could sustain a united nation.
My stay in Fakirhat was not only extensive but terribly difficult; I had to face death every day. It was extremely hot in the month of June and I had to search the entire area allocated to me. The enemy was ready for renewed action every other day. We would fight them at one place and had to face yet another challenge in a completely different place; there was no respite during the day nor any peace during the night.
11. The Night of June 18th, 1971
complete control over it. My company was given a vast area to patrol. I myself used to leave every day in the afternoon along with my jawaans to reconnoiter along the border. They had to check out the villages of Paharpur and Borongaj and sometimes I would send parties under the command of my Senior Subaydar Sahib or other junior commissioned officers for this daunting task. At night, however, I would try to establish strong posts to prevent attack by the insurgents. Our HQ was located on a railroad station and the railroad station master and a few other employees with their families lived in the quarters. With a complete shutdown of the railroad services, the employees had nothing to do and would assist us in our mission, providing intelligence about the local population and informing us of any unusual activity. This proved to be quite helpful. A tiny infantry company equipped with only small arms was assigned to control a vast area; it was not only complex but extraordinary. The government was forcing the army to fight a political battle which was inappropriate by any standards.
The result of such an irresponsible decision was seen in late 1971. To expect a small company to control a vast area was almost like being in denial of the realities on the ground, because the Bengali insurgents, with the help of Indian forces, could enter anytime and from anywhere. Our jawaans lost their lives because of the government’s poorly thought-out decision. Many were injured too but nothing could daunt the morale of the Pakistan Army. The Bengali insurgents would often place landmines given to them by the Indian forces. One such incident is worth mentioning: about 10 of my jawaans were on duty when they were severely injured by the landmines, a few of them even lost their legs. We had no equipment to detect the mines and the loss was unbearable. Whenever my jawaans would leave the headquarters for food and rations, the rest of us would helplessly pray for their safe return. We were ordered to bury the martyrs in East Pakistan and many jawaans would wonder if their loved ones would ever be able to get to see where the people they once knew and loved had been laid to rest. All of us were unwavering in our determination to serve the country, to the extent that even the most unacceptable orders were obeyed without protest. Many times we witnessed death right before our very eyes but our faith taught us that there is a time for death for everyone and when that time came for anyone, we lost him forever in East Pakistan.
One day I was with my jawaans in Saldanadi, which was a few kilometers from the HQ, when we were heavily attacked by Indian artillery shells. We were on a train and had no equipment to respond to their shelling. All we could do and did was to jump out and lie down on the ground, camouflaging ourselves with whatever little mud or leaves we could lay our hands on. The shelling went on for half an hour from every direction, and all we could do was remember and chant the name of God. When I checked on my jawaans, not a single one of them was injured by the grace of God. The Indian forces were aware of our whereabouts and they had assigned several local intelligence sources to inform them of every move we made. Based on their reports they tried to destroy our train while we were on our way back, but jisay Allah rakhay usay kon chakhay and we safely returned to our headquarters. This was the first time I had experienced heavy artillery shelling right over my head and that of my jawaans. Such an experience cannot be explained in words; it felt almost like death was facing you, ready to embrace you with its wide
I would not hesitate to call the night of June 18 doomsday. It was dark and the Indian commandos, with the guidance of escaped Bengalis, had entered our area; they surrounded my company from all directions. At night, I had to order the company to concentrate at one point near the check posts, instead of spreading out, because it was easier to keep them safe from the enemy that way. The enemy attacked us from all directions so heavily with automatic weapons that it was a challenge just to survive. Also, it was impossible even to guess their position because of the total darkness. The phone lines had been cut off and the heavy firing made it difficult to communicate through the wireless; there was no communication between the platoons. Bullets were flying above our heads and it seemed that they were not only coming from the ground but also from above. Either the enemy was in the trees or it was just the way it seemed with the unrelenting onslaught.
We were facing an extreme and dangerous situation, so eventually my jawaans began responding to the fire. Firing in the darkness with zero visibility seemed useless and a waste of our ammunition; I believe the only advantage it gave was that enemy realized we were alert, ensuring they kept a safe distance from us. They continued their attack until sunrise. Only an officer who has had a similar experience in the past could understand how helpless I felt that night; I could neither communicate with my jawaans nor give them orders. I was able to convey to the headquarters jawaans not to waste ammunition but the rest of them could not hear me despite my screaming. I also tried to crawl out and reach them quite a few times but was stopped by heavy fire. It was a mystery to us how the telephone cables had been disconnected until it became clear in the morning that the gunfire was so intense that the bullets damaged all the telecommunication lines. The heaviest firing was towards the headquarters located in the railroad building. The enemy was many and ‘brave’; they could have caused us major losses but all they did was fire all night long without aiming in any particular direction. The firing stopped before the sun came up and I contacted the other platoons to get a report of the casualties; I was happy to learn that no life had been lost. I took a strong patrol party and headed towards the border searching the baris in the area. The people were hesitant to provide me with any information. We had to get harsh during the interrogations with certain people but without any result, so we traveled as far as the border and returned.
nothing about the strength of the enemy, nor any information regarding where they came from and where they vanished.
When I reported the incident to my Co, I was yelled at as it was obvious that we had wasted ammunition. I was aware that this was a mistake but the situation had been out of my control. However, as company commander, I was responsible so I listened to the CO’s yelling and accepted my incompetent conduct. Whatever the circumstances, it was my responsibility as company commander to avoid the waste of ammunition and I couldn’t prevent it. During breakfast, I received the news that while the enemy had rendered us helpless during the night, they had also attacked a police station, I think it was Biharganj police station if I’m not wrong. Everyone at the police station panicked and escaped. The enemy had managed to steal rifles from the police station. The local police and population were aware of our limited numbers and knew that we would not be able to keep them safe from the enemy. They were therefore right in not cooperating with us and identifying the enemy; they were right to think what they did but any harm or damage done in my area of jurisdiction was my responsibility.
I was just recovering from the yelling of my co when I had to go to Biharganj which was quite a distance away. The police force had returned before my arrival at the station; they were all Bengalis. They seemed scared and were waiting for me as they had no doubt that I would come once I learned of the attack. According to the SHO, they were attacked around 0100 hours by roughly 100 men. They were too few to fight with the enemy so they went into hiding and the enemy took the rifles from the station. I had nothing to say to them as I was aware of their vulnerability and my own helplessness. I gathered the villagers and advised them to help the local police in such difficult situations, although I knew that they would neither act on my advice nor was it even possible. I had thought long and hard about the circumstances and was deeply worried; the situation was hopeless, and there was no end in sight.
I made a list of the damage done to the police station, and took a longer route to inform the battalion headquarters of the details. My CO was not pleased with me. We returned to the headquarters in the evening. I gave orders to establish strong check posts for the night and got an opportunity to rest. The morale of my jawaans was impressive and I wanted to praise them for working diligently day and night in such an unpredictable and uncontrollable situation. Sometimes I would get upset that, in spite of being a military man himself, our head of state had put us in such a terrible situation. Perhaps Allah kay banday were too busy with women and wine. Instead of being a hand puppet of a civilian leader, they could have visited East Pakistan themselves or could have sent a political leader to understand the realities on the ground. They could have solved this sensitive and extremely difficult situation through a political solution and bipartisanship and could have avoided this insult, allowing the nation to be able to maintain at least some respect in the eyes of the world.
But anger and sadness under these circumstances only increased my pain. There was simply one aim: to save that part of my nation from becoming another country. Although I failed to do so, I still feel very proud when I think about the conditions and the patriotism my jawaans displayed. We could never have imagined at that time that the end result of our sacrifices and hardships would be what happened on
December 16, 1971. Our nation also gave no credit to our hardships, sacrifices, patriotism, and the blood, sweat and tears we shed in East Pakistan. Even today we have to listen to smug and sarcastic remarks that the Pakistan Army disgraced the nation and surrendered, losing half of Pakistan. Perhaps one of these days some historian will write the facts.
In a conventional war, one company can control only a maximum of 1000 to 1200 yards of dry land. Our circumstances were extraordinarily uncommon. The enemy was everywhere, the terrain was unknown and daunting, and we had a limited number of weapons. The Indian Army, on the other hand, was large and the area assigned to us was not measured in yards but in miles, and we had to control this situation. It was not right to have expectations from any professional army in such circumstances. Nonetheless, history is witness to the fact that the Indian Army lacked the guts to face us and fight a 10month long war. The deserting Bengali insurgents knew every nook and cranny of the land and would penetrate deep into the area through routes unknown to us, destroying bridges and placing landmines to continue damaging the Pakistan Army. The majority of the Pakistan Army was unfamiliar with the local area and was suddenly thrown into a strange land. We never got enough time to become familiar with the area nor were we briefed about the true political situation. We were only given one single order: fight till the last bullet and the last man; don’t let even one inch of the motherland go to the enemy. The Pakistan Army was successful in doing that, which is an historical fact, but the army was trained to fight a professional and conventional war. When it was plunged into a political war, the result was the events of 1971. It is not my place nor my job, but is it not the responsibility of the intellectuals of the nation to ask who was responsible for such a disaster? Those responsible people still alive should be questioned, although I know there is no hope of that happening. People take to the roads to protest for different issues on a daily basis, they hold strikes, participate in political activities and blame each other. As a result the nation achieves nothing useful. No one has ever protested or felt the need to ask anyone why and how Pakistan was broken into two pieces!
We were losing jawaans because of the constant insurgencies; there was no help or replacement for the jawaans I was losing. In spite of this, we continued to struggle day in and day out to keep our nation united. The conditions were worsening day by day while the manipulated media continued to portray only a positive picture on the radio and in the newspapers without dwelling on the insurmountable task we were faced with. Against all such odds the morale and determination of the army remained intact and commendable. There were no signs of worry, agony or distress on any face; this was because of our patriotism and dedication to duty reinforced by our faith. Even the children of the Fakirhat station master were playing at being brave soldiers, imitating the army. The wife of the station master was a wellmannered and amiable woman. She would often cook different kinds of Bengali food for us. We would provide her the ingredients when she had to cook and even brought extra rations for her family. We tried our utmost to instill and promote patriotism and local morale and to raise the spirits of the population of Fakirhat but it seemed they were aware of our weaknesses and rapidly increasing helplessness. They were afraid of the Mukti Bahini and the Indian Army and I believe they were right in being so.
A few months later, while traveling with General Rahim to Dhaka from Chandpur, Major Saleem was attacked and killed in an air strike. His body was lost in the Meghna River.
12. Looking into the face of the Enemy and Death
In spite of it all, life was stabilizing. I would go around and meet people, and try to dilute the propaganda against the Pakistan Army which seemed to be working, though the actual internal situation wasn’t encouraging. This was because they didn’t support us or help us to find the insurgents. One thing I often did – I am not sure if it was right or wrong – was destroy the Hindu gods, especially Shiva. If it was a sin, may God forgive me, but the way in which they were worshiped seemed improper.
On June 20h, 1971, I received sudden orders to move with the battalion to Comilla; it was obvious that a new responsibility was ready for me. I transferred my current tasks to the Punjab Regiment and traveled to my next destination. I ordered the company to rest a while in the barracks as they might not have another opportunity during our future missions. I went to the Officers’ Mess where I met up with Tariq Saeed Haroon and my course mate Major Saleem. I stayed in their room and conversed with the two of them, hearing the up-to-date news and also finding peace and comfort in the presence of my friends. I went to the city in the evening which was now crowded, and I was happy to see that people were busy in their lives. Fortunately, Chand Mian of Brahmanbaria was also visiting his home and I got the opportunity to meet him. At night I called Lahore; there was a pleasant and a welcome surprise in the circumstances. I was very excited and happy to know that God had gifted us a daughter. My wife wasn’t too thrilled about it though I comforted her and got some peace of mind talking to the family.
On 21 June 1971, I reached the village named Kasba early morning along with my company and we were ordered to go to another town from there. A company from my battalion was already in town. We spent the night and early the following morning, before sunrise, we left for that town which was situated on the border. There were small hills along the border. On the other side of the hills was a plain area stretching as far as one could see. There were rice fields filled with stagnant water and countless small streams flowing in between. Baris were visible on the patches of dry land but there were no inhabitants. The border between India and Pakistan was uneven but in this area, Pakistani land went deep into India, surrounded by Indian territory on all sides. This land was ideal for the insurgent Bengalis and their activities – they could keep an eye on their “enemy’ and monitor their activities from a range of hills on the Indian side of the border. We had to reach there before sunrise and assume defensive positions; we couldn’t conceal any of our movements from the Indian check posts during daylight. We got there without alerting the enemy and we moved all our ammunition into a school building close by, immediately establishing strong defensive check posts. Fortunately, my CO had also given me a 2-3 inch long mortar which I stored carefully.
I took a strong party of jawaans and we crawled over the hills close to the border for an inspection; there were countless Indian check posts with automatic weapons covering the area. Though we had been very careful in our movements the enemy was aware of our presence so, as soon as we arrived, we were greeted with heavy machine gun and artillery fire – we named these ‘aaloo’. Even though we were on the ground, the attack did not harm us because we had taken up safe positions; we had already learned such strategies. Most of the area on our side consisted of rice fields filled with water, and one could only move along the edges of the field.
At the narrow end of the Pakistani territory, deep inside Indian land, a village called Phoolbari was at a comparatively higher level than its surroundings. I was ordered to send a platoon into that village. Strategically speaking from a combat point of view, it wasn’t advisable to assume defensive positions in that area because it was extremely difficult to convey weapons, ammunition and food there. However, as I mentioned earlier, we were being forced to fight a political war, one that had nothing to do with our military training.
Early next morning I led a platoon and left for Phoolbari village; I had an artillery officer with me who provided me with artillery backup when needed. We cautiously negotiated an extremely difficult path through the rice fields flooded with water, and arrived at the village. The whole place consisted of scattered hills; even an entire battalion would have been ineffective and I was only leading one platoon. It was a huge task to be in charge of my little platoon and, at the same time, maintain contact with the rest of
my company. I felt that it was unsafe and very inappropriate to leave my single platoon isolated; however, it was an order and I could not disobey what I had been told to do. With a heavy heart, I gave instructions to the platoon commander and headed back to the company headquarters. I decided to organize a strong party of my jawaans and keep in touch with the platoon for regular updates. On my way back, I was carrying the wireless set and was accompanied by the artillery officer, a few jawaans for protection and an Urdu-speaking Bengali guide. We had clearly been identified by the Indian Army and the Mukti Bahini while heading towards Phoolbari, and they had planned to deal with us’ on our way back.
We crossed the rough and hilly terrain and went through higher land following the edges of the inundated rice fields. Other than the edges of the fields, there was nothing, not even a tree, only stagnant water at the far ends. The enemy suddenly began heavy firing of automatic weapons from an area some distance away which was densely forested. We immediately took cover behind the field edges. We were within the enemy’s range and exposed to their fire but, somehow, the field edges kept us safe from the enemy’s bullets. Eventually, artillery shelling also began and we lay in the stagnant water with only our heads above water. Any return of fire would have had no effect on the enemy, but we had a machine gun which we fired every now and then.
After maintaining our position for some time, I used the telescope to evaluate the situation. The forest was right next to the border, not very far from us, and the enemy was attacking us with automatic weapons, while mortar and artillery shells were being fired from far beyond the trees across the border – it was only our brave enemy that could use such heavy weaponry on just a handful of men. I asked my artillery officer to send a request for an artillery backup so that we could attempt to leave under its cover. When the wireless operator tried to send a signal, we found that the wireless set was not working because of the water and mud. It was the same thing with my own wireless set. It was unfortunate that we had not been able to keep our wireless sets safe and dry while taking cover in the water but it had been impossible to do so, as we couldn’t even raise our heads while the bullets were flying right over us. We were forced to keep our heads and bodies still and low in the stagnant and muddy water, and the enemy’s artillery shells were raining down on us. I think the reader will understand our helplessness.
So we could neither expect any help nor could we move backwards. We had been in the water and mud for several hours by then and we were under the impression that the enemy would not waste ammunition so ruthlessly and for so long and would stop the attack eventually. However, the enemy had come up with a new strategy. We saw they were coming out from behind the trees and moving carefully towards us in formation; it was now clear that they intended to either kill us or capture us for a more painful death. I had never faced death at such close quarters. From their attire, we could tell that they were the Mukti Bahini, they were wearing dhotis/lungis, some were wearing banyans, but all of them were heavily armed. We had nowhere to set up our machine guns to try to fire on them before certain death. The enemy was moving steadily towards us from all sides – the only safe place was behind us but our way was blocked by a deep stream and because of the heavy firing, we couldn’t even contemplate making such a move.
The commander of the platoon we had left in Phoolbari must have heard the sound of heavy firing but
The commander of the platoon we had left in Phoolbari must have heard the sound of heavy firing but had he attempted to rescue us, he himself could have been trapped. Apart from the thought of dying, I was terribly angry with our leaders and commanders who would frequently place junior commanders like myself in such daunting and dangerous situations. Then again, there is always a time to die, and that was what we were facing when we heard the chants of ‘God is Great’ up above the hills. The sound was nothing less than a miracle and we wondered who these people were. I suddenly realized that they were the jawaans of the Pakistan Army who were shouting ‘God is Great’ as they moved towards the enemy. As I watched, the jawaans opened heavy fire causing the enemy to turn round and run back to where they had come from. At the same time, my company fired mortar shells towards the trees and the automatic weapons of the enemy were silenced. Although the shelling by the Indian Artillery continued, it became less frequent and intense, and we began retreating backwards. We crossed the stream and felt safer once we had entered the rough and hilly area behind it.
It was only later that we learnt how God truly saved our lives. When my senior Subaydar Sahib in the company headquarters heard the continuous sound of heavy firing, he guessed that we must be under attack. The platoon commander of Phoolbari also mentioned to him that it had been a while since Major Sahib had left them with his party. Upon hearing this, my Subaydar Sahib gathered a few jawaans from the surrounding check posts and set off in our direction. With his swift action and the help of God, we were saved. I had realized that it was a poor strategy to send a platoon to Phoolbari and then travel back without any safety and back up. If I had taken proper precautions, we would not have been faced with such a situation. I believe another reason for this mistake was my overconfidence and I decided to be more careful in the future.
While moving through the hilly areas on our way back to the company headquarters we came across another scene. Women and children had been hiding behind the hills. They were non-Muslims and when they saw us, they were confused and began to hug us, and we had to push them away. I saw that all the women were young and they were either wearing petticoats or were topless. However, the situation that we had just gone through had left us so exhausted that we did not have it in us to listen to their screams or let their half-naked bodies distract us. Nevertheless, I asked our Bengali guide to reassure them that they did not have to be scared of us and could return to their homes.
Right next to the hill was a bhasa where an old woman was sitting. The moment she saw us, she ran inside and I became suspicious. I asked our Bengali guide to bring the woman out. She was shaking with fear and I noticed that she was also constantly looking toward the door. I asked one of my jawaans to go inside and search, and he returned with a Bengali who was wearing a dhoti and a banyan. As I inspected him from head to toe, I observed his muscular knees and ankles and strongly suspected that he must have had some military training and could have been a deserter Bengali jawaan. We questioned him several times but he refused to respond, so we took him with us to the company headquarters.
My orderly had heated up some water for me. I put some salt in it and took a bath and felt a bit more relaxed. I reported the whole incident to the battalion headquarters, gave some instructions to my senior
before I knew it, I had dozed off. I missed dinner and my prayers and woke up the next morning. I called for the company Subaydar Sahib and took the previous night’s report. We were having breakfast after our prayers when our co dropped in. I reported the previous day’s incident in thorough detail and also submitted that it was inappropriate to leave a platoon in Phoolbari. My CO promised that he would speak to the Brigade Commander and make arrangements to recall my platoon. The CO Sahib was so convinced by my argument that he talked to the Brigade Commander as soon as he reached headquarters. He then sent a message to me that I should recall the platoon from Phoolbari. I ordered the platoon to return after satisfying myself of the security arrangements and sent the captured Bengali to the battalion headquarters.
My stay in that town was a long one. The enemy would bombard us with artillery and mortar shells night and day; we called them aaloo and laddu. By the grace of God, we were physically unharmed. We became so accustomed to the bombardment by the enemy that we could calculate the time between the launch of artillery and mortar fire and the moment when it would actually reach us and hit the ground. We took cover in those blessed but short intervals and kept safe from injury. The whole area was so populated with trees and greenery that nothing was visible beyond a few feet. Only the area between hills and Phoolbari had rice fields with just a few trees and vacant baris. However, there were still some hens, goats, and cows roaming around and since I had to risk my jawaans every time we needed food, we would use the wandering animals for our meals. Although I had given an order that no jawaans should kill any animal without informing me first, I was aware that it was still happening; given the circumstances, I ignored the disobedience. Ghulam Muhammed and the Bengali guide would often bring fish from the ponds of the baris. We had ample local fruits including banana, pineapple, jamun, mangoes, coconut and lychee. Several times the Bengali Muslims who had fled would sneak back to see if their families were safe, as their women and children were still in East Pakistan. We would get intelligence information about them each time they visited. We would struggle to maintain security on the routes so diligently that these Bengalis were captured by us most of the time. Since there was continuous bombardment from India, the returning Bengalis were overconfident; each time they were captured they would tell us that it was the Indian Army who encouraged them to move freely across the border. They did not know that though there weren’t many of us, we were watching all the routes.
One day the defense post in hills captured four Bengalis; they were well-dressed and were singing loudly while crossing the border. They told us that the Indian Army had assured them that the area was safe for them to travel on which is why they were shocked to see us on this side of the border. They were from the East Pakistan PWD. One was an SDO and the other three were overseers and they were all fluent in both Urdu and English. I took the opportunity of questioning them about the situation on the opposite side of the border, and the details they gave me went something like this: all the absconders from East Bengal were being held in camps, and there were separate camps for Muslims and non-Muslims. Most of the non-Muslims had run away with their women and children and they had better facilities in their camps, whereas the Muslims had left their families behind and were on their own. The young Bengalis
camps, whereas the Muslims had left their families behind and were on their own. The young Bengalis were being trained for insurgencies in a very organized manner by India. Men and women were kept separate in the Muslim camps. Every night, especially in the Muslim women camps, the Indian army would handpick women for entertainment and send them back in the morning. Sometimes even the nonMuslim women were not spared this indecency. They were served some rice and thin lentil curry for their meals. If any Muslim man tried to protest, he was dealt with harshly. They were not allowed to move around or leave the camp sites, which were mostly along the border. Educated Bengalis were specially trained to lay land mines, and blow up bridges and street lights. All in all, the Indian forces were organizing the escaped Bengalis under the banner of Mukti Bahini to send them to East Pakistan to fight the Pakistan Army. Some educated Bengalis were given more ‘superior’ duties; they were to bring young women from the camps to the Indian Army officers and supervise the rest of the camps. These Bengalis were given special security passes as a favor and were free to move around. They could even visit Calcutta to watch movies, whereas the other men were restricted in their movements and were allowed to move only up to certain points. These four men we had captured were among those ‘free supervisor Bengalis and had also traveled to Calcutta multiple times.
I tried to take the four Bengalis into my confidence so that they might be less afraid and divulge the actual situation as it was across the border. I was inclined to believe what they had told me, since their own women were still in East Pakistan. They had chosen to work as pimps for the Indian Army to get special treatment for themselves and, in doing so, disgraced the Muslim women in the camps. I questioned them closely and checked them superficially to see if they were carrying any weapons; they were not. I also arranged for them to be fed and, when I felt that they were quite comfortable with me, I asked them the reason for their visit to our side of the border and why they were in such a hurry. They informed me that they had come to meet their families and tell them that they were safe. They had run because we had tried to stop them; according to them, it was a common belief amongst them that the Pakistan Army would shoot any Bengali, irrespective of their religion – another propaganda of the Indians. They eventually became so relaxed and comfortable with me that one of them even told me that they had had their share of fun with the young women in the camps although they loved their wives and children dearly. I was furious upon hearing this. The Indian Army officers were non-Muslims, but these Muslims had no respect for the women of their own faith! I began to doubt if they were even real Muslims. I called my senior Subaydar Sahib and asked him to take each one of them aside and examine them to determine if they were circumcised and were in fact Muslims.
According to my Subaydar Sahib’s report, two of them were Muslims and two were not although all of them had claimed to be Muslims. They were well-educated and were accustomed to a comfortable life. Therefore, after just a little harsh treatment, the two non-Muslims confessed to their true religion. I wanted to shoot all four of them but I believe I showed remarkable patience in order to get more information. I ordered them to be thoroughly searched, and all of them had both Indian and Pakistani currency in their possession. The SDO had a few letters in his pocket which were written in Bengali; our
The corpses were filmed thousands of times; the insurgencies, terrorism and breaking of international border laws by the Indian troops should have been very apparent to the whole world but the propaganda of the Indian media was not only effective but difficult to compete with. Our leaders and politicians took no advantage of this opportunity. My CO (may God give him the highest position in paradise) would visit every check post to encourage the jawaans till the very end, and it was because of this that the morale and hopes of every single jawaan were unparalleled in the face of immeasurable difficulties, irreplaceable losses, and several other overwhelming and unavoidable situations.
I wish the historians could validate and give due credit to this unacknowledged and unwritten history somewhere in the pages of history books. Although the Indians used every tactic to lower our morale from May till July, our battalion stood as steadfast as an iron wall in the face of the daunting ploys of the enemy. The escaped AL leaders had initiated their ‘so-called’ Bangladeshi Radio Station in Calcutta with the help of the Indians. They would spread propaganda against Pakistan and its Army day in and day out without fail. Ironically, multiple times the radio station announced the news that I had been killed; we could only laugh at such broadcasts.
13. The Bloody Incident of Halda Nadi
the escaped Bengalis to their wives assuring them that they loved them deeply and that, with the help of the Indian Army, they would kill all the Pakistani Army personnel. The letters also promised that their ‘Sonar Bangla’ would be free and they would live ostentatiously. The letters stated that the Bengalis were suffering each moment they were without their wives by their side. They had also advised their wives to keep themselves safe from the Pakistan Army officers and jawaans as, according to them, if a soldier of the Pakistan Army ever came across a Bengali woman, he would impregnate her. They thought that the Pakistan Army had only one mission: to impregnate all Bengali women. You can imagine how I felt, after they had told me what kind of service they had been providing to the Indian Army officers and jawaans and after I heard what they were saying to their wives in the letters. I abruptly ordered them to stand up, and asked my Subaydar Sahib to remove all their clothes except for their dhotis. They were then handcuffed with their hands behind their backs.
They were appalled at the sudden change in my attitude and I could see them becoming pale with apprehension. The SDO tried to talk me out of my decision but he shut his mouth after a single slap. I was not only fuming but distressed, and determined to kill them. We found another paper in the dhoti of the SDO in which derogatory words were used for the Pakistan Army with instructions to be informed of their strategic and defensive positions. In return I asked them to write statements about their anti-state activities, took their signatures and asked them how traitors and anti-state locals should be punished. With trembling voices they responded that such people should be killed but, at the same time, they pleaded that they had been forced to do what they did. Nonetheless, I meted out the punishment they had suggested, and sent their letters along with their statements to the battalion headquarters. I was strongly reprimanded later by the headquarters for having punished them rather than transferring them to the ISI. I expressed my emotions and sentiments to the CO and stated that, although I was responsible for having them shot dead, I felt no guilt about my actions. Those men had been operating as pimps and supplying Muslim women to the Indian Army, while propagating lies that the Pakistan Army were the ones raping them. Such were the policies in East Pakistan.
The area between my company and Halda Nadi was a difficult one because it was covered by water and a thick jungle, whereas all the check posts on the other side of the border were on a higher level allowing the Mukti Bahini and Indian insurgents to carry out frequent incursions into my area. My company suffered severe losses in the beginning because of the landmines and booby traps, but our martyred and injured jawaans were not being actively replaced. Many companies in East Pakistan could rely only on God; there were no replacements for our lost lives and whatever orders were received were political with no relation to our professional military training.
Even so, the Indian Army and Mukti Bahini would not dare to face or fight us openly. Once an Indian battalion attacked one of our companies with the support of artilleries and tanks, but they were forced to retreat. Our jawaans grew tired of picking up the dead bodies of Indian soldiers. Later, their bodies were placed in an open rail bogie, and were taken to Dhaka, where they were displayed to the media reporters. The corpses were filmed thousands of times; the insurgencies, terrorism and breaking of international
With the start of the rainy season in July 1971, our difficulties increased. However, somehow the insurgencies of the Mukti Bahini and Indian Army lessened. All the large and small streams were now extensive lakes, and dark clouds, rain and vegetation were all-encompassing. In any other circumstances, the climatic conditions would have been perfect for a romantic atmosphere, but there was no sign of romance for us. We possessed so much love for the country, and the spirit of keeping it all together was what made us tolerate all the hardships. It was unimaginable how a person born and raised in places like Lahore, Sialkot, Gujarat, Jhelum, Rawalpindi and Azad Kashmir could cope with being surrounded by water and carrying out constant reconnaissance to ensure safety and security. When the jawaans would return to the barracks at the end of their missions, one could hear chants of God is Great’ everywhere. On several occasions, the jawaans would come back with leeches on their legs from walking in water for hours on end. I could see their legs bleeding and I wondered at their strength of purpose. After lengthy reconnaissance and enduring the bombardment by the Indian Army for twenty-four straight hours, these men would be ready to perform their duties the very next day, their weapons on their shoulders.
July 10th turned out to be an extremely horrific and distressing day; it was a difficult test for the Pakistan Army, especially our battalion. Whenever our CO Sahib, an experienced and brave professional soldier, would visit the companies, he would be extremely cautious and careful as we were essentially surrounded by enemies in all directions. On the morning of July 10, as planned, the CO left the battalion headquarters with other officers and a strong team of jawaans for a company stationed in Halda Nadi. He gave necessary instructions to the company commander and the jawaans when he reached there. He was
At the time I was unaware that I was seeing Major Javed Barkat for the last time in my life. A few days later, I heard that he too had been martyred and his body lost forever in the wet Bengali land. When I returned to Model Town after my release from the POW camp in India, I found out that he had a son who must be a grown man by now.
14. An Interesting Incident
for controlling Comilla city), the battalion MO, the battalion intelligence Subaydar Major Sahib and battalion MP hawaldaar. Our doctor examined the jawaans and carried out health checks; Major Bukhari completed his reconnaissance of artillery targets. Everyone ate after their assigned jobs were completed and after some time got into the motorboats and set off.
Major Hyatt Durrani, the company commander in Halda Nadi, saw them off, but our QM Major Javed Warriach (who later retired as a brigadier and settled in Lahore) changed his mind and decided to stay back with the authorization of the Co. Our CO had been away from the battalion headquarters since the morning and had spent the entire day in Halda Nadi so, despite being a cautious individual, he was in a rush to reach the HQ and was some way ahead of the rest of the party. Unfortunately, the enemy was aware of his presence in the area because of their local intelligence. Halda Nadi was a twisting maze, and on one particular turn, the enemy was waiting to ambush our dear Commander Sahib’s motorboat. As the boat rounded the corner, the enemy opened heavy fire with their automatic machine guns. Within the next few seconds, hundreds of bullets pierced the bodies of everyone in the motorboat and our dear, amiable and loving commanding officer, Colonel Mazhar Qayyum, was martyred along with all his companions. At the sound of the firing, the jawaans in the motorboat behind our CO raised a commotion and raced forward, but the enemy had already achieved their aim. They went into hiding and dispersed in the jungle on hearing the emotional chants of our jawaans. All the jawaans found were the dead bodies of the martyrs. They were placed in the motorboats and brought back to the battalion HQ.
The arrival of the bodies caused further uproar at the battalion HQ and the news spread like wildfire. It felt as if the sky had fallen on our heads from above. However, their martyrdom only strengthened our faith, convincing us all to pledge to avenge our fallen comrades with a newly reinforced spirit. The postmortem revealed that each body was pierced by hundreds of bullets. At night, the earth of Comilla opened and accepted the loan of all the martyred bodies. Till the end of the last week of July, the 2IC, Major Mohammad Asghar, performed the duties of our late commanding officer, after which Lieutenant Colonel Aftab Ahmad Qureshi, my companion in the Eleven (11) Baluch Regiment, assumed command.
The arrival of a new friend did help to alleviate the massive lingering sadness of the martyred Colonel Sahib. Colonel Qureshi (who was awarded the Sitara-e-Jurrat during the war, later retired as a brigadier and settled in Rawalpindi until he died) visited my company first and we were very pleased to meet each other. He would visit me frequently, and encouraged and advised us.
A comparatively pleasant incident occurred during those days. One fine day my hawaldaar major informed me that two officers from the FF Regiment had come to meet with me. As I left my office, I was surprised and delighted to see Major Javed Barkat, who was my neighbor in Model Town, Lahore, and Major Yusuf, who was also a friend. Major Javed Sahib was the younger brother of my friend Chaudhry Imtiaz, and had a high regard for me; he would always address me as bhai jaan. I can’t express in words the satisfaction and contentment I felt to see a young man from my neighborhood in Lahore in such circumstances. They were on their way to a special mission and had dropped by to meet me.
At the time I was unaware that I was seeing Major Javed Barkat for the last time in my life. A few days
It seemed that there were fewer insurgencies led by the Mukti Bahini and the Indian Army because of the monsoon season, but this wasn’t the only reason behind the decreased attacks. India was training the escaped Bengali Army and the Mukti Bahini and their plan was that they would step up their insurgencies as soon as the weather dried out and pressurize the Pakistan Army. The monsoon season had not yet ended when the insurgencies increased, not just in frequency but in intensity too. I started receiving reports from one police station after another about dreadful incidents. Although our numbers were few and the area of responsibilities could not easily be managed, our jawaans were busy day and night fighting the Mukti Bahini insurgents.
As we got busier, so did the members of the peace committee as we followed the recommendations of the committee before punishing any insurgent. I was given a complete train with two engines so I could move freely wherever and whenever required. Sometimes, when I got the opportunity, I would visit the old places where I had served and felt better being near my battalion. Another reason was that moving around frequently made it harder for the insurgents to cause damage. I was also continuously getting intelligence reports that there had been significant incursions by the Indian Army and Mukti Bahini across the border, and that their movements were increasing on a daily basis. Other reports described the presence of tanks and armored corps at several places. The rain made it extremely difficult to use tanks but some areas became fit for the tanks as the bad weather dissipated. I guess that was the real plan of the Indian Army: to use armored corps to bring on the real storm once the monsoon was over. A semblance of peace, albeit temporary, had brought back some measure of normalcy in Kishoreganj, Bhairab Bazaar and other areas, but this only pointed towards the advent of more sinister actions. The Indian army had increased its deployment, armored and artillery corps had moved along the border, and the training of the Mukti Bahini had been completed in accordance with their plans. As the month of September started and the weather changed, the encounters increased.
On our side, the Pakistan Army had been enormously impaired over the previous few months; there were neither replacements for the martyrs nor any succor for the injured. In spite of all this, the morale of the Pakistan Army remained high and not once did we provide the Indian Army any opportunities to cross the border. However, they used their ammunition continuously day and night, and we had to be very careful about using our ammunition; we also had to get permission from the higher command first before using the limited amount of machinery and weapons we had. Before I start talking about the events that occurred after the month of September, let me mention an unusual and extraordinary incident that
happened to me.
I was somewhat relaxed after establishing some peace in Kishoreganj and the surrounding cities; I was especially happy to see normal life return to schools, colleges and markets. I therefore started meeting the common people and the civil society so I could gain their trust and help them in all possible and legal ways. One day, the rain had dispersed and the sun shone brightly. I was in my office carrying out my routine tasks and Inspector Gul Akbar was also with me, when my Subaydar Sahib informed me that Layla and Majnun from Bajitpur had come to meet with me. I did not understand at first but when my Subaydar Sahib reminded me, I remembered the whole incident. I had mentioned earlier that with special permission from my CO, I had carried out a certain action in Bajitpur based on the report provided to me by a Punjabi hawaldaar, during which the head of Mukti Bahini and many other insurgents were killed. We had also arrested many people among whom there was also a PWD clerk who had run from Kishoreganj to Bajitpur. When we arrested him, his wife hugged him and clung tightly to him preventing my jawaans from taking him away. We tried our best to put her with the other women but she just did not want to let her husband go. Whenever my jawaans would separate her from her husband, she would lie down on the floor and throw a fit swearing at India, Indira Gandhi and the Indians. We struggled to calm her down and just when we felt we had succeeded, she would run back to her husband and cling tight to him again. Finally, seeing her distress, I sent both of them to Kishoreganj.
During the investigation, the only information we could obtain was that the individual was a clerk in PWD but his wife spoke out on his behalf, assuring us that he was a peaceful citizen. She also made it clear to us that she would never leave him. I provided them with an opportunity to live like peaceful citizens by giving a letter to her husband that would allow him to continue his duties as a PWD clerk.
This was the same couple who had come to see me. I called them into my office and the first thing they did when they entered my office was touch my feet in Bengali, rather Hindu, culture and tradition. They were both thrilled to see me again, especially the wife and she kept twittering like a bird. I was also surprised to see the husband was wearing a cap which usually Muslims wore during prayers. The wife placed a basket of fruit on my table and, when I asked her why, she blushed and asked her husband to answer. When I insisted on knowing she told me that she was pregnant, after 10 years of marriage. The way the two blushed, I couldn’t stop laughing. He told me the reason he wore the cap was because the couple had accepted Islam with the help of Moulana Athar Ali Sahib and he himself was attending a madrassa to learn the Quran. Only God knows what changed the heart of this couple but the peace committee confirmed their story and they would frequently visit me during my stay.
me. This time, I was ordered to go to the district Mymensingh, which was later renamed Mominabad. I was assigned the duties of Deputy Martial Law Administrator in the subdivision of Kishoreganj, which was the biggest subdivision in East Pakistan with 19 police stations. I gathered my company in Katti Chowk, traveled to Brahmanbaria and reached Ashuganj. Colonel Sahib was with me. We took two launches in the Meghna River, and at Sirar Chor we had to take a train to Kishoreganj. Sirar Chor had a local flea market that day and was quite crowded. We saw boats, steamers and launches in the Meghna River and it seemed that life was returning to how it once was, but it was hard to pass through the market because of the pungent smell of raw seafood.
As we reached the railroad station, a train was ready to leave for Kishoreganj. We boarded the train, and Colonel Sahib said goodbye to us before taking a train back to HQ. Colonel Sahib had done a special favor to me by traveling so far just to see us off, because this was the first time that I was going so far from the battalion and had been assigned quite such a significant and independent responsibility. Our train set off and we had not yet entered Kishoreganj when I saw a few people waving at us from a small bridge over a stream, pleading with us to stop the train. The railroad guard was with us so we asked him to stop the train and, as it did, the men came running towards us. One of them was an old man who introduced himself to me; he was the president of the Kishoreganj peace committee, Moulana Musleh Uddin Sahib, he informed me about how certain non-Muslim families had been engaged in suspicious activities so they had put a stop to them and confiscated their boats. We took them and the families along with us and arrived at Kishoreganj. The HQ of the sub-martial law administrator was in the Daak bungalow, next to the railroad station, and we were welcomed by an artillery regiment Captain. We spent the night there. The Captain Sahib advised us to visit a small village by the name of Gafargaon. I left the families with Moulana Musleh Uddin Sahib and set off for Gafargaon with my company the same day.
The village was built round a railroad station next to a town called Mymensingh. It was a large railroad station where the station master was a Bihari. His family had been killed by the Bengalis prior to March 1971, yet he was still diligently performing his duties. Our train reached Gafargaon and, within a few minutes, I ordered my company to stay in a school building as some jawaans from the Signal Corps were already living there. Obviously, the school was closed and its staff, along with their families, were staying in the school quarters. We were told that an individual by the name ‘Saddique Tiger’ was involved in insurgencies and anti-state activities in the suburbs of Gafargaon. The people were frightened of him and respected him out of fear, and he had always managed to escape from the Pakistan Army. I was actually called in to take action against him but the orders were abruptly changed for reasons unknown to me. I was reordered to leave Gafargaon and move back to Kishoreganj again along with my company, leaving behind one of my platoons in the village. My company had already been diminished as our jawaans had been martyred and many injured in previous missions. I didn’t want to leave any of my jawaans in a remote and isolated region, but an order could never be disobeyed. It was the norm in those days for the Pakistan Army to receive inappropriate and unusual orders. So, with a heavy heart, I ordered the best of my platoon commanders to remain in Gafargaon and early the next morning, I left for Kishoreganj with
15. Some Temporary Peaceful Moments – As a Deputy Martial Law Administrator
On August 10″, 1971 I received orders to move to another destination. The late Colonel Mazhar Qayyum Sahib used to send me to all the far-flung areas and since our present CO, Colonel Aftab Ahmad Qureshi was a friend from my old platoon, any sensitive battalion responsibility and mission was always given to
the rest of my company. The most astonishing thing I noted in Gafargaon was a Shaheed Minar in the school building which was built in the honor of insurgents who were killed during their anti-state actions. People would worship these minarets as if they were Hindu gods, lighting dias and draping them with wilted flowers; it was only later that I found out that the AL workers, along with the Hindus, had built several such minarets which were worshiped as holy places. It was shocking to see such a practice in Pakistan.
As mentioned earlier, Kishoreganj was the largest division consisting of 19 police stations and to control such a big area with a limited number of jawaans was one of the most difficult tasks. Also, most of the police stations were surrounded by water where the only means of transportation was by river boats. Telephone lines had been cut and there were no arrangements for proper communications. At night, the artillery corps captain shared the details of the area with me and explained the situation before setting off with his small party early the next morning to his unit. Giving such a political responsibility to the army was unfair but I had no other option than to say ‘Yes Sir’, no matter how heavy my heart was. The only encouragement we received was the support of the two platoons from the Punjab Police, headed by Inspector Gull Akbar Sahib in Kishoreganj. This increase in the number of jawaans gave me some hope. It was an odd coincidence that countless jawaans of the Punjab Police were sent to East Pakistan; their morale was high because of the presence of the Pakistan Army and, despite not having been trained to carry out such duties, they helped us out. Inspector Gul was a smart and professional officer. (A few years later, after being a POW, I heard about an Inspector Gul who was an SHO in the police station of Qila Gujjar Singh in the Punjab. I went hoping to meet him again and was very sorry to hear that he had died; the officer at Qilar Gujjar Singh was actually the younger brother of the Inspector Gul I knew.)
Only Hasanpur police station was located on dry land, otherwise all the police stations, Retina, Nikki, Pakundia, Patuakhali et cetera, remained surrounded by water throughout the year. I mostly assigned the Punjab Police to look after the main city. One day, members of the peace committee came to meet with me. Under the presidency of Syed Musleh Uddin Sahib, the peace committee was well organized and performed its job well, especially the secretary of the committee, Uwal Khan, who was a smart and educated gentleman. Syed Musleh Uddin was also the Vice President of the Pakistani Democratic Party. The entire peace committee appeared to be sincere and patriotic. Amongst them, another gentle soul, Moulana Athar Ali Khan Sahib, was the in-charge of a big Deoband madrassa in Kishoreganj and he remained involved in activities against the Mukti Bahini and other anti-state elements. The intelligence network of these people was quite helpful to me as we tried to restore normalcy to Kishoreganj. All of Syed Musleh Uddin Sahib’s sons were volunteers in the peace committee, working continually against the threatening anti-state elements. Besides them, another young man, Masood Aalam, proved to be very useful to us. He was a Bihari himself, but he was very well aware of the ways and nature of the Bengalis and would often keep me posted about their activities. Masood Aalam was the son of the proprietor of Pakistan Jute Mill and Pakistan Matches Mill and was in charge of the big godowns in Kishoreganj (several years later I got the opportunity to visit Karachi and meet him where he had settled with his
family).
The peace committee and these men aided me significantly in normalizing life in Kishoreganj. Syed Musleh Uddin himself was a true Pakistani. He was an amiable man who, surprisingly, knew all of Allama Iqbal’s and Moulana Rumi’s poetry by heart; he would frequently recite their poems to me. Recognizing the patriotism of Syed Sahib, I would take all the issues to the peace committee for resolution; the committee would investigate and choose a solution for the matter which would be carried out once I gave my final approval. Another reason why I always involved them was that I did not want the Pakistan Army to be blamed for any decisions once peace was restored. I maintained all the records of punishments along with the investigative records from the peace committee so they could be reviewed by anyone if needed (I had to destroy all that record when we surrendered); my brigade commander was very satisfied with this system. I had also ordered all the local police to be under the command of the peace committee. Although all the final actions, judgments and punishments needed the Pakistan Army’s approval, I fully involved the peace committee in everything.
By the grace of God and our tireless efforts, peace was almost completely restored in the Kishoreganj subdivision, insurgency was virtually non-existent, schools and colleges reopened, markets and theaters became crowded again, people from surrounding villages began coming in to the city without fear. It almost seemed that there had never been a dark time here. I would frequently call members of the civil society for meetings in the headquarters – teachers, lawyers, doctors and rich people – and would advise them based on my intelligence and capability about the aims and the goals of the anti-state elements, especially the malicious non-Muslims and rebels. Initially I noted that they doubted and feared the Army but eventually and after a series of meetings, I noticed an obvious change in their attitudes. Besides this work in the city, I had also assigned smaller troops to more remote police stations and had instructed them to win the confidence of the local population through decent behavior. The presence of the troops in the police stations also encouraged the local police and made them feel safer. I received positive reports from everywhere because of these measures, all of which were supported by the peace committee.
After taking all these measures, I called a meeting one day with the security police inspector who was assigned to me from day one to maintain local security. I asked him for the specifics of the city and about the non-Muslims in the city. In East Pakistan, non-Muslims were mostly fishermen, barbers and cleaners, and this class of people usually kept to themselves; on the other hand, the educated class was a problem. I asked the security inspector to compile a list of the non-Muslim families residing in Kishoreganj and the surrounding towns; the intelligence reports I had received indicated that there were still many educated and rich families in the city. Those families could not openly harm the place because of the Army but they were being visited by suspicious people and this was a concern for me. I did not want any disturbance of the peace which had been restored after such effort.
The police inspector gave me a report the very next day and I was shocked to review it. There were about 500 non-Muslim families living in Kishoreganj and the majority of them were educated and welloff. The inspector insisted that they were all peace-loving and patriotic individuals but I couldn’t believe
this claim under any circumstances. I was well aware of the fact that the non-Muslims of East Pakistan played a major role in this disaster in my beloved country; they controlled educational institutions and business, and they had misled the younger generation through propaganda. It was because of them that the young generation of East Pakistan was now the enemy of their own country; they had become arsonists of their own home.
I asked the inspector to provide me with more details about the families on the list. I wanted the peace committee to investigate and agree on which families were abiding by the law and which had been involved in insurgencies. No one had focused attention on them prior to this, which is why they were still strong within the city. I only gave the committee a couple of days to complete their investigation and give me a full report.
The report was sent to me and it was just what I had suspected: the young people in those families were secretly and frequently meeting with the Mukti Bahini and were fully involved in anti-state activities. I also got an intelligence report that some Muslim families from the ‘civil society’ were hiding non-Muslim insurgents and in return their young women were sleeping with them. I made a detailed plan with my senior Subaydar Sahib and Inspector Gul Akbar to purge these families. I gathered a strong team of police and jawaans and assigned them to surround each family after midnight, when the city was silent, and the families were to be brought to the martial law headquarters one by one. Although there were orders for a curfew that night, we caught several Muslims sleeping with young non-Muslim women in their homes during our raids. I had assigned a few separate rooms in the headquarters to accommodate these families, and the peace committee was asked to investigate each family thoroughly and instructed to provide me with a report the following day. Men were usually given the punishment suggested by the peace committee and their women and children were sent in boats across the Meghna River to India. Mostly, the men were sentenced to death. When I caught these Muslim men allowing non-Muslims to perform anti-state activities in return for favors, they began complaining about my cruelty and dishonesty, calling me a womanizer. They filed many applications against me. I had no doubt that my brigade commander Brigadier Asad Allah Khan, who was a ghazi and a mujahid, was keeping an eagle eye on his officers and nothing was hidden from him. He trusted me to the point that he had given standing orders to his staff officer, Colonel Ameer Mohammad Khan, to trash any such complaint filed against me. They also tried to turn Syed Musleh Uddin against me and even told him “Major Sahib, along with his special friends, is raping non-Muslim women who had been taken to the martial law headquarters at night.” My standing orders were that if any woman was brought to the headquarters, all the lights should be kept on throughout the night in the Daak Bungalow, fully guarded by the police and my jawaans. I had also assigned Ghulam Muhammed to ensure that no one touched any woman; if any of my jawaans took advantage of these women in spite of my efforts, I was unaware of it. In a few days, we got rid of all the troublesome families, restoring peace. Several non-Muslim families who were given clearance by the peace committee still resided there and I personally ensured their safety.
During this time, the auspicious day of August 14h also arrived, the day we got independence; I want to
share how I spent that day. Early in the morning after prayers I went to the mosque with Syed Musleh Uddin Sahib where a Quran recital was arranged. We prayed to God for the country and for the unity of the nation. At 1000 hours there was a parade by police volunteers, school and college scouts, and girl guides, and performances by school children. We had advertised the parade hoping that the maximum amount of people would turn up. My one and only aim was to gather together as many people as I could to promote the message of East and West Pakistan being a single nation and the need for it to remain so. Although I hadn’t given any orders in that respect, the markets were decorated as if for a wedding and no house was without a Pakistani flag.
The stadium was full even before I arrived and the participants in the parade were lined up in their allocated places. As I entered the stadium in my jeep, everyone stood up and began chanting ‘God is Great and Pakistan Zindabad. I got out of the jeep and went to the elaborately decorated stage to take the guard of honor. I was welcomed by the senior police and civil officers and the peace committee members and asked to conduct the flag ceremony. When I did, the whole stadium chanted, cheered and applauded. After witnessing so many killings and living through terrible days and terrifying nights, this dynamic sight made me question whether I was delirious or dreaming. I had spent many months along the border amid continuous shelling and firing, I had lived with such caution that even turning on a lantern was dangerous, yet that day I was in a city with solid buildings, proper roads, electricity and myriad lights, and a massive crowd cheering and applauding with unparalleled emotion and sentiment. I really cannot express how I felt in that moment. I had seen many national days but, on that particular day, even an ordinary Pakistan Army officer like me who was not normally considered significant in such ceremonies was the VIP and the center of attention of thousands of people. It was a remarkable, unbelievable and unforgettable sight and feeling for me. Since I had been in Kishoreganj, I had become a most prominent and respected person in the city, and only God would know if this was because of our good behavior or out of fear, but it was simply remarkable.
After the recitation of the Holy Quran, Syed Musleh Uddin delivered an emotional and stirring message, quoting many verses of Allama Iqbal. A few other people came forward and delivered their speeches and, at the very end, I was asked to address the ceremony. I had a little experience of giving lectures to my jawaans because of my commander responsibilities but this was the first time in my life that I was being asked to address such a large public gathering. However, after remembering God, I stood up and was ready to talk; our military training teaches us to face new challenges. I started by recollecting history, reminding people why we demanded the state of Pakistan, and repeating the two nation theory, the philosophy of nationhood in Islam and the plans and anti-Islam ideology of the Hindus. My speech lasted an hour and the audience displayed great emotion. However, I was surprised that I had been able to deliver an extempore speech, and a good one for one whole hour. My heart told me it was because of the blessing of God and the love I possessed for my country. The way people reacted and congratulated me, including Syed Musleh Uddin and other guests, reassured me that I had spoken well. In the words of Amir Khusroo: Mun aanum kay mun danum.
Besides the event of August 14″, 1971, I was given remarkable importance and respect in Kishoreganj. Even during my routine reconnaissance, people passing by would stop to meet me, and women and children would stand at their doors to watch me. I was the chief guest at various cultural and religious ceremonies in schools and colleges. When I was alone in my room, I frequently wondered why such remarkable events were happening to me, ones I could never have imagined as I was aware of my rank, position and value. I would simply write down my feelings in my diary every night.
By the end of August, while writing a letter to my family back home in Lahore, I mentioned that the events that were happening were so remarkable and unbelievable that my sixth sense was hinting at an impending devastating storm. At the time I had no idea if the storm would be of insults and recriminations or of praise. As suspected, the events that took place in the next few months supported my sixth sense.
16. A Few Unbelievable Incidents
Another interesting and rather peculiar incident happened during those days. I was informed by the Etna police headquarters that a strong, organized group of students was carrying out insurgencies and propaganda against the Pakistan Army. I sent my Subaydar Sahib with police jawaans to arrest the students. We were astonished to discover that the leader of this group was a young Muslim girl. This part of East Pakistan was submerged in water for 12 months of the year; the only means of transport was by boat which is why it was difficult to hide any activities. The group of students consisted of both nonMuslim and Muslim students and they had their own intelligence network, so when my men raided them, all of them apart from their leader had already escaped. The girl was arrested and brought to the martial law headquarters in the evening.
I was astonished to see how young the girl was, her figure was absolutely stunning and in no way did she look like the typical Bengali girls. My Subaydar Sahib gave me the detailed report of her arrest; she had refused to divulge anything about the other group members during interrogation. When I asked her the same question, she answered me in fluent English and in a rather direct manner; she claimed that my men couldn’t arrest any man which is why they had brought a girl to me. She was also fluent in Urdu and it seemed that she wasn’t worried about her arrest and had no fear of us. However, when I questioned her rather more harshly, it seemed to alarm her and she admitted to being the leader of a student group who were acting against the Pakistan Army. She genuinely believed that the Army was killing Bengali men and raping their women and it was obvious that she was under the influence of our enemy’s propaganda. She was young, extremely pretty and a Muslim, and I was incredibly sorry that she actually believed this. I wanted to dispel all her doubts about the Pakistan Army so I decided that I would personally interrogate her and find out further details. I ordered my Subaydar Sahib to take the girl to my room and asked my orderly to serve her some hot tea. I also ordered Ghulam Muhammed mujawar to watch her and take care of her while I was in my office. She was a very beautiful young girl and had I kept her in another room
reserved for women, she could still have been harmed in spite of the security. This was why I had decided to keep her in my room instead. Despite the presence of Ghulam Muhammed and the guards, any police officer or one of my jawaans could have taken advantage of her.
I was occupied in work in my office for some time. When I went to my room around the time of evening prayer, she was sitting on the sofa with her head down and Ghulam Muhammed was sitting on the floor, talking to her in Bengali. She looked up as I came in and stared at me rather suspiciously. I removed my cap and belt and went to the dressing room where I changed, did my ablutions and offered my prayers. Then I returned and sat across from her, looking at her face. She was without doubt extremely attractive and must have been around 17 or 18 years of age. She was wearing a traditional sari. I started a conversation with her in Urdu and English. She told me she had two brothers, both younger than her; her father was a small business owner and both her parents were peaceful people. She was in the 12th grade in a college in Kishoreganj. When the schools and colleges were closed in March, she left the hostel and went to her village. She was in love with a non-Muslim boy who was her classmate and she had initially started participating in the insurgencies because of him. She was smart and intelligent and, after joining the group, she was elected as the group leader because of her intellect. They had not been involved in any insurgency action but had organized meetings and gathered people together to spread propaganda against the Pakistan Army, trying to involve others in their activities too. I encouraged her to speak to make her feel more comfortable with me so I could carry out my plan. I was forced to stare at her face constantly while talking to her.
I recall that during our conversation Ghulam Muhammed mujawar was with us and I asked him for tea a couple of times until it was time for namaz. I asked her if she knew how to pray and she did; she told me she would pray sometimes. She didn’t want to pray at that particular time so, before I prayed, I asked my orderly to arrange dinner. By the time I finished, my orderly and Ghulam Muhammed had set the dinner table. I don’t remember the girl’s name but I do remember that when I asked her to join me for dinner, she went first to the restroom, and when she returned I didn’t have to invite her to eat – she dug into the food set out on the table.
During the meal, I noted that Ghulam Muhammed seemed to be giving her a little extra attention. Before he got too familiar with her, I gave strict instructions to my orderly and Ghulam Muhammed not to enter the room until I called them. She was listening to me while I was talking to them and as soon as they left, I locked the door. I noticed her startled expression and smiled and told her not to worry. I left the room to change into my pajamas and afterwards we both sat on the sofa. I began explaining the real situation in East Pakistan, and the role that India was playing in the present circumstances. I asked her why she couldn’t find a Muslim boyfriend. She told me her Hindu boyfriend was a handsome and goodnatured person, and she loved him. She told me that though her love for him involved physical contact, she was still a virgin.
We had been talking until almost midnight when she asked me what I was planning to do since our conversation had continued for a while now. She asked me what a man and woman could do when they
were alone in a locked room. I asked her if she was ready to do with me what she thought might be my next move. Her answer was that it wasn’t a matter of her readiness or choice; I was powerful and in charge and she had to do whatever I wanted. She said this with such an innocent smile that I felt a deep compassion for her. God knew that I had no intention of sleeping with her. Perhaps it was because I was afraid of God and I was a coward and scared, or perhaps it was my character – the reader may judge me in any way. The only thing on my mind was that she was a Muslim girl and a virgin, despite loving a Hindu man. I was married, I had daughters and sisters. I had all these mixed emotions and was determined not to touch her although I confess that, when I saw her for the first time, I felt attraction. But believe me, I suppressed all those feelings and emotions. It was midnight, so I put my hand on her head and told her she could sleep on my bed and I would sleep on the couch. She insisted that she would sleep on the couch and I should sleep on my bed. I usually slept in the dark but that night I decided not to turn off the lights; I didn’t have a weapon but I didn’t think the girl posed any risk.
The room was well guarded by sentries, so I went to my bed and she went to the couch. I felt that both of us would not be able to sleep. I asked her opinion regarding the Pakistan Army now that she had been in a closed room with me and I had refrained from touching her. I told her that the Pakistan Army was there for protection and not to rape women but there are good and evil people everywhere in the world. She was perhaps not yet fully convinced as the night was still young and I could still molest her. However, she nodded in agreement. I told her not to worry about anything, I wanted her to feel safe and sleep peacefully. I also decided to sleep. It was against all safety rules and, though she had no weapon, there was still the possibility that she could harm me or even herself. However, after talking to her I was sure that she was harmless and I could sleep safely.
I went to sleep but after some time I woke up to the sound of the door opening and closing. I saw that the couch was empty, the door outside was still closed but the bathroom door was slightly open. The lights were on so I assumed she had gone inside. My thoughts were racing. I wasn’t sure whether my efforts had been successful in conveying the intentions of the army. I had lectured her that night and my purpose was to cleanse her heart of all the feelings she harbored against the Pakistan Army that had been fed by Indian propaganda. As these thoughts chased around in my mind, I kept looking toward the bathroom door. She had been there for a while now, my shaving kit was inside and there were razor blades; she could do anything with the blades. I decided to check up on her and make sure that she was not doing anything reckless. The bathroom door was unlocked and slightly ajar, she was standing in front of the mirror and combing her hair which had become disheveled from lying on the couch. I closed the door and came back and sat on the couch. I was astonished to see that her beauty seemed even more tempting without makeup. She probably had washed her face before combing her hair. There was another couch in the room but when she returned she came straight towards me and sat right next to me. Those were the most difficult moments for me. Though we had been in a room for an entire night, it was for the first time that our bodies had come into contact this way. I swear by God that I am narrating the story with utmost honesty. I was a healthy young man, married, and she was a young and a beautiful girl, alone with me in
my bedroom. No obstacle stood in my way had I wished to take advantage of the situation, no one could have stopped me nor could she have resisted. The way she entered the room and sat beside me, I almost lost control, but I am so thankful to God that I was resolute and Satan failed in his attempt to lead me astray. Even now when I think of that night, I wonder how God gave me such strength.
I honestly admit that, had she not been a Muslim girl, my behavior might have been completely different. But since she was a Muslim, I was determined to remove all the misconceptions she had been fed about the character of the Pakistani Army. I also honestly admit that I enjoyed talking to her so explicitly about sex but that was my limit and I had no intention of doing anything more than that. Since both of us couldn’t sleep and it wasn’t yet morning, I decided to talk to her some more to pass the time. I asked her if she still doubted the character of the Army officers and jawaans, as only one such opportunity should be enough to make a judgment. After all, she had voluntarily come back and sat with me so close. I think she had realized by now that the Pakistan Army wasn’t what she had thought. I began talking to her about that Hindu boy and asked her how she could love a Hindu. I asked her again how she expected me to believe that she hadn’t had sex with him. She swore it was the truth and told me that they would only hug and kiss. The boy had often wanted to do more but she had never allowed him to. I was simply obsessed with getting her on the right path. I had felt a strange closeness and empathy with her from the moment I saw her.
I was talking to her to pass the time but also to get her to trust the Army and, possibly, obtain some relevant information. I asked her repeatedly if she trusted me now and she admitted that she felt safe. I gave her a pillow and asked her to sleep on the couch and I returned to my bed. A few moments later, she was fast asleep. I decided to be cautious in case she did something while I slept, so I called for my orderly and asked him to keep an eye on her. I was tired and went to sleep right away. I woke up at the sound of the morning azan – one of my jawaans was in charge of the azan in the rest house. My orderly was awake and watching her. I asked him to get some hot tea and also to send Ghulam Muhammed. I asked Ghulam Muhammed to keep an eye on the girl and went to the bathroom myself; it was necessary to take these precautions. I shaved and took a shower and by the time I returned my orderly, Ghulam Rasool, had already brought the tea. She was still lying asleep and relaxed on the sofa and I noticed the pallu of her sari was on the floor, leaving her exposed. I picked it up and put it back over her, and she opened her eyes and smiled at me. The first thing she said was Assalamu Alaikum. I asked her to go to the bathroom to freshen up and then have morning tea. I said my morning prayers in the meantime. When she came out I asked her again if she knew how to perform namaz and she said that she not only knew but would frequently recite the Quran as well. We had tea and I started thinking about her being with a Hindu boy. However, she somehow looked different than she had the night before. She asked me not to mention the Hindu boy anymore and told me that she had been awake most of the night, and had been thinking about what I had said to her regarding the Indian propaganda against the Pakistan Army and the kind of misconceptions held by the people of East Pakistan. She had also been thinking about giving up her antistate activities and helping the Pakistan Army instead. I can’t explain how happy I felt as she spoke; I
thanked God and also wished that whatever she said was true and that she would really become a good Muslim and spend her life as a patriotic Pakistani. I left the room after tea and, like every morning, took a walk and returned to the Daak Bungalow. When I returned, Ghulam Muhammed was sitting there talking to her. I asked him for breakfast and went to the bathroom to put on my uniform. As I came out, she was standing in front of the mirror arranging her sari and she returned to the couch when she saw me. We had breakfast and I called my senior Subaydar Sahib. I was well aware that no one would believe how we had spent the night but I didn’t care. God had completed my mission and she had undergone a miraculous change in one night. God could do anything and I told my Subaydar Sahib that an insurgent girl had transformed into a patriotic citizen in one night. My Subaydar Sahib was skeptical about that but I was determined to carry through my plan.
To prove that I had been successful in testing the girl, I told her that I would let her go on the condition that, without any help or interference, she would bring her father and brother to me the next morning. Because of my conduct with her throughout the night, her reactions, and the fact that I had put myself and her to the test, my heart was telling me that she would do exactly as I had asked. Subaydar Sahib advised me not to release the girl and to instead send a message through the local police to her father and brother to come if they wanted to see her. I didn’t take his advice and told the girl that, as proof of her sincerity about the Pakistan Army, she herself should bring her family to me. I asked the local police to escort the girl respectfully to her house and not to harass her. God knows how and why I trusted that girl so much that I allowed her to leave. It was inappropriate and unsafe.
The day passed and night came and the next day and I was still thinking about that girl. Against the advice of my Subaydar Sahib and Inspector Gul Akbar Sahib, my trust in her was being put to the test. After breakfast I went to my office with Inspector Gul and my Subaydar Sahib and we carried out our routine activities and talked about the day’s events. I stared at my watch every few minutes; my heart somehow believed that she would return but doubts were creeping in as time passed. It was 1100 hours when my orderly told me that the girl had returned with an old man and a young boy. I smiled at my two officers, and asked them to bring in the three people. The girl looked fresh but her father and brother seemed scared. They wanted to touch my feet in accordance with the traditional Bengali culture, but I asked them not to. I told them to sit down and offered them hot tea. The father and the brother relaxed a bit after the tea. Her father informed me that the girl had told him everything about that night and he was thankful; God alone knew what he really thought of me. He once again expressed his desire to touch my feet and I stopped him again. After some time I talked briefly and as knowledgeably as I could about Islam and Pakistan. The father and son also promised not to maintain any contact with the insurgents and the brother even told me he would try to distance himself from his social circle. I ordered lunch and they ate in my office. The thing that particularly made me happy was that not only had the girl covered herself properly with the sari, her pallu was covering her head. I gave a letter to their local police station stating that the family shouldn’t be bothered, then said goodbye and sent them back to their village.
I thanked God for the events of the past couple of days, and praised Him. God is the master of all
universes and if He wants, He can change hearts. This incident may be unbelievable for the readers, but my God is witness to what happened and that it happened exactly as I have described above. It was due to God’s special blessings on me and the prayers of my elders.
After a few days the law and order situation had improved considerably, people were returning to markets, schools and colleges, and many gatherings were being arranged where I was commonly invited as the chief guest. I always tried to meet as many people as I could from every walk of life, so that we could have an opportunity to get to know each other better. I was invited to a girls’ college for a Milaad and while I was being introduced to the organization committee and student leaders, I was surprised to see that one of the chief organizers was the same girl who had been with me that night. She greeted me almost like her guru. She had covered her head properly, seemed shy and was busy in organizing the whole function. The principal of the college told me that she had been an outgoing and liberal girl and known for her involvement in anti-state activities. But after the college reopened, everyone noticed a radical change in her. She was now as well-known as before, but this time as a preacher of Islam and a supporter of Pakistan. I can’t express the happiness I felt when I heard this and saw the way she was looking at me. Later, she took me to one side and said, “Sir, I have not mentioned that night to anyone as it was very strange and has completely changed me. Sir, I would also request you not to mention this to anyone because, instead of believing such a remarkable story, people will blame and mistrust you. But only you, I and God know the reality of that night.” I was impressed by her remarkable demeanor. I don’t know if, after the bloody events in East Pakistan, she maintained her honesty or if she returned to her old ways.
One day a young school teacher came to me. She was a Muslim and her father was an insurgent who had been arrested by the police for anti-state activities. His case was also with the peace committee pending a decision. She had quite a fair complexion but otherwise she was a typical Bengali woman. Unexpectedly, she was wearing a burqa, and we did wonder if that was truly her way or if she was trying to impress us. I was in my room and my hawaldaar major brought her to me. I asked her to take a seat; she took off her burqa and sat down in a chair. I was surprised when, instead of telling me the reason of her visit, she first calmly removed the burqa, placed her purse on the table and started looking round the room. Her actions seemed odd. I asked her the reason for her visit and she told me she wanted to talk to me alone and that she wished to go to my bedroom to do so. I told her that my men could be trusted and she could say anything in their presence, but she insisted on talking to me alone. I was surprised by her blatant insistence since no other woman had ever spoken to me this way before. I didn’t want to take her to my bedroom so I asked my men to leave her alone with me in my office.
After everyone had left, she got up from the chair and locked my office door. I was taken aback when she did that and was wondering why she was being so paranoid while talking to me. I had not looked at her up close but, once she had locked my office door and approached me, I realized that she was a beautiful woman with an attractive body. She removed her sari pallu as soon as she came near me, which revealed her figure, and her actions were increasingly confusing. She had not spoken yet; I was getting anxious and asked her to tell me what she wanted. She seemed rather worried at my angry attitude, but
refrained from speaking. I asked her again why she was wasting my time and what she wanted from me. Suddenly, she tried to touch my feet but I stopped her. It was obvious that before she could ask me for anything, she first wanted me to be distracted by her body. Eventually, she spoke and told me that her father had been arrested by the police and was being investigated by the peace committee; he had been charged with anti-state activities and was an important member of the Mukti Bahini. I told her that instead of coming to me, she should have gone to the peace committee members since the matter was not in my hands; they would investigate and then inform me of their final decision. She asked me to talk to the peace committee and request them to let her father go. I refused to do this and told her that I did not influence their investigations, although I have to say that the way she was begging me and trying to seduce me, standing right next to me, I was kind of feeling an important man. I wanted her to continue standing close to me so I could continue looking at her, but thanks to God, I didn’t allow my hormones to overcome my heart and my patriotism. With a massive effort, I asked her to cover up her body with her burqa and talk to the peace committee members. Once she realized that I was serious, she adjusted her sari, picked up her burqa and began putting it on.
I opened my office door and asked my orderly to take the girl away and send my Subaydar Sahib in. As she was leaving, she begged me again and swore that if I released her father, he would never participate in any more anti-state activities. In the evening Syed Musleh Uddin, the chairman of the peace committee, came to report to me. I told him about the school teacher and he informed me that she had already met with the members of the peace committee before coming to me. She had used every possible way to get her father released. According to Syed Sahib, she was a sharp, smart girl. He also told me that her father was a very dangerous insurgent, a member of Mukhti Bahini, and the peace committee had unanimously suggested the death penalty for him.
The man was handed over to us at 0900 hours the next morning so that we could carry out the sentence. He was middle-aged with a strong body and gave the impression of an active and clever man. When I asked him myself about his charges, he pleaded guilty right away, admitting that he had been misguided by some bad people and was responsible for carrying out insurgencies. He told me he wouldn’t do it again. The peace committee had advised me that he should not be trusted. I ordered him to be locked in the quarter guard. The same evening, my bedroom door opened and the school teacher entered. I was changing into my PT kit and was wearing shorts and a vest. I didn’t acknowledge her and instead went out to see where my orderly, guards and guard commander were. My orderly had gone to get my tea. I tried to control my fury with the guard commander as I asked him how a woman could enter my bedroom without my permission. The guard commander said that the woman had told him that Major Sahib had asked her to come and meet him discreetly in the evening, so the commander had allowed her entry. This new allegation made me angrier. I reprimanded the guard commander and told him to be extremely careful in the future as it was also a safety risk. I returned to my room and shouted at the woman and asked her the reason for her visit to my private quarters without permission. She began her seduction routine again and told me she wanted to make me happy in every possible way so I could help her get her father released.
She began to cry loudly and told me that, though her father was guilty, she promised he would return to living a peaceful life if I released him. She had no one but her father in the world. I coldly advised her that I could not do anything for her and that the final decision was always made by the peace committee. She knelt on the floor and crawled towards me, telling me that I had the power to do anything and could even veto the decision of the peace committee. She said that she would keep me happy in such a way that I would forget about everything – for one night, a couple of nights or for as long as I wanted. She told me she was offering her body to me and I could use it any way I wanted and the only thing she wanted in return was the release of her father. She was trying to hold onto my legs and saying I should see just once how wonderful a woman she could be in bed. I felt like I was dreaming some exotic dream, when Ghulam Muhammed entered my room and ‘woke me up’. I will be very honest; it wasn’t the strength of my character that stopped me. It was God who saved me from the disgrace of an evil act that this young Muslim woman was trying to make me commit.
This was the second time I had been able to release myself from the allure of a young woman and I had not been influenced by anyone or anything. I was free and also in control. I asked Ghulam Muhammed to take her away but she was openly offering herself even in his presence. She said that I should sleep with her for just one night and if I wasn’t happy, I need not release her father. I asked Ghulam Muhammad to call my orderly to help him take the woman out of the Daak Bungalow. When Ghulam Muhammed left, she tried one last time to tempt me by exposing her body naked to me, although as soon as Ghulam Muhammed returned with my orderly, my continuing rejection convinced her that I could not be ensnared. I was a man of no use to her so, disappointed, she left the room. After that I gave strict orders to my senior Subaydar Sahib that no one should be allowed to enter my quarters without my permission, man or woman.
The only reason I am recounting these incidents in detail is to testify that, no matter what trials or circumstances one might come across in life, the blessings of God can overcome them. It was so easy in those days to sin, but living in East Pakistan fortified my faith in God, and my faith only got stronger because I was always saved. Man is a weak creature, especially when it comes to a young and beautiful woman.
In a similar incident, a young woman came to my office one day; she wanted protection for her husband who was being investigated by the peace committee. She was wearing a burqa and I assumed her to be a Muslim, but later I found out that she was not and had worn a burqa to gain favor with me. I also learned later that she and her husband converted and became Muslims with the guidance of Syed Musleh Uddin Sahib.
One day Syed Musleh Uddin Sahib told me that the son of a very modest contractor was a womanizer; he was protecting a few non-Muslim families and was sleeping with their women in return for his favors. He gave me the address so I could carry out a raid and confirm this allegation for myself, since this young contractor was also involved in other suspicious activities. One night I raided his house with my jawaans. We did not find him but we caught his young wife red-handed with his servant. We had no concern with
17. Travel to the Border, Again
their personal lives but it was truly upsetting to witness such a distasteful sight. I noted that the woman wasn’t ashamed of what she was doing. She casually put on a sari and walked calmly out of the bedroom; the servant ran away. I just asked her to send her husband to the martial law HQ in the morning. He turned up the next morning and I warned him about the families he was protecting and later sent him to the peace committee.
There were countless such incidents during my stay in Kishoreganj. The most painful thing was to see the helplessness of the local peaceful population of East Pakistan, especially the people who lived in villages and remote areas. Their condition could be described in the words of the Sufi poet Mian Mohammad Baksh: “Life is trapped like sugarcane in a crushing roller.” The Mukti Bahini used to harass them and ask them to provide intelligence regarding the Pakistan Army and would beat them and torture them if they refused. When they left, the Pakistan Army would interrogate them and pressurize them in their own way to give them information about the Mukti Bahini. The worst evil of any civil war is when people slaughter their own countrymen, and women suffer the most. The vast majority of the general population in East Pakistan was experiencing this torture and this was the gift of civil war.
As the rainy season went away and fall approached, we were getting significant intelligence reports from the other side of the border. According to these secret reports, the Indian Army had increased its deployment along the borders and had also trained and prepared an organized army of Mukti Bahini. This army consisted of absconded Bengali regiments, paramilitary forces and young non-Muslims. Kishoreganj was relatively far from the border and we were safe from any ongoing shelling, but we were mistaken in our belief that the return of normal life to the city meant that things were getting better. During those days our brigade commander Brigadier Asad Allah Khan called all martial law administrators to a meeting in Mymensingh. I was extremely happy when I was informed that my sector had become the most peaceful and was awarded first position, especially for the way August 14″ and September 6 had been celebrated by the locals. After staying so long in Kishoreganj and seeing the peace there, I was under the impression that there was peace everywhere. However, my misconception was corrected when on September 28″, 1971 I was suddenly given orders by Brigadier Asad Allah Khan to transfer my duties in Kishoreganj to the Punjab Police Inspector Gul Akbar, and report back to the battalion. I wondered how the Inspector could take charge of such a big city but I had to obey orders. I gathered my company, the members of the peace committee and people from the civil society in the city and told them that I had to leave; everyone was astonished. Inspector Gul Akbar and Syed Musleh Uddin Sahibs asked me repeatedly for the reason for such sudden orders but I myself did not know the facts. I thanked everyone for their cooperation and help, gave them some instructions and boarded my company on the train. The way everyone bid me farewell, with tears in their eyes, cannot be described in words. At the time no one doubted that this would be our last meeting and we would never see each other again. Syed Musleh Uddin and Athar Ali, other members of the peace committee and the volunteers anticipated that things might change in my absence; the fire had not yet been completely put out, but had only subsided for the time being.
We said our goodbyes and left on the train for Bhairab Bazaar on September 29″, 1971. My company had been ordered to stay on the other side of the Meghna River. In Ashuganj, where we had stayed before, my jawaans cleaned their weapons and took care of other equipment. On September 30″, 1971 my co, Colonel Aftab Qureshi, visited us. He explained my next mission to me and went over the area in thorough detail with the help of a map. The place where I was ordered to go consisted entirely of water which is why I was allotted four old launches. Such a task was not only a new experience for me, no unit of the Army had ever been there before. The good news was that I was also assigned a young lieutenant, Pervaz Murad, who had recently got his commission and had joined our battalion just a few days earlier. I was glad to have a fellow officer with me on my new mission. I boarded my company onto the four launches in order, said goodbye to my CO Sahib and left for the new destination.
We were soon on the Meghna River from where we entered the Titas River in the south. We reached a bari called Bunjog. It was almost sunset so we decided to spend the night there. We secured the launches at the river bank, disembarked quickly, and ran an immediate search of the area. All the baris were completely abandoned, with not a single soul or even an animal to be seen. It seemed as though some jinni had passed; there was nothing all around except water. After searching for some time, we found some dry land where we based our company HQ. I ordered the QM hawaldaar to prepare for dinner and searched the area along with Lieutenant Murad and my senior Subaydar Sahibs. I established a few strong check posts and my jawaans set up camp along the river bank to spend the night. We were all done with dinner before sunset and I assigned my jawaans their night duty to guard the check posts. Our mission was to make safe a village called Mool the next morning. According to our intelligence, the Mukti Bahini had relocated to Mool. Although we didn’t see any human or animal, one cruel creature didn’t let us sleep – there were extraordinarily large and vigorous mosquitoes. As it got darker, the frogs also entertained us with their croaking and discordant symphonies. The sun eventually began to rise. We had breakfast before the sun was completely visible above the horizon, and we prepared and distributed the lunch rations to the company to save time by eating lunch while traveling. The village Mool was close to the Comilla-Brahmanbaria road. In other words, we were now traveling towards our battalion HQs camped near Katti Chowk. We were pretty confident that, with the help of the maps, we were headed in the right direction. The masters of all the launches were trustworthy and honest men, so we continued the journey without any significant incident.
At one place, a man was spotted standing at the river bank waving at us. I was informed about this on my wireless by the platoon commander in the first launch. I ordered him to get the man to surrender, secure his weapon, search him and then interrogate him. This individual was wearing a dhoti and banyan. I ordered all the launches to stop, and when I questioned the man, he told me he was from the Mujahid Force and had come from a neighboring bari. He told us that there were also some policemen there but they were harassed by the Mukti Bahini. He pleaded for our help, but I informed him that we were on
another mission and we had to reach our destination by the evening, so we were unable to stop and help. Instead of returning to his village, the man wanted to join us. He told us that he belonged to Mool and could help us in finding the way; he also wanted to fight the Mukti Bahini with us. We took his weapon and asked him to board our launch. We should have been more careful in such circumstances, but we made the blunder of believing a stranger, and we suffered as a result. For the moment, we continued our journey,
18. Looking into the Face of Death, Again
There was no season in East Pakistan when the fields were without jute crops. We were surrounded by water and jute crops from all sides, and the Titas River which we were traveling on was deep. Before evening, we saw two solid buildings on our right and, according to our maps, these were the buildings of the Mool village high school. We were happy to see our destination after traveling for two long days and that too without any real incident. We came alongside the buildings but the man told us we had to take a route through a narrow stream in our launches in order to get close enough to them. We had no choice but to believe the information he gave us; there was no sign of life around. At first, we thought that we could leave the launches in the river and walk along the bank of the stream towards the buildings for reconnaissance and later return to get the launches. However, it then occurred to us that if we came across the enemy while walking on the banks of the stream, we wouldn’t be able to take up position to protect ourselves since we would be surrounded by nothing but water. I knew I had only a few men in my company and if I divided them and left some men behind to keep our launches safe, we would be more vulnerable. So we decided to enter the narrow stream with all our launches and I gave orders for them to spread out a little to reduce the risk if we came under attack. However, we made another blunder. At the suggestion of the mujahid we had picked up earlier, we allowed him to leave us and go on alone towards the buildings as we thought he wouldn’t raise any suspicions because of his attire. He said he would indicate to us once he was near the buildings whether it was safe for us to proceed. We mounted the automatic weapons on the launches and I ordered everyone to assume their positions and be ready for possible attack.
Planning all this and organizing the company took a lot of time and the sun had already set. It was dark by the time we reached the school buildings. Our first launch had just drawn up near the buildings and was passing a half-broken bridge across the water when it suddenly came under attack from heavy automatic weapons from all directions in the surrounding baris. Although we had been vigilant, by the time we stopped our launches and jumped off onto the banks of the stream and assumed positions, a few of my jawaans had already been martyred and my orderly was injured. We were certain that the Bengali mujahid we had picked up had informed the enemy that we were coming. In complete darkness with water all around, we were being attacked by heavy automatic weapons from three sides, while a small dam stood on the stream in the other direction. We couldn’t move, we couldn’t reverse our launches and we
couldn’t respond to the attack as it was impossible to aim at the enemy in complete darkness. We didn’t want to use tracer bullets as that would expose the exact location of our launches. The enemy was just firing indiscriminately without targeting anything in particular. Nonetheless, their attack was so relentless we had to keep our heads down. The enemy then started using tracer rounds but the launches and the dam were providing us with enough protection. We didn’t know what advantage our enemy got from using tracer rounds but it helped us to figure out their positions and we responded with rocket launchers. The intensity of their attack decreased immediately after this. We spent the entire night in this position responding to the attack from time to time. Unfortunately, we were unable to contact our battalion on the wireless set, and the sun had not yet risen when artillery shells began falling around us. At first we thought it was our own artillery trying to help us but even had that been the case, we could easily have become their targets too. We found out later that they were mortars fired by the enemy. Apart from the loss of lives at the start of the attack, we suffered no further losses and returned the fire.
At last, the day dawned and we aimed and fired rockets on the baris located on both sides of the school building. After hearing the firing all night and being out of contact with us, our CO figured out that we were in some kind of trouble. He sent two officers with a few jawaans in high speed light boats to assess the situation. We were being attacked from a bari and the school on the right of where we were, and with the speed boats, they took a round and attacked the enemy from the north, chanting ‘God is Great’ as they sped towards the bari. When we heard ‘God is Great’, our spirits rose and we knew that our friends had arrived to help us. The enemy also realized that they couldn’t fight the Pakistan Army in daylight so they ran away before our back-up reached them, firing randomly. We also started to move towards the school building once the firing completely stopped. We crossed the stream on a broken bridge and entered the school building; nothing was there besides empty bullet shells. We searched the area around the village but the enemy had already moved far away. However, we noticed something odd; our side of the school was surrounded by water and the opposite side was dry land for as far as we could see. We found some people in baris but they had the same old answer; they were just poor people who farmed and had no information about the enemy.
What could we say to those poor villagers? We returned to the school building. I gave orders for strong defensive posts in all four corners and my jawaans had breakfast. I left a few jawaans to look after the launches, and ordered the company to clean their weapons and then rest. Our helpers had also joined us by that time. The officers were Captain Saeed, who became deputy commandant of the Baluch Regimental Center in Abbottabad and later retired as full colonel and settled in Abbottabad, and Major Naeem, who retired as a lieutenant colonel and later settled in Rawalpindi. We had breakfast and I told them what had happened in the past couple of days. They also gave me the rather upsetting news that my close friend and neighbor from Model Town, Lahore, Major Javed Barkat, had been martyred by a landmine. Major Naeem and Captain Saeed took back the injured and the martyred and we remained in Mool village to await our next orders.
19. Same Border, Same Shelling
We stayed in Mool village for a couple of days and were then ordered to return to the battalion. On October 4”, 1971, we traveled via the Titas River and reached the Comilla-Brahmanbaria road. We left our launches and traveled on foot to a town by the name of Kasba where we took charge from another company as they left for a different mission. The time I had spent in Kishoreganj, away from the border and without 24/7 artillery shelling, had been comparatively calmer. However, here the shelling began again. Throughout May through September India was preparing for a grander plan. With the end of the rainy season and the arrival of October, India was openly breaking international border laws. However, by the grace of God, India was being thwarted at every place and didn’t dare to cross the border. India was facing such losses that, according to the news, there were people wailing in the streets, but it was still determined to change East Pakistan to Bangladesh. Due to the constant skirmishes, most of the Pakistan Army was called to the borders, giving the Mukti Bahini and the enemies a free hand to do whatever they wished within East Pakistan. As a result, the patriotic Bengalis and mujahids were being slaughtered by them.
Besides protecting the borders, the Pakistan Army was ordered to make fort-like defensive posts around the major cities. This was why many areas with gaps in between were left without any defense making them completely safe for the Mukti Bahini and the Indian Army. Our battalion was attacked by an Indian Army brigade with the full support of artillery but one of its battalions, which was probably the Indian Punjab Regiment unit, was forced by us to retreat, leaving behind countless dead bodies. We collected all the dead bodies of Indians jawaans with all their equipment and placed them in an open railroad carriage and sent them off to Dhaka. The international media made video montages of this incident and showed them to the entire world. The videos demonstrated the aggression and breaking of international border laws by India but despite that, certain people of East Pakistan and the Western media were still portraying the Pakistan Army as the aggressor. The organized propaganda by the Indian media against the Pakistan Army was so strong that the lip service by our leaders was ineffective, almost redundant. All the while, the numbers of the Pakistan Army were being decimated as we kept losing men. We stood strong on every side of the border of East Pakistan but India was using all kinds of heavy weapons, whereas we were not allowed to use even limited heavy weapon against them without getting the personal permission of our General sahib bahadur.
It was a test for junior commanders like myself. The Indian artillery was heavily shelling us day and night, while we were busy filling forms to get permission from the high command before we could consider responding to the deadly attacks. No political leader from West Pakistan even bothered to visit this side of the country to assess and see for themselves the realities on the ground. It was a miracle that Pakistani Army officers and jawaans were continuing to fight and resist the Indian Army attacks under such brutal circumstances.
The village Kasba where my company was stationed was located almost on the Indian border. There
were hills on the other side of the border where the enemy had heavy automatic weapons which it was using to fire at us, non-stop, day and night. The enemy also had a higher vantage point which enabled it to monitor our movements from a distance, whereas we could neither see the enemy nor monitor its position. To overcome this handicap, our General sahib had invented an unusual way to figure out the whereabouts and position of the enemy. Under the command of Captain Zulfiqar Shaheed from FF Regiment, he put together a strong force of commandos and a few patriotic and trustworthy young Bengali men. Our General Abdul Majeed Qazi would order us to fire towards the enemy with all the light and heavy weapons we had, constantly for half an hour in the middle of the night. This was to divert the enemy’s attention towards the attack. During this half an hour, Captain Zulfiqar and the commandos would cross the border, attack the enemy from behind, gather intelligence and, against all odds, return before the break of dawn. As they made their way back, we continued firing to distract the enemy. We named this mission ‘Night Show’. I am not sure if General Sahib was successful in achieving his goals but during this ‘Night Show my company wasted a lot of our ammunition and in return we faced heavy artillery shelling the entire night. We also lost a lot of jawaans during these missions. Captain Zulfiqar’s party also faced heavy losses of men and equipment while they were heading back. Tragically, Captain Zulfiqar himself, a young and brave mujahid, was martyred during one such night mission. The artillery was firing night and day in those days and I realized that, at particular times, the enemy continuously fired mortars for 30 or 40 minutes right over our heads. Because of this, we got hardly any peace for two to three out of 24 hours.
After a few days, we got accustomed to the shelling and didn’t worry so much about it. We somehow felt safe, by the grace of God, so when the shells fell around and near us we remained safe. We called this shelling the first and last of the ‘Matinee Shows’ and of course we called the heavy artillery shells Kadoo and the mortars shells ‘aaloo’. By then, our jawaans had become so experienced that they could figure out the time when the shells would explode above our heads from the moment they heard the sound of a click from across the border. Many brave jawaans remained outside the bunkers even after hearing the click and would run at the last moment when they could see the shell above them. This continued throughout October and November. The artillery and mortar shells fell at particular times but the bullets fired by automatic weapons flew above our heads all day for weeks. We had dug ‘crawl trenches’ to go back and forth between places, otherwise it would have been impossible to move around under such continuous attack. By the grace of God, we didn’t lose any jawaans during the continuous firing but you can well imagine the effect it had on our state of mind; maybe that is what the enemy wanted and that is why they were wasting their precious ammunition day and night.
My company was stationed about a few hundred yards from the Kasba railroad station. The area in between was barren, otherwise the area around the railroad station and houses was encircled by a thick jungle. It got more frightening during the night. The railroad and the station building were in Pakistan territory but the immediate opposite side was in India, so if any passenger got off on the other side of the train instead of the railroad station building, they would be in Indian territory. The Indian army had
constructed strong bunkers along the railroad which were on high hills. Because of this, we could neither stay in the railroad station building nor resume the railroad service. One day my battalion CO visited me and told me the General sahib had ordered that the railroad station shouldn’t remain empty and some jawaans should guard the building. The reason for such an order was the same as mentioned before; instead of the Pakistan Army being used for its professional training, it was being used politically. Otherwise, from a military and strategic point of view, there was no reason to be in that building.
20. The Suicide Mission at the Railroad Station
We were aware that the enemy had strong check posts around the railroad station amidst the trees; however, they had not as yet harmed us. I advised my Co that it would be a suicide mission if we went into the forest – though it might be easy enough to get there it would be impossible to assume any defensive position. Any such argument put forth by a junior commander like me, even if it was valid, was considered a rebellious act against the formal orders of a commanding general, but I was not in favor of needlessly endangering my jawaans. I also spoke out because I had a more informal relationship with my CO. I told him that he should talk to the brigade commander so that the General sahib could rescind his bizarre orders. My 21C, Major Ahsan Jaraal, was also there and he assumed my reluctance stemmed from my fear of carrying out the orders. To prove his bravery, therefore, he volunteered to carry out the orders himself. I tried to stop him but I believe his interest lay in getting a medal of honor. Instead of requesting our CO to talk to the brigadier sahib, he affirmed the orders to the higher command himself and declared his intention of using my jawaans, against my wishes, to carry out the orders.
Those days, another young lieutenant from Abbottabad, Aurangzeb, had joined our battalion. He also volunteered to join my 21C on this mission. It was decided that the party would leave early in the morning for the Kasba railroad station and we would provide cover for this mission, supported by the company mortars. My 2IC and Lieutenant Aurangzeb came to my company HQ during the night and left for the railroad station with one hawaldaar, two NCOs and ten jawaans. They were visible to us until they reached the trees, but when they entered the jungle, we could no longer communicate with them on the wireless as the jungle was too dense. We were completely unaware as to their safety and whereabouts after we lost contact. We were anxious and worried during this time. I was especially worried because they were with my jawaans. We had agreed that they would assume positions at the railroad station and send us an ‘all good’ report through the wireless. After that I would send them a few men with their breakfast. Yet daylight was approaching and we had had no contact with them. We hadn’t heard from them by 0600 hours, approximately six hours after the departure of the party, so I ordered four of my jawaans to take breakfast to them; they also vanished into the jungle. Around 0630 hours, we heard heavy shelling and firing from the direction of the railroad station building. We could do nothing. I felt completely helpless and I had no way of knowing if my company was safe. Desperate, I went to my 1* platoon, which was closest to the railroad station, hoping to learn of their whereabouts. My company was already reduced to
only a few men and, thanks to the General sahib and the bravery of the 21C, more of my men were now trapped in a dangerous situation. I did not want to risk sending any more of my jawaans into the jungle. The firing from the railroad station continued and I had no way of knowing what was happening. It was already 1000 hours and my CO was calling me repeatedly to ask about the situation; I had no answer for him or for myself.
I suddenly saw my 21C Major Ahsan and Lieutenant Aurangzeb appear from the jungle. I was relieved to see them but they were running recklessly towards us with a few jawaans racing behind them. I jumped up and ran towards them. I saw that Major Ahsan’s uniform was muddy, his shirt buttons were open and his cap was in his hand. He was disoriented and couldn’t speak. I embraced him and tried to comfort him. Lieutenant Aurangzeb was in the same condition, and his uniform was also torn. I settled them in the company headquarters. Eventually the firing stopped and more jawaans appeared from the cover of the trees. When they were finally able to talk to me, I told my 21C that such irrational decisions did not make anyone brave, they simply increased the risk. This act of bravery’ had cost me four of my jawaans whose dead bodies they had left behind with the enemy. Major Sahib was continuously cursing General sahib, saying that he had purposelessly disgraced him in the mission. According to him, they reached the railroad station building without meeting any resistance. They didn’t see any enemy around and started searching for spots where they could take up defensive positions. They were satisfied and thought they had taken control of the railroad station. However, the enemy was watching their party from the hill above the station building. They quietly surrounded the railroad station building and, as the sun rose, they probably also counted our men and closely monitored them. The area was enclosed by dense forest and Major sahib had a gut feeling that there was unseen danger lurking in the surroundings. One of our jawaans suddenly fired and this was met by heavy automatic firing from all three directions. Major sahib had then realized that he and his party were at the enemy’s mercy and had no choice but to save the men. Fortunately, there was a small space from where they could retreat backwards and the thick jungle prevented the enemy from chasing them in the open. Major Sahib and my jawaans, after leaving four dead behind, were successful in saving their own lives and returning. This was the first time in my company that the bodies of martyrs had been left behind; it was not only shameful but disastrous for the morale of my company.
As a result of this inappropriate decision taken by General Sahib, I lost my very dear jawaans. After this incident, the diabolical idea of sending the troops to the railroad station building was dropped by General Sahib; at my request, he even recalled to the company headquarters the platoon which was located near the jungle and open to direct attack by the enemy. I had made numerous requests to General Sahib to recall my platoon to headquarters but he had never agreed in the past. In the light of the recent events he allowed me to call them back. General Sahib owed our battalion for the many other lives which were lost because of his inappropriate and juvenile orders; we were now also under precarious and difficult circumstances. My poor friend Major Sikandar Hayat’s position was even more difficult. He used to receive many such weird orders, and the reward he got was that sometimes he was demoted to captain
demote him any lower than the rank of a captain, but many times it seemed that he would be made a lieutenant instead. This kind of treatment was the reward of our junior officers. Once General sahib also ordered an inquiry against me, which was not even due to my mistake but that of my 21C. One of my senior retired NCOs had fired a few 7mm anti-tank shells during the night show’, and the standing orders were that they could only be used on the personal orders of General sahib. The court of inquiry against me was carried out by an artillery officer, Major Ansari; General Sahib had even planned to court martial me. We were under constant pressure by the enemy on one side and by our senior high command on the other. Our General Sahib would often demonstrate remarkable bravery. Once, he was accompanying me on an inspection of forward trenches – my brigade commander and CO were behind me – and, while talking, he suddenly climbed onto the defensive wall of the trenches. He was cursing and demonstrating his antagonism towards the Indians; he had froth coming out of his mouth from all his pent-up rage. Immediately, a rain of bullets showered right above our heads and seeing that he was vulnerable to the enemy, I instantly pulled his leg and dragged him back into the trenches. Instead of being infuriated, General Sahib laughed for the first time and thanked me.
21. The Visit of Foreign TV Anchors to my Company
Near my company headquarters in Kasba village, there was a small house which possibly belonged to a Bengali minister since it had servant quarters adjacent to it. We had reserved this for rations and heavy equipment belonging to the company. As I mentioned earlier, we had been under fire from automatic weapons 24 hours a day since we had been in this village and because of this, we couldn’t even walk upright. Besides this, we were bombarded with artillery and heavy mortar shelling at least 3-4 times a day on a regular basis. Although we had become accustomed to it, we still couldn’t sleep. The troops with older soldiers who had been called in for duty in East Pakistan twice during the civil war were the most affected; I had two such platoons. They had retired from army life before coming here and at night time, if they heard any sound from the bushes or from behind a tree, they would scream and yell that the enemy was attacking. I was often woken up by their shouting and screaming and went to calm them down. Although I tried my best to give them the safest duties accompanied by my other jawaans, I was getting hardly any sleep.
All of October and November passed like this. We were also regularly visited by the media and TV anchors from several countries during those days; they wanted to see if it was the Pakistan Army or the Indian Army that was breaking the international border laws. We were infuriated at our own government who had completely failed to respond to the Indian propaganda. God knows what these foreign reporters were telling the entire world after talking to us. When speaking to us they agreed that it was India who was committing all the aggression. Since my company was under the most stress, they frequently were sent to talk to me. This sometimes led to interesting scenarios. Once an Italian TV team visited me accompanied by two American war reporters; one of them was a Mr. Harrison who was a very garrulous man and
accompanied by two American war reporters; one of them was a Mr. Harrison who was a very garrulous man and seemed rather smug. He told me he had reported from the most dangerous war zones during the Korea and Vietnam wars, at the forefront with the army. They had already witnessed the heavy firing but I wanted them to film the heavy shelling too. I offered them tea and kept them busy.
The TV cameraman was ready to record the Indian Army’s shelling, and the shelling started at the time I had predicted. I brought Mr. Harrison to the crawl trenches so he could view the shelling. We heard countless sounds of clicks and we knew that many shells had already been fired and soon they would fall around us. All the jawaans had gone to their safe bunkers and trenches. I thought Mr. Harrison would follow me to my room but he had disappeared. I figured he must be photographing the shelling. I went to the TV cameraman; he had switched on the camera as soon as the shelling started but had forgotten to load film in the camera. He loaded his camera quickly and began shooting, then the Indian artillery guns went silent in accordance with their specific timings. After waiting for a few minutes, everyone left the safety of the trenches. I had returned to my room; it had quite a thick layer of sandbags on top of it and no shell could damage the roof. When I left my room and began searching for Mr. Harrison, I couldn’t find him anywhere. I got worried about him as there was a high risk of him getting into trouble or even danger. One of my jawaans informed me that a gora sahib was hiding in a bunker under a big banyan tree, so I asked my Subaydar Sahib to bring him out. Covered with mud all over his body, the ‘heroic reporter of the Korean and Vietnam wars emerged. He was so terrified and disoriented by the heavy Indian Army shelling that we had to give him water and wait for some time before he could even speak. After a while he only uttered these words: “It was horrible and very heavy shelling”. He still seemed scared and looked nervously toward the border every few seconds. I advised him to relax and told him that it would be a while before the second show of shelling would start. Soon it was our tea time and I wanted him to stay for tea but he ran to the battalion headquarters straightaway.
The saddest and most hurtful thing for us was that both our enemies and friends saw our sacrifices, difficulties and pains, yet never appreciated our courage and tolerance; rather they held us responsible for everything that happened in East Pakistan in 1971. Although the UNO was only founded to protect the most powerful nations, our government should have raised its voice against the Indian Army’s aggression. Radio Pakistan was exaggerating our successes all along, and the masters in West Pakistan were also broadcasting that the Pakistan Army was winning the war. We alone were at the border and we saw everything – we were living and witnessing the realities of the conflict.
The Muslim Bengalis who had accepted the Indian media propaganda and had run towards India were slowly returning to East Pakistan during the month of November. We were ordered to thoroughly interrogate them and then send them back to their homes. We were horrified at the ghastly and heartwrenching stories these people shared. Although it was hard to differentiate between the Mukti Bahini and the people who returned, they were usually accompanied by women and children and were emptyhanded. These people needed help and had been subjected to horrible conditions; they did not, in any way, pose any threat to us. Ninety percent of the women were pregnant and during the investigation it was
by the Indian Army, the month of November passed by.
stories of their rape in the Indian camps, and the appalling days and nights they spent in India. It was heartbreaking to hear what they told us because it was bad enough for any human being to suffer that way but they were also our fellow Muslim citizens. Most of the unmarried women were pregnant and, according to them, they had been asked to leave by the Indian Army. None of them were Hindus, they were all Muslim families.
They were embarrassed to see the tears in our eyes but, as a poet once said: ‘What if you learnt your lesson only after losing everything?’ I do not claim that young Pakistani soldiers committed no crimes – anything was possible in those days. However, it is on record that if any soldier was caught and found guilty he was punished mercilessly in accordance with the law. But, alas, our East Pakistani brothers only realized this and found us helpful ‘when all the birds had eaten the field’. A few Hindu families were still crossing the border and entering India, they wanted to hide from us but we were seldom unaware of this. We often took the Pakistani currency, gold and silver from them and allowed them to go to the land of Indira Gandhi. And thus, as we carried out such missions and dealt with the incessant firing and shelling by the Indian Army, the month of November passed by.
PART III
FALL OF DHAKA
1. Sickness and Departure from my Battalion
I had developed a habit of regularly checking my pulse since my student days as a sportsman. As the last days of November approached, I noticed that my pulse rate, which used to be 70 or 80 per minute, was now 180 per minute. I was worried but I had no other symptoms as such so I ignored my misgivings for a time. One day, I visited my battalion for a meeting with my CO and I got an opportunity to talk to our RMO. He took all my vital signs and said, “Major Sahib, your pulse rate is faster than 100.” My pulse rate was actually 200 that day. He told me that as I had been exposed to 24 hours of shelling and firing for such an extensive period of time and was so stressed out from my responsibilities as well, it was having an effect on my heart rate. I told him that I was also fasting and was asymptomatic, so I was puzzled that I had such a high pulse rate. Doctor Sahib gave me some pills and advised me to rest. I asked him to name one place in East Pakistan where I could rest. I told him nothing would happen to me, Insha’Allah, took the pills and returned to my company. Although every officer and jawaan was under considerable stress, the officers also had the responsibility for their jawaans’ lives had their stress levels understandably higher. But most of the officers got an opportunity to go to hospital or get away from the border. I, on the other hand, had been under constant stress for a long time and had developed a peculiar illness called asymptomatic sinus tachycardia.
When I happened to visit my battalion headquarters again and the RMO examined me a second time, he informed my co that my health could be at risk and anything could happen to me as I was still suffering from asymptomatic sinus tachycardia. The CO ordered me to leave for Brahmanbaria and go to the QM and rest as it was supposed to be a relatively peaceful place. But I didn’t want to leave my jawaans alone under the existing circumstances; I had an easy relationship with my CO so I ignored his orders. Sometime earlier, I had been offered the position of SSP in the police force but had turned it down; I could never have found such faithful jawaans in a police force, ones who would take bullets in their chest and protect me with their bodies to save my life.
My CO found out that I had not gone to Brahmanbaria so he came unannounced to my company one day and told my orderly to pack my luggage and put it in the jeep; his orders were obeyed immediately. My CO didn’t listen to me; he gave some instructions to my Subaydar Sahib, ordered me to sit in the jeep and took me back to the battalion headquarters. He got out of the jeep and told the guard commander who was
who was with us to drop me off at Brahmanbaria. When I reached Brahmanbaria, our QM Captain Javed Warraich welcomed me and was happy that he had found a new companion. It was Ramazan and I was always well prepared for iftar, so my company and other neighboring company commanders, especially Captain Amin Uddin, would often join me for iftar at the border. But this was different, with the electric fans, the lights, the celebratory mood, and it felt almost as if I had emerged from the jungle into a civilized world. After iftar, we had dinner and then I spent some time discussing the current situation with Captain Javed. Although we could still hear some shelling from Akhaura and Agartala, it wasn’t anything like my company at the border. I slept peacefully for the first time in ages.
The place where I was staying stored the heavy equipment of several units, rear HQs and a small ADS in Brahmanbaria. As a happy coincidence, I found out the next day that the commander of the hospital was from the Azad Kashmir, Colonel Zaki; he had also been my doctor when I was injured as a student in 1957 in Azad Kashmir. I was a college student at the time and was visiting my brother-in-law who was an army officer and posted at the Chakothi border in Azad Kashmir. When I met Colonel Sahib at the hospital and mentioned the 1957 incident in Azad Kashmir, he was very pleased to nostalgically reminisce about those days. We discussed the past and current situations of East Pakistan and I told him about my tachycardia. He gave me some advice and said I should visit CMH in Comilla. I was already regretting being away from my company and didn’t want to go even farther away from my battalion given the circumstances. The next day was Eid-ul-Fitr; I took our QM with me and quietly left in a jeep to visit my company to celebrate some part of the joyous day with my jawaans. I returned to Brahmanbaria before anyone could suspect anything. I had no idea at that time that I would not see my company again.
I told my CO what Colonel Zaki had advised me and my CO ordered me to go to CMH immediately. I left for Comilla with my orderly in our quartermaster’s jeep. I found out that CMH had been transferred to Chandpur. This was the same place where I had been first transferred to after my arrival in East Pakistan; I had also spent a few days there as a martial law administrator. I sent the jeep back to the quartermaster and wondered how I would travel to Chandpur. When I informed my Co, instead of calling me back he insisted that I go to Chandpur. God’s providence arranged my travel, for I found out that a train carrying military equipment was leaving. I asked my orderly to board the train with my luggage. There was still some time before its departure, so I thought I should try and see Siraj ul Haq aka Chand Mian of Brahmanbaria. I borrowed a jeep from an officer of the Supply Corps and went to Chand Mian’s house. He was in Comilla with his wife and children in those days. The entire family welcomed me humbly and their hospitality made me feel I was in my own home. One of his daughters was the best athlete in all of East Pakistan and was struggling against the anti-state groups in Dhaka University. I had dinner with them, said my goodbyes and returned to the railroad station.
I later found out that Chand Mian was martyred by the Mukti Bahini on the charge of helping the Pakistan Army; I was deeply shaken to hear about the martyrdom of such a patriotic Pakistani.
2. The Same Chandpur Again
When I reached the Comilla railroad station after my meeting with Chand Mian, my orderly had put my luggage in a first class cabin and was waiting for me. This was a special military train, and most of the carriages were carrying ammunition and other special equipment; the train was also guarded by army jawaans. I left Ghulam Mohammed; I was hoping that I would get a check-up and return within a few days. The train moved slowly and reached Chandpur just before sunset; it was crowded. At the beginning of April, I had started my first mission here along with my company. I traveled to CMH in an army vehicle. By coincidence, CMH was in the same building of the technical school where I had first stayed and I was staying in the same room where I had spent a night with AC Tariq Saeed Haroon. I left my orderly with my luggage in the room and went to the Circuit House where all the doctors were staying. The same Circuit House had been chaotic in April but today it was lively. All the doctors were watching TV; it felt odd to have electricity and a television after such a long time. Lieutenant Colonel Tareen (he is spending his retirement in Lahore Cavalry Ground these days), Major Salah Uddin, a very old acquaintance Captain Irshad, psychiatrist Major Kiyyani, surgeon and Major Burki (21C of CMH who later retired as a brigadier) were all happy to see me and asked me about the situation at the border. When I told them the purpose of my visit, Captain Irshad advised me that there was nothing to worry about, my tachycardia was related to constant exposure to the noise of the heavy shelling. It was expected that my heart rate would return to normal within a few days.
I went to CMH after dinner. Captain Irshad gave me a couple of capsules to take and I slept peacefully; something that had not seemed possible in the longest time. I woke up quite late the next morning and the first thing I did was check my pulse; it was normal, around 70 to 80 per minute. I was glad and truly amazed at such a rapid improvement in my health after just one night of complete rest. On November 30″, 1971, Captain Zakir visited CMH for his annual checkup; I accommodated him in my room and was thrilled to see a battalion officer. I was under the impression that I would return to my battalion the next day, on December 18, 1971, so I was disappointed when the hospital didn’t allow me to leave. The CO of CMH called me and informed me that, because of the deteriorating security situation, CMH was not safe in Chandpur anymore. The commandant asked me if I could screen all the patients who were healthy and able; he wanted me to organize them to protect the hospital. I spent all of that day establishing defensive check posts around CMH. I spent December 2nd in CMH and on December 3, 1971, we saw a few jet fighter planes flying over us from Lakshmipur. They flew low but swiftly over CMH, and they certainly belonged to the enemy because we immediately heard bombs exploding over Chandpur railroad station and the jetty before the planes returned towards Indian territory. It all happened in just a few seconds. There were some police jawaans at the jetty and a few of them were injured.
We were astonished because, prior to this, the Indian Air force had never dared to cross the borders. Soon we found out that East Pakistan was a war zone and India was openly using its air force and navy. Open war had broken out between India and Pakistan. With this news, we felt our spirit rise and our emotions too. We were aware of our limited numbers and the strength of the Indian forces, but we were glad that India would now be pressurized by the international community. Unfortunately, this proved to
be a misconception. Our telephone lines were still intact and I contacted my CO to request him to make immediate arrangements for me to rejoin the battalion. However, he told me that no such arrangements could be made as the entire battalion was now engaged in the war. I had no choice but to remain separated from our battalion and I was at the mercy of the unpredictable circumstances. I was extremely upset that, during an open war, I was away from my battalion and my jawaans. All the doctors had shifted to CMH from the Circuit House. Though they seemed calm and brave, they were not trained to fight a conventional war. I took all the responsibilities for the defense of CMH, gathering all the patients who could walk and outlining a defense strategy to protect the hospital. We were confident that with war breaking out, the Pakistan Army fighting at the West Pakistan border would be successful against the Indian army and, despite our weakened forces in East Pakistan, we would be able to fight a defensive war.
Our morale was sky high when we heard the news over Radio Pakistan on December 4th that the Pakistan Army was close to Amritsar. Later, this news was officially confirmed by Dhaka. We imagined we had taken Kashmir but soon the grim reality was revealed to us. Such news was broadcast to raise our morale but it had more of a negative effect on us; we were already downhearted but we were devastated by such fake news. We were dismayed at this strategy devised by our government. The political war that we had been forced to fight for the last 10 months had now taken the course of a conventional war, and we were left with only a few weapons and ammunition and even less support from our Air Force. All of this led to utter madness and chaos. These were desperately tough and difficult circumstances in which to defend our land while the Indian Army was attacking us in an organized manner, supported by their artillery and tanks. The way we defended our positions and responded to the Indian Air Force with limited anti-aircraft defense systems is an historic achievement. We were fighting on behalf of West Pakistan, as the aim of West Pakistan had always been to defend East Pakistan. There were no obvious victories or any lessening of the pressure from the Indian Army, although our difficulties and hardships increased enormously. From the very beginning, we were never given an opportunity to fight according to our training or any military strategy. Instead of using the infinite natural barriers such as rivers and streams as our defense, we were positioned at inappropriate points on the border in non-strategic positions as a result of which most of us were stuck between the Indian Army aggression and those same natural barriers.
The Indian Army was fighting a tired and depleted army and also had the support of most of the civil population. In spite of this, our passion for jihad and our hatred of India was spurring us forward to fight valiantly. The decision of our generals and political leaders to attack India at an inappropriate time had plunged us into the most extraordinary and challenging circumstances. As a result of the unusual length of the border and our limited numbers, our army was forced into defensive combat in large cantonments, almost like traditional armies fighting a defensive war in a fort. The Indian Army took full advantage of this and, with the help of the Mukti Bahini and the local population, they penetrated deep into East Pakistan. At places where the Pakistan Army was in direct confrontation with the Indian Army – at the borders or at the fronts with fort-like areas – the Indian Army could not defeat us. It was a golden chapter
couldn’t fit through the door of the trench. I had no choice but to lie near the bunker and wait for the Indian jets.
Soon they returned from the direction they had come from earlier, but left towards India without attacking. Later, we all made fun of the police officer’s size.
3. Fall back from Chandpur to Dhaka
in our history, the way our limited and weakened Air Force helped us at places and destroyed the modern Indian Air Force planes. It was also a dark chapter in the history of India, the way our limited anti-aircraft units damaged their Air Force. However, after the few and inadequate airports were destroyed by the Indian Air Force, our shaheens were rendered helpless; they ended up landing their planes at Dhaka airport and the Indian Air Force completely controlled the airspace of East Pakistan.
Haji Manan Sahib and the other members of the peace committee of Chandpur were very disappointed to see the helplessness and failure of the Pakistan Army. A new division of the Army had been established in Chandpur, but the irony was that it had not been sent from West Pakistan but consisted of a few fragmented units located in East Pakistan. General Rahim Khan was in Dhaka, and was appointed as the commander and transferred to Chandpur; God knows if this was at the suggestion of General Niazi himself or on the orders of the kings in West Pakistan. So the Division HQ was also set up in the Circuit House by a few staff officers. Although we were not that short of weapons, the extreme shortage of jawaans was disturbing. No arrangements were made for the defense of the Division HQ.
I was suddenly summoned to the Division HQ by General Rahim. General Sahib was sitting on a stool, studying a big map on the wall. I saluted him, and he was very glad to see me as he had been my instructor in OTS Kohat during my training and knew me very well. After some casual conversation, he told me that we had sufficient weapons and ammunition but were severely short of men. He ordered me to collect all the patients in CMH who could walk and to assign them for the security of the Division Headquarters. He also ordered me to personally go and deploy the police force at appropriate posts throughout the city of Chandpur to secure it. He asked me to meet the GSO1 for further details. I noticed that during our conversation his uniform was muddy and there was also dried mud in his hair. I was aware that he was a brave and intelligent officer, but I didn’t dare ask him about the dirt. The GSO1 was sitting in the corner and I went to him after saluting General Rahim. I was astonished and extremely pleased because the GSO1 was my course mate, Major Saleem, and I had last met him in Comilla. We embraced each other, and my first question for him was about General Rahim’s disheveled appearance. He told me that General Rahim had been visiting a brigade in Laksam and, as his jeep approached Hajiganj, he was unexpectedly attacked. He had probably fallen at the time and lost his cap as he retreated hastily in his jeep along with the MP and headed towards Chandpur.
General Sahib ordered me to defend the city with a few police platoons and the Division HQ with the patients in CMH. There was no doubt now that the enemy had penetrated deep into East Pakistan and was not far from Chandpur. I spent all of December 5th establishing defense posts at multiple places throughout the city. Later, I found out from my senior officers that the Indian troops had landed in Tangail, deep inside East Pakistan, and were gradually advancing towards Dhaka. I was giving some necessary instructions to the police force at Chandpur jetty when I suddenly saw a few Indian Air Force fighters flying very low over the jetty, crossing the Meghna River; it was clear that they had spotted their targets and would return. Everyone went into the trenches on my command. I chose to go last but unluckily the police sub-inspector next to me was obese and couldn’t get into the bunkers because he
When I reached the HQ, I was ordered to immediately move to Dhaka with the CMH team, along with the patients and necessary equipment. There was a time when we sacrificed thousands of lives just for an inch of land and now we were falling back. Colonel Tareen requested General Rahim to go to Dhaka with my party as he felt unsafe without us; the plan was later changed somehow. The situation had worsened so much that even General Sahib knew that soon Chandpur would be captured by the enemy. Besides Captain Zakir, I had 15 patients who could fight the enemy, if necessary. I arranged for a few machine guns and a ton of bullets.
Early in the morning of December 7, Colonel Tareen Sahib ordered all his men to fall-in at the Chandpur jetty and he himself sat in the stationmaster’s office. He didn’t even give the patients an opportunity to bring cash, or pay-books and other necessary items which I fetched later from the hospital. We were given two launches on which I had to accommodate all the patients and the doctors. We had to leave the remaining, very expensive, equipment and valuables behind. We also had to leave a small firstaid team back in Chandpur and Colonel Sahib was very worried about this; he could not decide which doctor should stay behind. Major Kiyyani Sahib solved his problem by volunteering. We all despaired at leaving Chandpur under those circumstances; it was very obvious that we were ready to give up this important city and area to the enemy.
The masters of both launches were Bengalis and I talked with them to see whether they could be trusted during our journey. After a short chat, I believed that the two were trustworthy gentlemen. I ordered machine guns to be fixed on the launches and appointed the best of my NCOs in charge. With the help of Captain Zakir, I routed our journey in the water on maps and, asking the blessing of God, ordered the launches to depart. None of us had travelled to Dhaka from Chandpur over water. It was a dark and unfamiliar journey but, because of the enemy’s superiority in the air, it was safer to travel at night. We left Chandpur jetty at midnight. I put Captain Zakir in charge of one launch and travelled in the other launch with Colonel Sahib and the remaining doctors. I instructed the masters not to travel far from the river banks as River Meghna was so wide that the opposite bank was not visible and I didn’t want my launches to be stuck in the middle in the event of an attack. I also appointed one jawaan with each launch master to keep a close eye on them and inform me or Captain Zakir right away if they noticed any suspicious behavior, but I told the masters that the jawaans were for their safety. I asked Colonel Sahib and the doctors to sleep on the comfortable launch mattresses and I remained awake all night, visiting the masters frequently. Only they could figure out if we were traveling in the right direction and I asked them to travel
as fast as they could so we could reach Narayanganj before sunrise. Colonel Sahib woke up many times during the journey asking if we were headed in the right direction and how far Dhaka was. I comforted him every time with a cigarette and told him to sleep.
We finally reached Narayanganj by sunrise. Two military vehicles were waiting for us, and I asked the patients to get off first. Then the weapons and other equipment were transferred. I noticed Colonel Sahib getting into the jeep; we were still unloading when he left for Dhaka although, being the commander, it was his duty not to leave us alone. When we reached CMH Dhaka, we were informed that Colonel Sahib had been there for quite some time. He had already advised the Co of the hospital in Dhaka, Colonel Azeem Sahib, not to allow me to leave and retain me for the safety of CMH Dhaka. This was chaos and uneasiness the like of which we had never witnessed before. It felt like the enemy would attack Dhaka at any time. There was no infantry nearby so I assigned the patients from Chandpur all around CMH Dhaka. Later, I found out that General Rahim Sahib had traveled to Dhaka during the day and was injured in an Indian AF attack; a brave commander, Major Bilal, and my dear friend Major Saleem were martyred during the attack. General Sahib was later able to reach Dhaka but after a lot of difficulty as he was injured. I left my luggage and orderly in the officers’ ward of CMH and tried to get to the Division HQ in Dhaka to assess the situation. Just standing on the road the condition of Dhaka Cantonment was obvious to me; countless military men, policemen and volunteers were haphazardly moving along the road as they didn’t have any commander. No one could anticipate the immediate future. Never before had I seen such a disorganized and anxious crowd of military men.
According to Colonel Azeem, this was what Dhaka had been like since December 3rd and it was apparent that everyone was preparing to fight the last war in Dhaka. On the other hand, our Radio Pakistan was proclaiming day in, day out that each and every part of East Pakistan was being defended and the enemy had not crossed over even one inch of our land. The reality was that everyone was heading towards Dhaka, thinking that there was no other safe place left in East Pakistan and we would fight our final war there.
There was no contact with West Pakistan other than over the wireless and telephone. Our leaders and politicians hadn’t visited this side of Pakistan when it was safe, and we couldn’t imagine them visiting during the war. We were told that while the airfield in Dhaka had been intact, our Saber aircraft fighters had not allowed the Indian AF to enter but, with its destruction, our Sabers were all grounded and silent. Even so, the Indian AF didn’t dare to fly any lower although they had full control. Perhaps no other example can be found in the history of any war of the bravery our anti-aircraft units displayed in those days. I was in the Dhaka CMH from December 7h to December 10″, 1971. Colonel Azeem kept me with him all day long; he had given me the additional responsibility of encouraging the nursing staff. The military nursing staff in East Pakistan was terrified because of the circumstances and uncertainties that prevailed. I seldom told them the truth and made up stories to keep up their morale.
Early on the morning of December 11″, I met Colonel Mazhar Yasin of the Baluch Regiment, in CMH. He was the Colonel Staff of our Division and was surprised to see me there, away from my battalion. I narrated the entirety of events that had occurred since I last said goodbye to my battalion. I told him that I
wanted to join the Baluch Regiment since I was feeling useless in CMH and the CO had given me the duty of keeping up the morale of the nursing staff. I was desperate. The low morale of the CMH nurses was also due to another reason. When the injured General Rahim was being sent to West Pakistan through Burma, it was planned to send all the nursing staff along with him. Unfortunately, they either arrived too late at the airport or there wasn’t enough space for them in the copter. They were therefore understandably depressed.
I decided to leave CMH and go with Colonel Mazhar Yasin. As I described before, every unit in East Pakistan was busy making their own independent defense, and no one cared about the chain of command or about proper defense protocols. Colonel Mazhar had also gathered jawaans from the Dhaka cantonment and had made defensive posts along the railroad track. I ensured the posts and trenches were established properly by the evening. When we reached the Division HQ, we found out that a Baluch Battalion, under terrible conditions, was making for Dhaka from Mymensingh. Only the Co, a few battalion officers and jawaans had reached Dhaka, the rest of the battalion was on its way alone. The battalion needed officers desperately to rearrange and reorganize; I thought that instead of performing unnecessary duties, I should rather be with the Baluch Battalion. With the authorization of Colonel Mazhar Yasin Sahib, I went to see the CO of Thirty One (31) Baluch Regiment who was staying in the MNA’s hostel with a few other people. It was night time and Colonel Sahib was sitting with his men under the dim light of lanterns. His style of conversation was profound and philosophical. I told him why I was there, and he accepted me right away without any hesitation. Major Malik, another Baluch regiment officer who had parted from his battalion, also joined us. By December 14″, the remaining battalion jawaans had reached Dhaka; we received orders to establish defense posts in the suburbs of the north of Dhaka at a place called Tongi.
The 21C of 31 Baluch, Major Waheed, and the rest of the company commanders had also reached Dhaka. Colonel Sahib moved with his battalion to Tongi. I had the opportunity of spending two days – December 14th and 15″, 1971 – with CDSO Major Haji Zameer and I got to know all the communications between East and West Pakistan, both verbal and written. Otherwise there were many rumors, such as the 7 United States Fleet’s help from the sea and assistance from the Chinese brothers’. I also found out through communications that China had once asked General Niazi if help was needed but didn’t receive an encouraging response. I also heard through communications that General Niazi had been unsuccessful in contacting General Yahya or General Hamid; it was a sad situation that they could not even communicate directly with us and could not be reached. I also found out that the masters in West Pakistan had sent a message to General Niazi that they should not be bothered and that he was free to make any decision. The Governor of East Pakistan Mr. Malik was anxious that the killings of all Bengalis should be stopped because Al-Shams, Al-Badar, Mukti Bahini and other common Bengalis were, after all, Bengalis. There were also rumors that Dhaka would be announced as a non-disputed territory by the UNO. The Commander of the Indian Army General Manik Shah was sending out a message through flyers dispersed by planes that the Pakistan Army had been surrounded from all directions and, if the war
would be more harm and damage. The USSR, on the other hand, was putting its own pressure on India to bring the conflict to a conclusion as soon as possible as the entire world wanted the war to end in East Pakistan. India, however, didn’t want the war to end until we had completely lost our grip on East Pakistan. They had confined the Pakistan Army to the cities and cantonments and had increased their psychological warfare.
General Niazi was ready to fight until his last breath even under those circumstances. We organized a strong defense around Dhaka; everyone was determined to fight a momentous war in defense of Dhaka, though the Indian Army had landed commando troops in Tangail. The situation was hopeless, with the Governor shouting at us on the one hand and West Pakistan giving us the cold shoulder on the other. The Indian AF had started regular attacks on the city, on the industrial area of Narayanganj, and on the TV and radio stations, though their planes still didn’t fly low because of our anti-aircraft units. It was astonishing to see the morale of our jawaans and how they fought so bravely; many were injured and most had been fighting for months. Not for the first time, one wondered what stuff they were made of. Everyone was coming to Dhaka from far-flung areas of East Pakistan to save it. The situation was volatile, and December 15th especially was spent anxiously, wondering about the future. I returned to the MNA hostel on the night of December 15″, 1971.
I am not sure how I was able to sleep; it was a miracle getting any rest that night. When I got up in the morning, I was deeply uneasy and it felt strange to have slept at night. As I left the MNA hostel, silence was everywhere, the roads were deserted and the city looked frightening and ghostly. There were some officers still at the Division HQ; they were all silent. My childhood friend, Major Chaudhry Ashraf, was in the special room in the HQ marking the wall map with colored pencils; he was disoriented. I asked him what was going on and he replied that I should recite Surah Kursi and Durood Shareef. I was furious at him; he was more interested in marking the map with red and yellow pencils instead of addressing my concerns. I left him and went to Major Haji Zameer Sahib in Signal Corps HQ.
were, “Sir, what has happened?” I looked at his sad face and ran to the MNA hostel to get my luggage. Luckily, I found a military jeep. I wasn’t bothered about my luggage but I had a few reports and sensitive documents which I wanted to destroy before the enemy came. (It contained all the records of Mukhti Bahini that were killed by my orders by my company, and the records and details of the peace committee investigations) There was chaos on the streets; everyone had heard the news of surrender, although there were very few people on the roads in the cantonment area. I put my bedding and small attaché case in the jeep and as I was leaving that beautiful building, a thought occurred to me. Everything, all the expensive furniture, carpets, furnishings, now belonged to the enemy. I burnt all the reports and sensitive documents along with everything else in the room. Heaven knows if that impulsive act was righteous or ill-advised but I felt calmer after doing what I did. When I left the MNA hostel, a massive crowd of Bengali youngsters, men and women, emerged out of nowhere. The streets were crowded, and it was a miracle that I found my way back to the cantonment alive, because it was no small feat to get away from such a crowd; they were chanting against Pakistan and the Pakistan Army.
I placed the rest of my luggage in a room in HQ and went to the main gate. The orders to surrender had broken the back and hearts of everyone. The same jawaans who had been organized and prepared to defend Dhaka were coming back with their weapons and despondent faces. All of this felt wrong to me and I thought of dumping all the weapons and ammunition into the river instead of handing them over to the enemy. I wasn’t sure why the tired jawaans were ordered to carry their weapons, it was only later that I learnt that our staff officer had given special orders not to waste any ammunition. In spite of being a junior officer, this order seemed unwise to me. When I returned to the room, a few other officers were sitting on the floor, no one felt like sitting on the chairs, no one was talking to anyone else, but their eyes told a thousand stories. I don’t remember who came to the room to announce that the Indian generals and officers were about to enter the HQ. With every passing second, the dishonor and despondency was increasing. One officer suggested that we shoot each other and end the embarrassment, but suicide wasn’t a brave act, especially for a soldier. The time of showing true courage had passed. My heart was already unbearably heavy after listening to the chants of the Bengali crowd as I returned from the MNA hostel, and I had no idea how I would accept the Indian Army entering Dhaka Cantonment. But God has given man a very strong heart, one that can bear suffering and tolerate unimaginable pain, even of that of doomsday. What would General Niazi Sahib be feeling? How would the Indian Army treat us? What did the future hold? There were many questions that were haunting us and we had no answers to them.
I was a very junior officer of the Pakistan Army. I was unaware of the reasons or the conversations or contracts between both high commands that led us to surrender and probably cannot comment with any authority on why the head command ordered us to surrender and under what conditions, but I don’t want to document any rumors here. Despite our weaknesses, difficulties and extraordinary circumstances, only God knows why such a decision was taken by our high command. Every single one of us had been determined to fight till the very end, whatever the end resulted, and now we had no choice but to accept such a heartbreaking and incredibly wretched decision. We just kept quiet as if someone had placed a
4. The Surrender
Before I could ask him anything, with tears in his eyes he gave me a paper which I grabbed with trembling hands. I read it and felt my heart stop; it was an order for us to surrender. I could not control my tears either. Within the next few minutes, the Indian Army was going to enter Dhaka Cantonment. Something was happening to my heart just picturing the Indian Army entering Dhaka. Everything that was ours was going to belong to the enemy in just a few minutes. What kind of decision had our leaders taken? Although the war in East Pakistan had been baseless and aimless for many months, we could never imagine surrendering to the enemy. Heaven knows what happened to the decision to make Dhaka a Stalingrad, where we would die fighting rather than give up.
Just the thought of surrendering in front of Hindus drained me of life. Our Army was being punished for the blunders of our politicians. After crying for some time, the only words I could utter to Major Sahib
heavy stone on our heart.
Along with a few officers in the room, I had my head down and was waiting for the Indian Army commanders. A jawaan informed us that two jeeps with Indian flags had entered the HQ. With heavy heart and dragging feet we slowly walked outside. The two jeeps were in front of us and the Indian Army commanders got out, a smug look of triumph on their faces. Their victory was established and our failure was too. They moved forward and warmly met us. There was Major General Gandharv Singh Nagra, Brigadier Hardev Singh Kler, Indian media reporter Khushwant Singh, an English language anchor from Radio Akashvani, Surjit Singh, and a few other Indian Army officers. They were greeting us enthusiastically, almost as if we were long-lost relatives. We could not even lift our gaze because of shame, but we tried our best to return their friendly gestures. We were standing in a land that had been under our command, a land that belonged to us, where everything was ours. But that was yesterday, and today, we were like slaves. May God not bring such a situation upon us again.
I will not forget the cruel memory of those moments all my life, my heart was in denial and I was still wondering if it was all a dream or reality. The elation of the victorious and the shame of the losers were apparent for all to see; there was so much difference between us and them. We slowly walked to the operation room with the big maps on the walls, the blue and yellow pencil marks with arrows drawn on them; those lines seemed to be mocking us. The Indian commanders had intentionally entered that room, which had a few chairs and beds. Yesterday’s enemy was our host today. In the meantime, Brigadier Kler said that General Yahya Khan was going to address the nation over the radio and we should all listen. I had a transistor radio in the other room and Colonel Sahib asked me to bring it in. I was only wondering what else could be more significant than surrendering to the enemy. I switched on the radio and General Yahya was on, he didn’t sound like the CNC of an army that had surrendered; his tone gave the impression that he was the CNC of an army that was soon going to capture Delhi. He was addressing Indira Gandhi, the prime minister of a victorious army. God knows who he was representing, He was threatening to take revenge from the Hindu bania. He was saying that the fall of East Pakistan was temporary and that the war would continue. We felt an awkward shame listening to his speech. Whenever we looked at the Indian commanders, there was a sarcastic smile on their faces and obvious shame on ours. We heard the speech of our great president and I switched off the radio.
At the end of the speech, General Nagra just said a single sentence, one which I can never forget: “After all, he is a general.”
Alas, our General Sahib kept his word and, on December 17 he announced the end of the war in West Pakistan. The ratio of the Army both in East and West Pakistan was almost the same. We were the ones to start the war and, after starting it unreasonably without any set goals, we handed over many of our areas in West Pakistan to India. We provided an opportunity to the Indian Army to attack East Pakistan openly and start a conventional war. This was a question no politician, general or leader ever tried to answer.
After a few minutes General Nagra left the HQ with his party. Among us was a Baluch Regiment Colonel Sahib who had reached Dhaka from Mymensingh and couldn’t bring his battalion with him. He
stood in front of the maps and, with careful consideration, planned to escape even though all of Dhaka was surrounded by the Indian Army and the Mukti Bahini. The Bengali youngsters were filled with hatred and chanted Jay Bharati Fauj as they walked along the roads. Everyone thought the Colonel Sahib’s suggestion was untimely; we all went to the next room and sat down. We spent the night of December 16 on the floor, tossing and turning.
On the morning of December 17h all of the Pakistan Army and the civil administration were assembled at the center of the Dhaka cantonment. Our very own cantonment was being turned into our POW camp. We still had our weapons, vehicles and other war equipment, these items were left with us for just a few more days and there were no restrictions on our movement in the cantonment area.
The next day General Niazi visited and told us that we had not surrendered nor had we lost, it was a contract of friendship and marked the end of the war between the Indian and Pakistan armies. This speech of General Niazi sounded incredible to me as I couldn’t imagine Hindu bania letting an army go like this; our Army had always made her tremble with fear. The enemy was planning to take full advantage of the situation. In the days after December 16th we felt more like immigrants than POWs; we would roam around all day, sit together and talk. I would visit my old friends and college class fellows, Mufti Sahib and Captain Khalid, who had transferred to the civil service and were the Federal Government Secretaries in East Pakistan; they were staying in a bungalow. All the CSS officers were staying in the bungalow as they were supposed to be leaving for Pakistan in a few days. They had excellent living standards, their room smelled of freshly sprayed cologne, and it seemed as if they were unaware of what was happening. They later returned to Pakistan after living as POWs in Indian camps for a long time. The courtesy of free movement was allowed for only a few days after which all the weapons and the vehicles were taken away from us. We later found out that the Indian Army had planned to control the Mukti Bahini first; they didn’t want the Mukti Bahini to attack us when we couldn’t defend ourselves without arms and ammunition. Outside the cantonment in the muhajir camps in areas such as Mirpur, the Mukti Bahini and Bengalis had started the same drama. Biharis were being slaughtered and their women were being raped. We were under the protection of the Indian Army but there was no one to help the Biharis. The Bengali Muslims were avenging the past 10 months. We would get the details of such news when our canteen contractor visited the city with the Indian Army for groceries.
The most senior staff officer of the Division HQ, Brigadier Baqar Saddique, often roamed around in a convertible jeep in his stiff uniform almost as if he was an officer of the victorious army. He would proudly tell everyone that many senior Indian Army officers were his friends and classmates. Outside Dhaka Cantonment, the weapons and ammunition were dumped wherever the Pakistan Army surrendered. But in the Dhaka cantonment, the modern and expensive telephone exchange, the radio and TV stations, all the expensive equipment and the weapons were cleaned and presented to the Indian Army; the credit for this went to the imprudent senior staff officer. The Bengalis had started their poisonous propaganda against Pakistan and the Army on the TV and radio. Wherever the Pakistan Army was, they were ordered to bring in their weapons and ammunition to Dhaka cantonment to hand them over to the Indian Army so
that they didn’t have to go to the trouble of collecting it. I believed it was our duty to destroy all our weapons and ammunition but that didn’t happen because of the senior staff officer who claimed to be the personal friend of Indian Army commanders, although very soon his equipment was also taken away by the Indians and he was also sent to a POW camp. After returning from India, the same officer remained in a senior post in PIA for a long time.
The most dismaying and upsetting thing was that whenever we would switch to the Dhaka radio station, there was always filthy and hateful propaganda going on against Pakistan and the Pakistan Army. Bengalis were going on the radio and could be heard all across East Pakistan. We failed to destroy the currency in the State Bank, which was in billions, and which the Indian Army openly used to buy Pakistani prisoners who were weak in their faith during their imprisonment. It was my personal observation that only young Pakistan Army officers and jawaans had the honor of destroying the equipment before surrendering. There was a big EME workshop in the cantonment, near to where we were kept. One day a young EME officer went to the workshop with us and removed some parts from heavy and expensive American machines. He claimed that those machines were now useless and were just pieces of iron and no expert could fix them after that. Such orders should have been given by the senior staff officers in Division HQ.
One day our canteen contractor came to me and told me that a Bengali restaurant owner had once taken 20,000 rupees from him as a loan. I advised him to forget about the money as the Bengali would never return it. He still hoped that he would get his money back. One day he went in the grocery van to the city to meet the restaurant owner; the city was guarded by the Indian Army. I was surprised to hear that the canteen contractor did get his money back; there were still good people in East Pakistan. I also heard something from the canteen contractor which was pretty nasty, and I felt terrible for our Bengali brothers. The Muslim Bengali restaurant owner told the contractor that the Indian Army officers and jawaans would visit every night and drink heavily, and during this time the Mukti Bahini would present them with young Muslim girls. I guess they felt this was justified because the Indian Army had saved the Mukti Bahini from the Pakistan Army. They were returning the favor by offering their mothers and sisters to them. The canteen contractor also brought ten cartons of cigarettes for me as I wanted to keep a supply.
One day I visited the CMH when I found out our brigade Major Sarfaraz Sahib was injured and was in hospital. When I saw his injury, my faith in God and His miracles increased even more. The bullet had penetrated between his jugular vein and neck muscle and left his body from the back of his neck. I saw him walking outside the barracks, there were tubes in his mouth and nose and he couldn’t even speak properly, but seeing him alive with such injuries was no less than a miracle. He retired as a Major General after returning from India.
We were frequently visited by young Indian Army officers in our camp. They would beg to buy expensive stuff from us such as watches, cameras, and transistors as they were hard to find in India. We would sell these things because we thought we might need the Indian currency in the near future. One day I visited Major Sarfaraz and when I was returning from the hospital, I saw an Indian Army Captain who
had purchased my camera. A young Bengali man was standing with him. I went over to them and the Captain was holding a paper in his hand and was chatting with the Bengali. He said hello to me and continued his conversation. The paper had the names and addresses of the Bengali girls who were being offered one by one to the Indian Army officers. The Indian Army Captain told me that the Bengali girls were wonderful in every way and I recalled what our canteen contractor had said. I felt as if someone had stabbed my heart. These Bengali girls were Muslims but God knows what had happened to our Bengali brothers that they had turned their friends into enemies and enemies into friends. The traitors were already being punished by God.
After a few days, when everything was under the Indian Army’s control, in a very organized manner they started to indicate that we were the prisoners and couldn’t do anything without their permission. All of East Pakistan and the Bengali brothers were now the slaves of the Indian Army. I also heard and read about the surrender ceremony conducted by General Niazi Sahib in Ramna Park. I know about it only as much as any other person does, but I will tell you what happened to me.
One day, we were notified that all of the Pakistan Army officers were to gather on the golf course with their weapons; it was clear we would be asked to surrender during the ceremony. We threw all the magazines and bolts of our weapons into the gutters so that the Indian Army only got iron clubs. We gathered on the golf course with our useless weapons. There was a stage and numerous foreign media people with their cameras, for pictures and live reporting. We were assembled in three rows like a military fall-in. We were obviously doing everything very slowly, we couldn’t be enthusiastic. Our same senior staff officer probably didn’t like our misery and sluggishness because he got on the stage and started ordering us to hurry in a typical military style over the microphone, although General Jamshed Sahib was standing quietly with the Indian general. It was painful to see Brigadier Baqar Saddique disgracing his fellow army officers like that in front of the Indian Army. A few young army officers were ready to attack him and we had to hold them back. Even the Indian Army Brigadier Kler didn’t like Brigadier Baqar’s attitude; he took the microphone from him and asked us to take it easy. In the meantime, General Nagra came onto the stage. We saw two cars arriving and stopping a little away from the stage. A few men and women, the women dressed extravagantly in saris, got out of the cars. They were the center of attention for everyone in the ground. Perhaps they were visiting to see how we were going to be dishonored and disgraced.
An Indian Army officer went to talk to them, he returned and informed General Nagra that it was Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s family; they had come to see the surrender ceremony. General Nagra announced over the microphone that the family should be informed about the special army ceremony that was going to take place which could only be seen by the army and could not be witnessed by any civilian. On hearing this from the general, they got into the car and went back. Apparently in an unhappy mood, General Nagra announced that, as a soldier, he could not allow any civilian to see such a ceremony as the same could happen to the Indian Army. General Nagra got off the stage after saying this and the rest of the ceremony was performed by Brigadier Kler, with the TV anchor recording everything. We placed our weapons on the ground and went back to our barracks after being dishonored. General Nagra’s emotional
outburst could have been just for show, but his reaction to the arrival of Mujibur Rahman’s family was appreciated by us; at least he respected us more than our own staff officer.
Every day during our stay in Dhaka, 15 to 20 copters would land around us. We found out later that, before handing over the ‘Sonar Bangla’ to the Bengalis, the Indians had transferred all the light and heavy weapons, expensive equipment including the radiology equipment from CMH, and modern and expensive signal exchange equipment to India. They even took away all the army and civilian vehicles and helicopters to India. Some senior Indian officers were even charged for taking cars. I guess they thought that it was enough to give the Bengalis broken bridges, looted baris, vacant cities and empty factories and mills; after all, the Indian Army had to take some reward for their handiwork. After being dishonored in the surrender ceremony, we wanted the Indian Army to dump us in the sea or take us out of the Dhaka cantonment as soon as possible. Living in the Dhaka cantonment was extremely painful and unbearable; we were prisoners of war in our own land. We only had items necessary for daily use left with us in our small bags, and bedding; we had thrown away the remaining stuff. I was determined to keep my radio transistor with me as it was the only way to keep in touch with the outside world.
5. Oh Dhaka! Khuda Hafiz Dhaka!
We were being transferred to India by the Indian Army. The Pakistan Army was moving in parties to India from Dhaka. I saw my name with my other fellow officers on the departure list of December 29, 1971, and I felt a very sudden and bizarre change within me. I didn’t want to be in Dhaka for even a second after the surrender, but all my love for East Pakistan and Dhaka rushed back when I learned that I would be leaving soon. I never wanted to say goodbye to Dhaka. Dhaka had been ours for the last 25 years and we had been sacrificing ourselves to save her over the past painful ten months. Now Dhaka was going to be forever far from us. With a very heavy heart I told myself that Dhaka was no longer mine so it was better to leave her.
We were taken to the railroad station on December 30, 1971 in army vehicles. Pakistan’s name was still written in the bazaars – the names and the railroad station’s name was soon to be erased. I could smell the mud of my beloved motherland which somehow felt strange. Soon, the train took us towards Narayanganj. The people were assembled on both sides of the railroad track to witness our departure. They were shouting, chanting and cursing at PML and Mohammad Ali Jinnah, and all they kept saying was Jay Jay Indira Gandhi and Jay Jay Bharat. If it had been possible, they were ready to take us off the train and slaughter us. The Indian Army jawaans were hitting them with rifle butts to keep them away, but it was all a façade; the train was intentionally moving slowly so that we could hear all the cursing and swearing. We closed most of the train compartment windows and doors as some Bengalis were also throwing stones at us. I decided to shut our compartment window but my Colonel Sahib stopped me from doing that and ordered ‘No’. His brother-in-law Mr. Shahid, who had visited us to prepare for a commission in the Pakistan Army, and unfortunately had also become a POW, was sitting next to me. Suddenly a stone flew in the window and hit his head and he began to bleed. Colonel Sahib looked at Shahid and said, “Close the
Suddenly a stone flew in the window and hit his head and he began to bleed. Colonel Sahib looked at Shahid and said, “Close the windows now.” Even in the grim circumstances, we couldn’t control our laughter after closing the windows.
At last we reached Narayanganj and were taken to the jetty where our journey on the river was to begin. When they asked us to stand and began counting, Colonel Sahib was absent. We found out that he was busy reading a novel under a street lamp; he was advised that he should finish the rest of his novel during the journey on the steamer. The same river bank that I had touched just a few weeks ago in Narayanganj, while returning from Chandpur, was moving away. Narayanganj seemed like a sad and strange city to me now. Soon the steamer whistled and departed towards Khulna.
In the darkness of the night, traveling an unfamiliar route, the steamer docked on January 2nd, 1972 at the same place where in 1970 during the election year I had travelled to the Sundarbans with, the now late, Major Butt Sahib – the circumstances were so different. After getting off the steamer, we were seated on a platform under the supervision of the Indian Army. This was the same Khulna from where the golden silk of East Pakistan was exported to foreign countries, the Khulna of Khan Abudus Saboor Khan, the Khulna with the biggest paper mill of Asia – it was now hostile and strange to me. I could almost smell the blood of the poor Biharis and East Pakistanis. Big steamers, launches and boats were traveling back and forth. It seemed that the entire universe had changed and had been transformed with our surrender. We also saw the PAF officers and families who were being sent to unknown destinations.
For the first time we had our prisoners’ dinner – thin lentil and chapattis – and we ate and thanked God. Suddenly we saw a jeep approaching the jetty, and a few Indian Army officers and a Lieutenant Colonel from the Pakistan Signal Corps got out. Colonel Mansoor Ul Haq Malik was the staff officer of oth Divison and had been left alone in Balian. He was lucky to have been found by the Indian Army instead of the Mukti Bahini, otherwise he wouldn’t have lived. Almost all the officers in my party knew Colonel Sahib and he seemed happy and relieved to be joining his own friends. All the officers above the rank of lieutenant colonel were separated. An Indian Army officer told us that a Pakistan Army Brigadier was also brought to Khulna by mistake – Brigadier Aslam Niazi Sahib. He had a great sense of humor and could make even a crying man laugh. He didn’t want to leave us but the Indian Army took him away as was their policy. I believe Brigadier Niazi Sahib has probably settled in Lahore now; I imagine he has a long beard and spends most of his time praying to God.
We were taken on foot to Khulna railroad station which wasn’t very far; a sea of Bengalis were gathered around Khulna railroad station as most of the Pakistani POWs were taken through Khulna and Calcutta to the Indian Army camps. The countrymen of our recent past had gathered to see their own brothers while they were being taken away as prisoners. They were shouting, yelling and chanting, “Jay Bangla, Jay Bangabandhu, Hamaar pitta, tumaar pitta, Mujib Rahman, Mujib Rahman, Jay Indira Gandhi, Jay Bharat”. Had we not been under the protection of the Indian Army, they would have definitely attacked us simply to prove their loyalty towards India.
We saw a long empty train on the platform but we were asked to wait, probably because the Indian
cursing at us from a distance. We boarded the train after some time.
young Bengali men from the Indian Army were allowed to approach us. They stared at our faces almost as if someone had asked them to identify a criminal; we objected to such inappropriate behavior and this was our first brave appeal and condemnation of the Indian Army officers after becoming POWs. The Indian soldiers pushed the Bengali men back and no one dared to come close after that, though they continued cursing at us from a distance. We boarded the train after some time.
PART IV
IN INDIA
1. Departure for India
The train moved later that night. Our own rebellious brothers seemed to be part of India. Apart from all this, our hearts were crying tears of blood as we left East Pakistan forever. The Indian border was not very far and soon we reached it. I said goodbye in my heart, “Khuda Hafiz East Pakistan, Khuda Hafiz the senseless, rebellious and immature Bengali brothers,” as we entered the Indian land. The entire unit was traveling together, the lungar and rations were with us and the officers were given first class compartments.
The land that had been our motherland for 25 years had been left behind and with the break of dawn, we were in Indian territory. We could see tall buildings far away, then parallel railroad tracks, the first, the second, the third, and soon we were traveling among a network of railroad tracks. The train suddenly halted and we were informed that we had reached the railroad signal of Dum Dum railroad station of Calcutta – it was probably red. Emaciated and naked human beings were walking aimlessly on the railroad lines, a testament to India’s ‘prosperity’. Alas, instead of gathering tons of arms and ammunition and buying hatred and enmity with her neighboring country, India could have thought of feeding these poor human beings.
The trains were departing and arriving from both directions and it seemed that the number of trains and human beings were almost the same. Our train moved again. Instead of stopping at the Dum Dum railroad station, we halted at a small unknown railroad station, where we prepared our afternoon lunch. After distributing it amongst everyone in the train, we left again. The next stop was at the famous Bardhaman railroad station and a large crowd of Bengalis at the station seemed to have a special love for the Bengalis of our old East Pakistan. They were chanting in their favor and seemed wary of the Pakistan Army. We closed all the windows and doors so we couldn’t hear their swearing and chants of hate. The train soon left again and reached Durgapur and, after crossing a few more railroad stations, the train entered the province of Bihar. This was the place where the Bihari Muslims had been kicked out because of their religious beliefs and now, in East Pakistan, in their own land, they were losing their lives, their women were being raped and they were being forced to live as immigrants either in Indian or in Bengali camps.
The first station of Bihar was Dhanbad, then the Ganges River bridge – we saw Banaras University and
the holy Hindu city of Banaras from the train. The train journey seemed interminable and we were lost in our own thoughts about the uncertain future. The train entered the city of Indira Gandhi and my thoughts suddenly returned to the historic meeting of the Muslim League in Allahbad when Allama Iqbal had raised the idea of Pakistan for the first time. Our train stopped at the big platform of Allahbad and the crowd was no different here. It seemed like many had gathered to ensure that the brave men of the Pakistan Army had actually been captured by the Hindu bania. A large number of Indian police prevented the crowd from approaching the train. We were given permission to leave the train for the first time and shop in the stores on the platform, where we bought some newspapers and magazines – most of us had Indian currency which we had taken from the Indian Army officers after selling our valuables.
A few of our young commando officers, in spite of being prisoners, showed a great sense of humor and surprised not only the shopkeepers but the crowd too by eating all the gol gappas and kichorries available on the stalls. In the meantime, a few Indian college girls and boys boarded the train, with the permission of the Indian Army commanders, to meet the Pakistan Army soldiers and the many officers still on the train. My fellow officers had not returned yet and I was relaxing alone in my compartment with the lights off. Because of the bright sunshine outside, one could not immediately see clearly when entering the dark compartment, so when a few girls entered, one loudly said, “There is nobody here.” I replied that I was there, and they got scared and screamed. A few Indian Army jawaans came running and I could see the embarrassment on their faces as I switched on the lights. I told the Indian Army major that he should not allow college girls to come unsupervised like that, otherwise something might happen considering they were so scared. The Indian Army officer got my point and no student was allowed to come on board the train after that incident.
I opened the windows of my compartment and looked outside where the police had to resort to a light lathi charge to stop the crowd. I particularly noted a policeman threatening the crowd. The glass window was still closed and I noticed that he was trying to come near the window. When he was prevented from coming nearer, he would chase after the crowd again, saying something that I couldn’t make out. He was large and obese, and he would wave his cane in the air repeatedly and run towards the crowd. I opened the glass window because he had caught my attention. He finally managed to approach the window and quickly told me, “My name is Mohammad Bashir and I am a Muslim.” Once again he ran toward the crowd after uttering these words, and after that he kept on running back and forth between the window and the crowd, while saying many things to me when he got close, such as, “It’s sad. You are in our thoughts and we feel your pain. Don’t worry, Insha’Allah, one day we’ll get an opportunity for revenge.” He was repeating these sentences and waving his cane at the crowd too and I could clearly see tears escaping his eyes.
I also noticed an old white-bearded man standing and staring at us, while constantly crying. His tears could be seen shining in his white beard. I felt so ashamed of myself and did not have the guts to make eye contact with him. I closed the window and couldn’t control my own tears.
We spent quite some time in Allahbad so I had the opportunity to make these observations. An NCO of
cooks were our own. We were served lentils with chapattis on a long table in the barracks, sometimes har har and sometimes split pea lentils. For breakfast, we were served a puri and a mug of tea.
In a few days, Pakistani officers from other places also joined us, and thus our imprisonment officially began on January 4″, 1972.
2. In the POW Camp
the Indian Army saw me and came over to me, asking in his typical local dialect of Rangri, “Why are you sitting alone, sir?” I started a conversation with him. He was rather talkative and shocked me when he said, “Sahib, I am a Hindu and from Rajputana, but I owe my life to Bhagwan. These people who are swearing at you and alleging that your men raped Hindu women is all bakwas. The way our Indian Army officers disgraced Bengali women, it has brought Hindu dharma to the lowest of the low.” He said many other things against his own army in his typical dialect. He was also carefully looking around as he spoke; he had to ensure that no Indian Army officer could hear his conversation. I was aware of the bravery and straightforwardness of the Rangers of Rajputana but what that Indian NCO said surprised me. He also persuaded me to get off the train and buy some magazines and newspapers.
Our jawaans started distributing dinner and by evening the train left Allahabad. When the officers returned, they told me that the Indian shopkeepers were thrilled as our officers were spending a good amount of money and, taking complete advantage of this situation, our officers had asked them many questions about their whereabouts and the local geography of the area although no one got any chance to escape. Soon darkness descended everywhere and a few young officers began to seriously consider the option of jumping off the train but for one reason or another, no one acted on it.
January 3, 1972 came. It was late at night and the train kept moving. Around midnight we reached another large station – Jhansi railroad station. I started thinking about what I had read regarding the war between the Rani of Jhansi and the British but soon the train started moving again and with the sound of it, I returned to the real world. This area was new for all of us, and a few senior officers were telling the young officers that they should change their minds about jumping off the train in a strange land and that probably we were traveling towards the Wagah border to be taken to Pakistan. According to them, the attitude of the Indian Army officers was very friendly and lenient towards us; they were probably oblivious of their evil plans because of their own simplicity.
After departing from Jhansi, our train crossed the railroad station of Gwalior, with its legend of Tansen, and stopped at a distance from the station. We were ordered to leave the train and were separated from our jawaans. Our jawaans took our luggage out from our compartments and placed it on the ground where we stood. The historical Fort of Gwalior was visible from where we were standing – the same fort where Hazrat Mujadid Alif Sani was once imprisoned. In the meantime, some military vehicles arrived, and we were asked to get into them. It was the first time that we had lifted our luggage by ourselves as our jawaans had been separated from us. The vehicles took us to an Indian commando’s Mess, which was surrounded on all sides by a wired fence. It looked like a typical prison camp. There were a few senior Pakistani Army officers before us. Two officers were allocated one room; each room was furnished like any typical army Mess with bed, chairs, dressing table, and an adjoining dressing room and bathroom with a toilet. The Indian Army guards were also very friendly to us in a rather weird way. It was an entirely different atmosphere than what we had read of and seen in the movies about the lives of POWs. Knowing the enmity and meanness of the Hindus, the comfortable rooms and furniture were no less than a surprise for us. The food was the same as the jawaans were eating but the lungar and the cooks were our own. We
Multiple layers of barbed-wire fences surrounded the prisoners’ camp and in the corners, tall towers with powerful field searchlights were kept on throughout the night so it looked like daytime even during the night. Two sentries stood on each tower and even more during the night. We were free to switch the lights on and off in our bedrooms though. Our camp was part of the Indian paramilitary Officers’ Mess and we frequently met with Indian Army officers. The officers, some of them Muslims, were remarkably nice to us. The way they would greet us made us wonder why, being the enemy, they lacked toughness in their attitude. One of the friendly Muslim officers was Lieutenant Colonel Mansoor Yar Jung from Hyderabad Deccan. Instead of being happy with their warm and friendly attitude, we were uncomfortable. Besides Lieutenant Colonel Jung, there were a few more Muslim officers and all of them were very friendly toward us. Major Baig, the man in charge of CRP and responsible for our security, was a well-mannered and gentle individual. One day I asked him if it was possible for him to bring a Punj Surah for me. I made a blunder and asked him if he knew what Punj Surah was. Upon hearing this, I saw tears in his eyes and he told me that not only did he know what Punj Surah was, he was also a practicing Muslim. I felt sorry for asking him such a terrible question although the next day he brought me a Punj Surah. But his attitude towards us was somewhat careful as compared to Lieutenant Colonel Jung – he seemed scared sometimes. This was probably the reason he was transferred out of Gwalior and a Hindu officer, Major Chardin, was put in charge of our camp. He was a mean and narrow-minded Hindu with a small heart, and we nicknamed him ‘Chawal on the very first day.
Captain Jaatlay of the Grand Air Regiment, on the other hand, was a smart and over-talkative officer. He was newly-married and would often get too familiar and start talking about his wife. We noticed that, being newly-married, he often missed his wife and would be lost in his thoughts. One night, he went too far. During the night count, he brought his wife with him just to impress her and show her the power he had. He made her stand to one side outside the gate although the light was good enough for us to spot her. She was wearing heavy jewelry and an atrociously bright, colorful dress. We did not approve of this and, though we said nothing that night, when he came the next day we questioned him to an extent that we were sure he would not forget for a long time. Despite us being his prisoners, he couldn’t say a word. Major Akram from the Signal Corps particular yelled at him in English and when the senior Indian Army officers heard about the incident, they eventually removed him from his camp duties.
We were surprised at the pleasant attitude of the Indian Army officers in the beginning and the comforts we were given, since anyone as cruel as the Indians could have done anything to us, especially in
their prison. Our attitude towards them was therefore very tough and aggressive. In the evenings we walked along the fence in our camp, and the road between our camp and the Officers’ Mess was often busy. We noticed that in the evenings civilians would gather and stand on the road with their families, looking and laughing at us almost as if we were zoo animals on display. We tolerated this behavior for a couple of days but when it continued we couldn’t ignore it any longer. One day, a few of our officers went very close to the fence and asked the crowd, most of whom were women, why they were standing and watching. One of our colleagues, Doctor Captain Sultan, became quite worked up and, going very close to the fence, he asked the crowd loudly, “Are we animals that you come to enjoy every evening? And if you want to have good look at us, you could come inside and we could fulfill your wish.” This announcement by Captain Sultan, who was a short guy, surprised us too but the crowd started to disperse. On hearing the crowd, Major Chawan came along with his team to harass us and accused us of cursing at the women. We in turn challenged him to stop the women from coming and standing close to the fence, otherwise any officer might lose control and eventually do something. We made it clear that if something of the sort happened we could not be held responsible for the consequences. The readers might doubt what I am saying here but what I have described above is a fact. It was God’s grace that, even being POWs, we were not suppressed by the Indian Army officers. The proof was that eventually Captain Chawan was removed from his duties and the road was blocked from public use.
Prison life was quite peaceful during the months of January, February and March in 1972 but we had heard no news from our families. We didn’t even know if they knew of our whereabouts and safety and this often made us anxious. All we wanted was for our families to know that we were safe and to hear from them too. Since I had a transistor radio, I would often listen to BBC news and also get the update on all POWs. Apparently, all the civilian and military POWs had been transferred to prison camps in India. By the end of April, we started hearing messages from our relatives on live Radio Pakistan transmissions – this was very comforting for us. One day, my own wish came true when I heard the voice of my nephew, Zahid Hussain Bhatti. He was saying that my family was safe and was doing fine. His voice gave me a feeling of intense happiness and satisfaction although, at the same time, my sadness at being away from my family and my land was intensified.
An incident happened during those days that reminded us that we were after all POWs. The Indian Army officers informed us that in accordance with the Geneva Convention, all our clothes would be marked with the words ‘POW”. Although it was an appropriate decision made by the Indian Government, we refused to obey it. First the camp in-charge and later the commander put pressure on us, telling us that compliance with the order was inevitable. It was the first time that the Indian officers had reacted harshly. The attitude of some of our highly emotional officers was very aggressive. But the majority of us agreed as it was a requirement of the Geneva Convention, our only condition being that instead of having the sign on the seat of our trousers, we should have it at the lower end instead. The officers who had initially refused eventually agreed when the Indian officers informed us that they would respect our wishes about the position of the sign on our trousers.
It was perhaps April 15″ or 16, 1972 when we received several letters each from our family members. There was one letter for me from my wife in which, after telling me that everyone was fine, she showed extreme courage and strength. Her letter alleviated my homesickness, and my depression and misery altered to calmness and peace.
We were given a volleyball to play with, and time was passing less painfully with the facilities of sports, newspapers and other stuff from the bazaar.
In a very well-planned way, the Indian Army started to send Hindu and Hindu-type Muslim senior government officers to meet with us in the camps. They were very nice to us and would try to brainwash us through well-constructed and strong arguments. They would frequently disprove the two-nation theory and claim that the creation of Pakistan was a massive mistake. They always went away disappointed. Many of our senior officers who were more experienced would bluntly advise the Muslim government officers that, instead of engaging in banter with the POWs, it would be better to take care of the Muslims living in India.
Sometimes Hindu leaders would pretend to be Muslims to gain our confidence. One day a leader by the name of Mr. Gulzar Zutshi visited us. He brought along a framed naat in praise of the Holy Prophet and pretended to be a disciple of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia. He recited the naat very respectfully and we got emotional and requested him to say prayers for us at the shrine of Hazrat Aulia. He hugged us and we later found out that he also went to our jawaans’ camp and offered salaat with them. His speech was so well-rehearsed that we discussed him for some time even after he had left. A few days later, we saw his picture in the newspaper with the caption that the famous Indian poet Mr. Anand Mohan Gulzar Zutshi was receiving an award from the president of India. We felt embarrassed at our naivety. After him, any leader who visited the camp and claimed to be a Muslim was met with disbelief and insults.
One day, a senior officer from the Indian Central Government visited us unannounced with the camp commander. He sat with us very casually and began talking about the atrocities committed by the Pakistan Army on Bengali women, narrating fabricated stories. One of our colleagues, Colonel Sultan Sahib, asked him very bluntly, “Are you related to the Bengali women as you seem to be losing your sleep over them?” The officer showed some resentment at this remark. Colonel Sahib immediately picked up a newspaper of that day and showed him a page according to which, in the Gwalior Division alone, 40 Indian shiri matis had been raped by their own countrymen. He told the officer frankly, “Instead of worrying about Bengali women who were our own, you should work on saving the honor of your own daughters and sisters in your free country.” Colonel Sultan said this so brusquely and bravely that the Indian senior officer was stunned and immediately left with the camp commander without saying a word. After a few more similar incidents, the frequency of senior Indian Government officers’ visits decreased.
In April, I got back my transistor radio that had been confiscated earlier. I was very happy to hear some things on the radio. First, martial law had been lifted in West Pakistan and second, I heard a message from the wife of my (late) relative Lieutenant Colonel M. M. Baig, who was in another camp in India.
With the passage of time, prison life began to feel long drawn-out and uncertainty increased – it was as
if the political leaders on both sides of the borders wanted to gain maximum political leverage through us. The Indians continued with their little experiments; sometimes they would take our shaving kits and radios away and then return them. We were not being paid yet, so all we had to eat was lentils and chapattis. By the start of May, we were allowed only limited stuff from the canteen and bazaars. We removed the wiring from our rooms in a way that avoided suspicion and a few officers from our Signal Corps created immersion heating rods with the wires and old razor blades. After mixing powdered milk in water and heating it with this invention of our officers, we could easily enjoy hot milk at night. A few days later, we started receiving Urdu and English Indian newspapers after they were censored – the Daily Partap, Veer Bharat, Freedom and Democracy. The English newspaper was all propaganda against the two-nation theory, Mohammad Ali Jinnah and Liaqat Ali Khan. Perhaps the Hindu bania didn’t realize that it was not that easy to remove the love of our country from our hearts. We feared the impact this news would have on our jawaans though and our Doctor Sahib would ensure that our fears were dispelled once he visited them for their physicals. We started feeling after some that our imprisonment was being used by our government for its own purpose, and to strengthen the party. It made us stronger and calmer.
3. Plan to Escape
When it became clear that our imprisonment might be a long one as both governments were more interested in their political and personal gains, we had started planning our escape from the camp. With the very remarkable security set up by the Indians, our plan seemed a difficult one to accomplish, but one can break all chains and overcome all difficulties with firm belief. Quietly, we began to discuss how to go about it and although everyone shared the wish to escape, they all suggested different plans.
After much discussion, we all agreed upon one plan in great secrecy; some colleagues agreed with the plan but did not want to participate because of their age. The remaining officers very enthusiastically searched for a suitable place. We decided to dig a tunnel in a bathroom in the corner barracks. The senior officers supervised and the junior officers began the work. During those days, I was injured and one of my leg muscles was torn due to my volleyball activities – I was mostly bedridden. I would like to name the officers who actually participated in digging the tunnel: Captains Bashir, Tariq, Nadeem, Zafar Guru, Lieutenant Colonel Munir Butt and a few other officers were among the workers. All these officers were good sportsmen. Since I could not play volleyball, the team members would gather in my room at night and I would be informed of the progress of the tunnel. All those who didn’t participate in the digging were not against it but a few young officers were criticized for inappropriate behavior. As far as the enmity of India was concerned, all of us were on the same page. We needed a tunnel five to six feet deep and forty feet long to escape successfully. We had no tools or equipment to complete such an extremely difficult task, so we used spoons, forks or nails that were secretly taken out of the barracks. And so the digging continued and the speed at which the tunnel was being dug considering the tools being used was almost miraculous.
Most of the work was done in between the counting hours. The work wasn’t so harsh in the beginning but the job became harder as the Gwalior land was tough and, as the tunnel grew longer, there was the issue of working without light. Though this problem was somehow solved as a few of the officers used wires and bulbs from the barracks, the lack of oxygen later became problematic. One officer would go inside and work as fast as he could and for as long as he could endure the lack of oxygen and immediately leave when short of breath; the next officer would do the same. They put mud in the pockets of their trousers. The challenging job was slowly progressing. After hours of digging, a bathroom tile would be pushed over to conceal the opening of the tunnel, and the tile would be covered with dirty washing and a few chairs around it so no one would suspect anything. We were counted 3-5 times in 24 hours at certain times and sometimes there would be a special head check and count. All the officers remained united and were driven by their hatred of the enemy and the digging of the tunnel continued. Despite the frequent counting, heavy surveillance and guards, the enemy never suspected us.
When the tunnel became fairly long, we told the Indian officers that, since we didn’t have much to do, we wanted to grow flowers and vegetables in the front yard of the barracks and required some gardening tools. We were given a few shovels and trowels and a few of us were even able to steal a few iron tools from the Indian Army workers working in the Mess. These were useful tools and their use automatically increased the speed of the digging. The ‘Indian braves’ never imagined that the helpless and imprisoned Pakistani Army officers could do anything so extreme – had they suspected anything, they would never have given us gardening tools.
Initially, we were careful in hiding the earth and mud from the tunnel after breaking open the false ceiling of the barracks at night time and spreading it there. Later, we started spreading it in our newlymade garden at night, taking advantage of the darkness. The reader cannot imagine the difficult nature of this task – even at night, it always seemed like daytime because of the bright floodlights and the fact that there were only a few dark corners. We had to put our lives at risk in doing this. A few times the guards grew suspicious about our activities and blew their whistles but we satisfied them, telling them that the fresh earth and mud was for the new plants. The digging went on and we were able to hide a few clothes without the POW signs. We also still had some Indian currency from selling the stuff in Dhaka to the Indian Army officers, and this money could be used once we escaped. As the tunnel got longer, our hearts beat faster too and we started becoming more careful.
Some interesting incidents happened during this time. One of our officer colleagues had been commissioned for just a few days when he became a POW – Second Lieutenant Asad Rahman, who was the nephew of a famous Bollywood star, the late Mr. Rahman. He had a stutter. At that time, an Indian Army Officer, Captain Ved Kumar, became our camp in-charge and he had a stutter too. One day during counting, he said something to Lieutenant Asad and, when Asad replied, he became mad at him, thinking that he was copying and making fun of him. Lieutenant Asad, for his part, became angry at Captain Ved and asked, “Captain Ved, are you copying me?” After the exchange of a few sentences, they started arguing as neither of them had any idea that both of them had a common weakness. We all laughed hysterically
which made Captain Ved angrier; he thought that as POWs we were making fun of him. Finally, our friend Lieutenant Colonel Mansoor Ul Haq Malik told them that both of them were in the same boat and had stutters. Captain Ved seemed embarrassed and was quiet after that.
All our property that we had brought from Dhaka was still with us and we were allowed communication with our families by post. In accordance with the Geneva Convention, we started getting small sums of money as ‘salary and canteens were opened in all the camps. Officers would argue day and night about religion, politics or sometimes about our unpredictable future. In the evenings, all the POW brothers would walk along the barbed wire fence. Young officers would spend hours playing volleyball. My leg was much better now and I made a small, temporary mosque with some bricks. I would give azan five times a day and Captain Doctor Saddique, a Hafiz-e-Quran, would lead the namaz regularly. It was sad that in spite of the cruel POW life and daily mental torture inflicted on us by the enemy, many of our officers had been driven away from religion and wouldn’t join us in namaz. Instead, they would spend most of the time chatting or playing chess and bridge. We had not yet faced the traditional difficulties of prisoner of war life, and were getting lentils and chapatti for dinner and puri and tea for breakfast on a regular basis. Once in a while during the week we would get a hint of meat too, and we regularly enjoyed making hot milk with the dry powder given to us. But the frequent counting by the Indian Officers and the petty instructions of the Indian junior officers, delivered arrogantly, were a headache. The delay in getting mail from home also bothered us sometimes.
Within two months, the tunnel was almost ready – the accomplishment was a momentous and remarkable task. News of a successful escape by some Pakistani Army officers had alerted the Indian Army in the camps. An official signal was sent to all the camps that, just like in the movies and novels, the Pakistan Army POWs had the ability to escape without the help of any tools. The security which was already quite extensive was raised to an extraordinary level all around the camps. Trained dogs arrived and would be walked around the fence day and night, different teams of Indian Intelligence agencies began visiting us constantly searching our property and rooms, and special teams were called in to check the floors. It now became extremely difficult for us to dispose of earth from the tunnel. But we didn’t want to waste the effort of 8 weeks when we were almost ready to achieve our aim.
The task of bringing out and spreading the earth was not just difficult; it had turned into an extremely dangerous task now. It was our bad luck that one evening the prison sentry spotted an officer, and he began to yell and alerted all the camp sentries. The Indian officers immediately rushed into the camp, and set about searching each and every corner. We were all assembled outside after the sentry alerted everyone, but after some time we were allowed to return to our rooms and were counted a few times during the night. The night passed uneventfully. The next day, a bunch of specially trained teams equipped with spades and other implements arrived at our camp and we were told to stand outside in the extremely hot weather for quite a while. The Indian Army officers in the camp who had until now been very friendly to us were shouting at us as if we were strangers. Their teams began searching all the rooms and barracks. Apparently they had been unable to locate the tunnel because one could tell from their
expressions that they were disappointed. They left in the evening, and that day we were given lunch quite late. A large Indian force was outside the camp and it wasn’t safe to work on the tunnel that night under the circumstances.
The next day we had hardly finished breakfast when the Indian expert team again entered our camp and we were assembled outside once more, facing the hot sun. Talking in some other dialect, the Indian officers in our camp were not even looking at us and, instead of searching all the barracks, they began concentrating on one barracks, from the opposite end of the bathroom where we had dug the tunnel. As they systematically moved closer to it, our hearts began to pound. And when a few men came out of that barracks shouting in loud voices and holding up muddy clothes and a few broken chairs, we knew that our efforts had been wasted. We looked at each other and sent silent messages, telling the other to stay strong in the face of the storm headed our way.
We were calm in spite of standing under the sun for an entire day. All the furniture and our belongings were taken out of the rooms. In an instant, we were sent to another world; we were locked in empty rooms and no food was given to us. God knows what they thought when they saw such a long, deep tunnel, with all the wiring and bulbs. It was perhaps May 22nd, 1972 when we were all taken out of the rooms and to the dining table in the barracks. None of the Indian officers was talking to us so we didn’t know what was happening. Suddenly, an Indian Army General along with a few senior officers entered the barracks, they seemed pretty calm from their faces. He gave us a lecture, praised our hard work in digging such a long tunnel without any proper tools, and congratulated us. According to him, he had only heard stories of POWs escaping from prison camps, seen it in movies or read about in novels, so he was impressed to see this done by the Pakistani Army Officers for the first time in his life. He also said that digging a tunnel and escaping was the right of every military man who was a POW and every soldier should exercise that right, but that the victorious army also had the right to punish such an attempt. Before telling us our punishment, he asked us to promise that we would not attempt such an escape again.
Cunningly, he then fell silent waiting for our response. Our friend Colonel Sultan stood up and said very bravely and bluntly that he could choose to give us any kind of punishment but if we got any opportunity to escape again, we would avail it, Insha’Allah. We could see that the Indian Army officers didn’t like that answer, but the Indian Army General smiled and said that his answer was the reply of a brave military solider. Our Colonel Sahib also stated that we did not expect sympathy or any special treatment from the Indian Army.
4. Prison and yet another Prison
The General left, and the Indian Army officers set about dealing with the situation. They kept us in our rooms for the night but in the early hours of the following morning, they took us to small rooms which had been changed into prison cells overnight and now had iron bars. There were four officers to every cell and each of them was given just one blanket, a bucket and a mug which had to be used for drinking,
we came outside, we felt life returning to our bodies. Our faces had changed and we laughed after seeing each other with beards on our scrawny faces. Some friends had probably taken it harder and had lost a lot of weight. We were handed over to the barber and, after getting our haircuts and shaves, we saw how much our faces had changed. Most of all, I can’t explain how we felt after we were able to drink cold water. We were given hot chapattis with lentils and we ate well with eyes gleaming. Some officers also had their head shaved along with their beards and looked weird, like Yul Brynner. We started teasing Captain Ved, who was a major before this punishment and had been demoted to the rank of captain. He was already unhappy about his demotion and we said he must have been caught doing something immoral or else he must be retarded. He got furious and started yelling loudly in his stuttering voice and Lieutenant Asad began to respond – it was amusing to hear both the stutterers argue.
Our Colonel friends were also released along with us and we were shifted into a long barracks, next to the barracks of our jawaans. This new camp was surrounded by many layers of barbed wire and each corner had a high tower with powerful floodlights, guarded by alert sentries day and night. This looked more like a secure prison camp. We were 64 officers and a new police superintendent also joined us. The comfort of the military Mess was taken away from us but each of us was given a bed. Next to us was the camp for police officers and our JCOs, and we could see them walking outside during the day.
5. The New Prison Life in Camp No. 61 – Our Lives Had Changed
washing, and cleaning after the call of nature. Each cell had an attached bathroom. We had just our uniforms and blankets on the bare floor. All the lieutenant colonels were kept in similar cells in a separate barracks. Our salaries, canteen supplies and all our mail were stopped. No one can imagine the hardship we faced in the hot weather of Gwalior. The kind of privation we faced in our imprisonment within a POW camp can’t be explained to the reader. We were not even allowed to close the cell doors and had to suffer the hot breeze of Gwalior all day long. We would fetch water in the plastic bucket which would soon become warm and we were forced to drink the warm water in the hot weather. We could only take a few sips to quench our thirst. We got some comfort after removing our shirts and lying on the floor. We were given just one chapatti in 24 hours which we would divide into four pieces and eat each piece with warm water for breakfast, lunch, evening tea and dinner.
Despite all these hardships, God had bestowed us with such acceptance and calmness that we viewed everything positively. For example, we would loudly announce lunch time so the officers in the next cell could hear and all of us could eat one fourth of our chapatti. We referred to the portions of the chapatti as breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sometimes we would tell jokes loudly so our neighboring officers could hear too and would often end up laughing. We had made arrangements for azan and namaz since our prison life started and I am very proud that I was the one who gave azan five times a day, regularly. Even in such horrible conditions in the cell I continued giving the azan and we would say our prayers individually in our cells. Each time I gave the azan or told a joke, the response of the Indian Army jawaans and officers was gratifying. We carried on as before and never changed our attitude which often made the enemy more annoyed and irritable. We managed with one chapatti and warm water in 24 hours, but those of us who were smokers were miserable. The Indian Army had probably thought that decreasing our food intake to such an extent and causing us physical discomfort would make us break and we would start begging. But we tolerated everything with a smile and laughter and it was quite painful for the maharaja bania.
We spent 28 days like this, laughing and telling jokes to each other. However, our weak, scrawny and unshaven faces made it obvious that such limited food and no comfort had changed our looks dramatically. Our own jawaans would prepare and bring the chapattis for us and after a few days, they started doing something that lifted our spirits. I think it was another example of courage. They started wrapping in our chapattis two or three cigarettes, a few match sticks, and some paper with match powder to light them. We would take turns to smoke inside the bathrooms. In this way, the nicotine cravings of smokers were satisfied and the Indian sentries never found out about it until the very end. Sometimes our jawaans even wrapped pieces of onions in the chapattis which, in our deprivation, was no less enjoyable than a steak and korma meal for us at the time. It was also another blessing of God that none of us got sick during those 28 days. The Indians thought that they would break our courage, persistence, and forbearance but the opposite happened. The prison sentries were especially tired of us and it seemed that they were praying for the 28-day period to end when they would be rid of our sarcastic jokes and careless attitude.
The 28 days were finally up and we were taken out of our cells. We were quite unkempt but as soon as
The Indian Army and the security staff lived between our camp and that of our police and JCOs. The Indian Army jawaans would march day and night in the large ground between the heavy, spiked barbed wire to keep a close eye on us at all times. On the right of our camp was a road and on the other side were the barracks of the Indian Army jawaans. Initially, we were irritated by the strong floodlights on the towers but, apart from a few sensitive people, most of us got accustomed to them. There were always two sentries in each tower. But despite such rigorous security precautions, this change was good as we got a much bigger view and had almost direct contact with the outside world. In front was another ground which was always crowded with people. We could see pedestrians walking by, women, men, children, farmers and construction workers. We could also see Indian Army jawaans busy in their routine activities. Further away were buildings on small hills. We saw them light up at night time. We could also see Indian Army commandos exercising on the ground. Sometimes they marched with the army band and sometimes we could see them jumping from planes as part of their training. Gwalior was the Regimental Center of the Indian Army Commando Corps.
The current setting was quite a relief from the previous claustrophobic atmosphere of our POW Mess – we could see the outside life and normal people. In fact, our barracks had consisted of rooms, but the common walls had been removed and it was opened up into a single long barracks. We could see each other from one end to the other. This was probably another reason that made us happy – we were in contact with each other at all times. Outside the barracks, in the direction of the road, were our
bathrooms. There were perhaps seven or eight small rooms and their walls were altered and lowered so that the sentries could keep an eye on us while we showered. They wanted to ensure that we didn’t dig another tunnel. A little distance from the washrooms were proper toilets. Since there weren’t many shower rooms and toilets, we always had to queue outside and wait for our turn to wash. Each POW was given two uniforms, one sheet, a pillow, vest, soap holder, oil and shaving kit. The canteen had been opened for us again, and in front of the barracks and within the camp was a temporary tent – this was the kitchen where our own jawaan cooks prepared our meals. They would get dry rations. They cooked and lived there so our camp population increased. Besides the Pakistani Army officers, there was only one police officer, superintendent of Police Mr. Mazoor Ahmad. He was a gentleman, an elderly man who would pray regularly.
Our extra luggage was kept in rooms next to the camp where the Indian Army resided. We were counted multiple times throughout the day – the last count would be conducted at 2200 hours and the first before sunrise. Every other day, our beds were taken out and the entire area was inspected thoroughly to see if we were digging another tunnel. That tunnel had become God’s wrath for the Indian Army and had deprived them of their peace. Frequent counting and searching was a requirement for the security they had devised, but it was also meant to bother us. Our way of dealing with these measures was to laugh and joke about them. This always irritated the Indian Army officers even more and we enjoyed their socalled strict measures and their consequent irritation, wretchedness and helplessness. In spite of the harsher security checks and searches, it was comical that they never found out about the Indian currency and the cash that we carried. We had invented many ways to hide it from them.
One day during one of these counts we heard the news that Z. A. Bhutto and Indira Gandhi would be meeting in Simla to reach an agreement about our release. This news lifted our spirits and lead to longer discussions and more heated arguments. We heard that their meeting began on June 28, 1972. We started praying for our President to keep his and our country’s honor and not compromise on anything just for our release, but at the same time in our hearts we wanted to be free. During these crucial meetings being held at Simla, we forgot about the ghazals and stock exchange news. Days passed and June ended, though we heard nothing. It felt like time had stopped and, worst of all, when the Indian officers observed our increasing interest in the news, my transistor radio was confiscated again. We hated that, at such an important juncture when our fate hung in the balance, we were prevented from listening to the news. However, one day they miraculously began transmitting news from Radio Akashwani over the loudspeakers. We were glad that at least we could hear what was going on. The initial news was not encouraging; it seemed that the Simla meeting between the two heads of state was heading towards outright failure. Despair raised its head in our camp again. However, during the first week of July, the Sector Commander Colonel Anand Singh visited the camp to give us the good news that the Simla meeting had been a success and the heads of the two states had reached an agreement. We were so ready to believe anything. We learnt that the major points of the agreement reached were that both the countries would return the captured areas and release the POWs, and this news was no less than a miracle as in 1971 India
held superiority. Indian media and politicians strongly protested against this decision taken by Gandhi, and one newspaper even published an interesting cartoon: a wall in the front yard of a house was broken at one place and Z. A. Bhutto was abducting Indira Gandhi, who was wearing a burqa, indicating that Gandhi was being beaten by Bhutto in the agreement.
All the POWs were happy and excited to see their leader succeed but we were very regretful when we saw a picture in the evening newspaper of Benazir Bhutto walking on the Mall Road in Simla with Sikh and Hindu youngsters following her. The caption read, “When Mr. Bhutto’s beautiful daughter was shopping for Indian magazines, Indian youth got excited and followed her to catch a glimpse of her.” Perhaps we were now too sensitive and emotional and so we reacted when we saw his young daughter in such a situation – it was like giving the Indians an unfettered opportunity. Alas, Mr. Bhutto should not have taken his daughter to Simla but we could do nothing besides feeling pain. After signing the agreement, Mr. Bhutto delivered a very passionate and rousing speech at the Lahore airport, saying that he felt the pain of the POWs and had slept on the floor in India. This was the first time that we realized that Z. A. Bhutto was a brilliant actor who was effectively making a fool of the entire nation with his effusive speeches, because we POWs were well aware from the Indian media of the wine and dance parties he attended in Simla. Our nation had labeled him as Asia’s proud leader. But we were happy with the knowledge that only iron can cut iron.
POWs started getting parcels in abundance from back home after the Simla Agreement. Indian Army officers would often be stunned at the gifts we received from home, and we were always happy that, though our country was small, our standard of living was much better than in India.
While taking showers, we would often crouch down on the floor and the Indian sentries would begin to whistle and shout, fearing that we had started digging another tunnel. They were oddly unsettled. Little did they know that we did this intentionally just to exasperate them and for our entertainment as nothing really bothered them more than the fear of another tunnel. Captain Ved frequently said, “I don’t understand if you are the prisoners or if we are the prisoners,” and his stuttering made this remark funnier.
We reconstructed our temporary mosque on one side of the front yard and I began the azans again. Doctor Captain Saddique would lead the namaz. The azan and namaz of prison life were memorable and immensely satisfying.
The Indian sentries were changed frequently and we could guess the corps and units from their uniforms and musculature. We found it amusing when the Sikhs were on duty, especially when we saw them sitting in a line in their camps across the road, washing their long hair. One could easily confuse them with women. It was even better to vex the Sikhs; they got tougher with us perhaps just to prove to the Hindus that they were as loyal to India as anyone could be.
One day our friend Captain Nadeem from the Baluch Regiment was taking a shower when he noticed a Sikh hawaldaar walking down the road. This presented an opportunity to tease him and Captain Nadeem yelled out mockingly in Punjabi, and immediately crouched down in the bathroom to hide. The Sikh
hawaldaar stopped, looked around and saw no one. He seemed concerned but began walking again. Captain Nadeem repeated his teasing and disappeared, and the Sikh hawaldaar again glanced around but more assuredly this time because the voice had clearly come from the direction of the bathrooms. After some time, Captain Nadeem must have thought that the Sikh hawaldaar had walked on so he left the bathroom, only to find the hawaldaar standing outside. As soon as the Sikh saw Captain Nadeem, he began blowing his whistle to alert the other sentries; everyone began running toward the camp from all directions. The Indian camp officers were informed and they immediately came to the camp with their junior team. It was mid-afternoon and extremely hot, and we were asked to stand in line directly facing the sun. The Indian Army officer struggled to impress us as he told us we were undisciplined and that someone had cursed at one of his men. According to him, unless we revealed who that culprit was, we would all remain standing facing the sun. Captain Nadeem came forward and told the officer that there was no need to punish the other officers and that he was the one who had joked with the Sikh hawaldaar. He knew he would be punished but he confessed with courage. When the Indian Army officer asked him why he had done it, Captain Nadeem’s answer was that he couldn’t resist it when he saw the Sikh hawaldaar walking down the street in the middle of the afternoon. Captain Nadeem was later separated from us and taken out of the camp. We all knew that he would be kept in isolation for a few days and that his food would be decreased by half. As expected, when he returned to the camp after a few days, he seemed weaker and had grown a beard. As soon as we saw him, we took him up on our shoulders and started chanting ‘God is Great’ and Pakistan Zindabad – his return became a small procession. We carried him inside, and all of us sat on the verandah and enjoyed a cup of tea together. We continued our chanting and the sentries yelled at us to keep quiet but their voices were lost amidst our shouting and chants. We didn’t pay much attention to them, our purpose was to aggravate and tease them, and we continued making fun of the victorious Indian Army for some time.
The Indian Army visited us every few hours to count and search our barracks. We were now accustomed to this routine and would come out of the barracks on our own at the set times, just so we could get it over with. I would take a shower after the morning count although, in the Gwalior winter, the water would be frozen and unbearably cold. Previously, I was in the habit of taking a hot shower until spring, but eventually I got comfortable with taking icy cold showers before sunrise, even in the months of December and January. I didn’t have to wait in line for the shower after the count because no one took a shower that early in the morning. Strangely, by the grace of God, I never even suffered from a cold or a fever – rather, I felt more invigorated after the early morning shower.
I would then say the azan. We would all pray after the azan and a few officers would recite the Quran. Our routine was to go for a walk later along the boundary of our camp. After our walk, I played loud music on my transistor radio and we placed our blankets in the front yard and exercised. We had breakfast after exercise and then throughout the day we would do one activity or another to pass the time. I think the sentries also enjoyed watching our activities.
At night, only one officer was allowed to come out and use the toilet. It was especially difficult to go to
the toilet when it rained. The front yard would get muddy and slushy. Despite this, a temporary toilet was not provided next to the door where we could at least urinate. When it rained heavily, officers began standing right next to the door and peeing. The Indian Army officers tried to stop us from doing that but we paid no attention. Once we had a ‘stone fight with the Indian Army sentries. Some of them threw stones at an officer who was peeing and the officer responded in kind. It was rather a sensitive situation and Lala Jee ended up providing temporary toilets beside the door of the barracks. The guard was changed after the fight so that none of us would get aggressive if we came across the same sentries.
Every Indian Army officer who came for the morning count was often drunk and would, several times, end up doing something weird. Perhaps the Indian Army jawaans got alcohol in their daily ration, and some of the officers even drank openly. We believed that possibly the officers drank all night until they had to come for the count in the morning. It seemed odd to us in the beginning but, like everything else, we became accustomed to it. We often had fun with the drunken officers but they themselves were doing something illegal so they didn’t really care. Though the accompanying junior or Indian Army NCO was stern with us whenever we joked, we didn’t bother about them.
Not a week would go by without something happening like the incident with the Sikh hawaldaar. We had two distinct groups of officers, not technically groups as such, but clearly demarcated in the way they thought and acted. As far as taunting the Indian Army went, everyone participated whether they agreed with it or not. One group believed that we had already been disgraced as POWs so we should not tease the Indian Army; they believed that the Indians had the upper hand and the authority to conduct frequent counts and searches, which in turn disturbed our daily prison life. But the majority of us believed that prison life and comfort could not go hand in hand, so making the lives of Indian Army a misery should be sustained at all times. The officers from the first category supported the majority to a large extent. So there was always an officer in the POW camp getting cell time. We didn’t want to create an atmosphere where either side could suspect that there were any sympathizers; we simply wanted to create situations that would intensify the already existing hatred and enmity towards India.
Besides these two groups, there was yet another group of officers who believed that in spite of being in the prison, it was the duty of every officer to take care of their health and not tease anyone intentionally to ensure maximum comfort and ease.
Though it was crystal clear that the Indians cared nothing for the Geneva Convention agreement nor possessed any moral values, even if one of our officers carried out an extreme action or broke a norm in any extreme way and even though many officers didn’t agree with it, we supported him. Religious people often remained occupied in praying, reciting the Quran and doing something constructive. Those among us who persisted in violating the rules would frequently be anxious and restless, though they were always proud of what they did and believed. Sometimes they even suggested the junior officers should tease the senior officers. The Pakistan Army officers with more moderate and balanced views wanted to spend their prison time with grace and calm; they remained respectful towards everyone and spent most of their time doing something good for someone. I noticed that during our time in prison, one could clearly see the true
face and nature of each person. Everyone was exposed, their beliefs and character detailed, almost as if they had been through an x-ray machine. Everyone’s fake personas and masks were stripped away. The gentlemen, the moralistic and the well-mannered stood out as did those who had only pretended to be such. Prison life has its own hardships and grim events but it also presents a daily opportunity to see the true face of human beings. People tend to wear fake guises and masks all their life, betraying and misguiding others.
When the Indian Army decided to show us Bollywood movies, there were two groups among us – one that wanted to watch the movies to relax, to escape from the constant and nagging homesickness of rigorous prison life for a few hours, and the other group that boycotted the movies but was mostly not against the idea of relaxation. None of us ever thought of asking for any favors from the Indian Army to make things easier. There was a rumor once that the POWS would be made to travel to historical spots in the city. Everyone protested and made it clear to the Indian Army that we would never think of such an excursion under the current circumstances.
Our time as POWs had its share of agreements and disagreements but there was never any doubt about one thing – whenever the Indian Army did anything to cause trouble, we all stood together in protest and faced the enemy head-on. We loved our country with all our hearts and souls and hated the enemy; we never provided them with any opportunity to doubt our patriotism. As our imprisonment stretched on, our love for Pakistan and our distrust and hatred for the Hindus increased. Any attempt to brainwash us led to such a strong response from us that perhaps the enemy regretted suggesting the intervention in the first place.
Gwalior was very cold in winter and extremely hot in summer. The months of May, June and July were particularly tough. Though we were more than familiar with the extremity of weather in Pakistan, the lack of arrangements in the prison camps made the weather feel worse than it actually was. Instead of letting this situation get us down, we kept ourselves occupied and endured the cruel weather as best we could. The breeze produced by the fans was so blistering that we could feel our bodies sweltering in the afternoons. To alleviate our discomfort, we would keep a bucket of water beside our beds, dip our bed sheet in it and spread it over ourselves. This kept the air from the fan cool for as long as the bed sheet remained wet. Similarly, we would wrap empty plastic bottles in a wet cloth, fill them with hot water and keep them outside for a few hours. As the wet cloth dried, the water in the bottles would get cold, almost as if it was taken from a refrigerator.
In such small ways, we got temporary comfort and managed to pass the time. We realized that God had made man very tough and that all kinds of hardships and pain could be lessened with just a little effort – it was all a state of mind. No problem remains a problem if faced with determination and that is how we tolerated the hardships of imprisonment and the extremity of the weather and the enemy’s behavior, though many amongst us possessed a weak heart and fickle body.
One day Captain Ved Kumar came to our camp early in the morning to tell us that they had made arrangements for a live Qawwali show. A famous Qawwal of India, Shankar Shambhu, was invited to our
camp with his Qawwal party for the evening. We were surprised, because we had never asked to listen to a live Qawwali nor could we imagine listening to one from a Hindu artist because the kind of Qawwali we were accustomed to in the camps was always in the praise of God, his Prophet or by Sufi saints and Muslim Qawaals. We couldn’t understand this unasked-for blessing from the Indian government. Later that day big trucks carrying large sheets, tents and couches arrived outside the wired area. By the afternoon, a large stage had been set up for the Qawwal party and the big tents were in position. We were wondering if they would take us outside the fence to listen to the Qawwali, but it all became clear when wooden benches were placed inside the wired camp. All the arrangements were for the Indian Army officers and their wives, and the point of making us sit behind the fence on benches was to demonstrate their importance and our helplessness. The actual show was for them; they had planned to make us sit inside as if we were some exhibit on display. How could we accept such an arrangement? We informed the camp in-charge as clearly as we could that the wooden benches should be removed otherwise we would personally throw them out ourselves. We were not going to endure disrespect and dishonor in front of Hindu ladies under any circumstances. Captain Ved tried his best to change our minds but our determination did not waver and we advised him that we would not listen to the Qawwali under any circumstances. The Sector Commander came and tried to convince us that the entire arrangement was made to entertain us alone, but this did not change our minds one bit. The rumors of our protest reached our JCOs in the POW camp and they also boycotted the show. God knows what they had told their families and children about us, because the Indian Army officers were severely aggravated by our decision and took it as an insult. The reality was that the arrangement was to brag about our situation and our helplessness to their families.
Finally, they ordered us to remain inside our barracks and close the doors at the start of the Qawwali. We couldn’t have cared less about any such show so the order made no difference to us. The guests started pouring in by the evening, and the women were dressed up in expensive and showy dresses. A big crowd of Indian civilians were looking at us as we stood at a distance from them in the veranda, laughing hysterically and cracking jokes; the Indian Army officers clearly hated it. Captain Ved came and informed us that the Qawwali show would be starting soon as all the guests had arrived so we had to move inside quietly and close the doors. All the officers went inside and gathered in the part of the barracks that was closest to the stage. We picked up our mugs, jugs and buckets and as soon as the Qawwali started, we started our own musical show, singing Pakistani national songs loudly while applauding wildly, making ridiculous music with the jugs, buckets and mugs. We made as much noise as we could. Captain Ved came in with a senior Indian Army officer and advised us to keep quiet; he informed us that their Qawwali show was being ruined by the noise. Our answer was that the Qawwali was making us sick so they were the ones who had to end the show if they wished us to stop. The victorious Indian Army officers were furious with the answer we gave them, but at the same time they did not want to create a drama in the presence of their guests. They were very well aware that there was no limit to what we would do and we didn’t care about the consequences. We were very happy that the people who wanted to make a mockery
of their guests were the ones who actually got insulted in front of them. They closed the door and left and our noisy show went on for as long as the Qawwali continued; it was obvious that their entertainment was completely ruined because of us. The next day, they took their revenge by annoying us and getting on our nerves all day long; they carried out more than the usual number of security checks, they asked us to take our luggage outside quite a few times, and they made us stand facing the sun in the hot weather for as long as they could. We tolerated all of their “punishments’ by making jokes and laughing and this attitude made them even more petulant.
After a few days, a Muslim senior officer from the central government came to deliver a lecture. This was part of the Indian plan to brainwash us by inviting Muslim speakers to the camps to exploit our ‘vulnerability and change our beliefs but, by the grace of God, they didn’t achieve even one percent of their diabolical goal. Instead, any Muslim guest who came to our camp to deliver a lecture was insulted and dishonored by us and forced to leave. This gentleman began by praising Indira Gandhi and the Indian establishment, and like a faithful dog he spoke against the two-nation theory and the 1947 partition. He was portraying India as a secular state and talking about the exemplary living condition of the minorities in India, especially the Muslims. He asked if any of us had any questions at the end. One of our colleagues, Lieutenant Colonel Abdul Sattar Chaudhry, was already taking notes during the lecture and he became furious and stood up.
First of all, Colonel Sahib said that the speaker called himself a Muslim though we doubted his claim. He said that even if we did believe that he was a Muslim, we considered him a liar and thus a bad example of a Muslim – because whatever he claimed about the lives of Muslims in India was untrue. Colonel Sahib mentioned the miserable lives of the Indian Muslims in an article by Khushwant Singh published recently in Illustrated Weekly of India. According to that article, the Indian government was neither secular nor had it treated Indian Muslims benevolently. The magazine said the percentage of Indian Muslims attending any school, college or university in India was hardly 1% and, similarly, there was a negligible number of Muslims working in government offices who simply praised the government, as most of the Muslims were forced to live a life of poverty with little or no honor. Colonel Sahib told the speaker that, although we were POWs, we had better things to do than to sit and listen to ill-scripted crap. We were all hysterical at Colonel Sahib’s last remark. Colonel Sahib also declared that the Indian government should give up any hope of buying prisoners with useless lectures, as they were only making our faith stronger and the propaganda was increasing our hatred. The reader can well imagine how the Brahmins would have felt after listening to Colonel Sahib. After this, no one asked any questions and the speaker left with the Indian Army officers.
After a few days Yunus Khan, a member of the family of Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan and Abdul Wali Khan, was brought to the camp to be humiliated. First he shed light on his family’s historically informal and close ties with Hindus, and he said that he had been a handsome young man when Indira Gandhi got married. Feroze Gandhi also took him on their honeymoon to Srinagar in compliance with the wishes of Indira Gandhi. One of our officers quickly interrupted, “Khan Sahib, the honeymoon is celebrated
between husband and wife and the willing presence of another man is somewhat strange.” But Yunus Khan had made that statement to prove his close ties with Indira Gandhi before her marriage when he was young, and couldn’t change his statement. He started talking against the two-nation theory after this but during his speech a few of our Pashtun officers lost control of their emotions and one of them even stood up and ensured the speaker wouldn’t say another word. He did so by cursing the man bluntly and bravely, and he even claimed that Yunus Khan was a filthy smear on the name of the Pashtuns. Yunus Khan and the Indian Army officers had no idea how to react to the escalating situation. They immediately surrounded Yunus Khan and took him out of the camp so that the situation would not worsen. The readers might be questioning the plausibility of this incident; I give my assurance with God as my witness that I have described it exactly as it happened before me. It was God’s blessing that, even as POWs, we had been given the courage to make the Indian Army officers quiver, that’s why Captain Ved would often say in his typical stuttering manner, “I have no idea if you are our prisoners or we are your prisoners.” After Yunus Khan, no speaker ever visited our camp. At least in the Gwalior camp; it had become clear to the Indian Army that anything against the two-nation theory or any two-faced Muslim lecturing us would not be tolerated. So any speaker who visited us was always insulted by us.
We took up different hobbies to keep us occupied as the imprisonment seemed to be never-ending, at least at the time. Books were cheaper in India so the majority of us began reading about religion and history; I think this was healthy and appropriate. Besides this, many of us involved ourselves in different kinds of prayer and worship. Others would often spend time playing cards, and some officers learnt how to play bridge. Many officers took up the hobby of making pencil sketches, and a few officers were artists and became teachers, instructing the other officers. Captain Zafar from the Signal Corps was our teacher. Since we had ample time, any hobby we adopted easily became a skill. And so the time passed – we did not need to worry about making a living nor did we have any responsibilities; we simply had free time on our hands, and the only thing we gave our undivided attention to was the news. We followed the news from every corner of the world in the hope that we would get a hint or a clue about our release. As I have mentioned, I was the only one who had a transistor radio in our camp so I had a good crowd around my bed during news hours. The only thing that never changed was the searches conducted by the Indian Army officers.
One officer among us was disliked by all of us because of his ideologies. He did something intolerable and was insulted and disgraced by all of us in an appropriate manner. His name was Captain Nawazish and his ideology was pro-Indian. He tried his best to influence our young officers but was never successful. We were convinced that he was a spy and was providing the Indian army with information. He was subsequently transferred to another camp but we did not know where he was transferred to. When the POWs were being released, we tried to find out his whereabouts but never learnt anything. However, we remember the peace in our camp after he left.
After the Indian Army officers failed to brainwash us with their guest speakers, they started to show us Bollywood movies that propagated the negative elements of the 1947 partition. Little did they know that
such secular movies had no influence on us, we only watched them as a form of recreation. Later, we criticized and discussed the movies, sharing our thoughts and points of views with the Indian Army officers. So many books were published in India within a few months of our imprisonment about the socalled victory of India and Bangladesh that the Indian writers and columnist deserved some credit for their falsehoods. It was sad to see so many anti-Pakistan books affordably and readily available in the market and it made us wish that our publishers and writers had been this reasonable in Pakistan so that the Indian propaganda could have been counter-argued productively. Through the lack of any such attempt, several Pakistanis even began to believe that their Army officers were murderers, rapists and plunderers. This was the result of the very strong and well-organized propaganda being constantly promoted by India which not only influenced people in Pakistan but also the rest of the world. When falsehood is presented in a plausible and organized manner and is not negated by facts and reality in a timely manner, it establishes itself as a historical fact. The Pakistani government completely failed to address the Indian propaganda and the bravery and hardships faced by the army in 1970-71 became redundant.
As time passed, it was becoming clearer that both the Indian government and our leaders in Pakistan were using our prolonged imprisonment for their real political gains, because now, even the Indian media was claiming that the money being spent on food and other things for the POW’s could be used to feed millions of hungry Indians instead. But the Indian government was ignoring the criticism of the Indian press and media. The media claimed that it was time for the army to begin releasing the POWs. However, the attitude of the Indian Army officers towards us was nasty and against the principles of the Geneva Convention of which both the countries were members. Our indifference towards their harsh attitude continued and the extremely difficult measures taken by them were readily accepted by us as the norm. It was a special blessing from God that, despite the fact that we were POWs, the majority of us remained determined and never lost hope.
It was in the month of October 1972 when we saw the Ramazan moon as POWs, although our diet was still lentils and rice with small pieces of glasses or stones in it. Ramazan was welcomed by us with grace and integrity. We had started receiving parcels from Pakistan by that time and most of them were edibles, so we threw ‘lavish’ iftar parties. Whoever got a food parcel would invite a few friends for iftar and we would try to have some fun. Often one could hear azan from the camp of our jawaans, and from Gwalior city, followed by an azan by me, followed by our iftar gatherings – it was a spiritual experience for all of us. Many times the officers who were fasting would ask me to give the azan early so they could break the fast. We busied ourselves with all these arrangements and tried to make the holy month of Ramazan as colorful as it could be. Tarawih and namaz were led by Captain Sadiqque who was also a Qari. So, in Ramazan, our camp became the center of God’s blessings. Throughout my life, I never got such satisfaction and spirituality as I felt when I gave the azan, offered namaz and recited the Quran during our camp life in India. We would recite the Quran the entire day while fasting. We even advised the officers who wouldn’t fast to say their prayers – sometimes we even begged them. Many of our friends had
their own philosophy and believed that we were praying, fasting and reciting the Quran because we wanted God to help us get released and that was something they did not want to do. Although it was an unacceptable excuse and many missed the blessings of Ramazan, we prayed for their forgiveness and for the acceptance of our own prayers.
An interesting scene was played out three times a day. At meal times, all the POWs placed their plates and mugs in front of their beds and sat silently waiting. Our own jawaans distributed the meals; they brought the curry/lentil/vegetables in a bucket and chapattis were wrapped on a separate plate. The moment they entered our barracks, they would hit the bucket with spoons to alert us to their arrival, then the meals were poured into our plates, starting from one end of the barracks to another. The jawaans picked the first lane for distribution at random, a different lane each day, and the lane whose turn was first would shout with excitement and the lane at the end would complain. And so we brought some lighthearted fun to our mealtimes. The sound of the spoons against the bucket became a part of our prison life.
We also got non-vegetarian food a couple of times a week, and sometimes even chicken. A few officers were vegetarian and each day they announced which friend would be the recipient of the meat on their plate. When the parcels started arriving, we saw pickles and chutneys. Colonel Fazal Haq’s bed was next to mine, and he often received Complan and tasty chutneys from his family. I had excellent relations with him since I respected him a lot because of his age. He had some digestive problem and would often give me several of the edibles he received from home, so my friendship with him turned out to be beneficial for me, food-wise.
Eventually, an orderly from amongst our jawaans was provided per two or three officers and those officers who weren’t in the habit of doing stuff with their own hands were extremely happy and got an opportunity to become sahib bahadurs again. But it made no difference to officers like me who always did all the work themselves. We were happy when these jawaans joined us and our attitude towards them was not like the other officers; we treated them as our friends as we were all sailing in the same boat now. However, our faithful jawaans gave us every respect and even felt our pain. The majority of us maintained good personal hygiene and remained healthy in spite of being a POW. We tried our best to keep our uniforms under our pillows after washing them, while they were still a little wet so that they could be pressed without ironing. We washed our uniform every other day, though some among us took pride in their dirty uniform and wouldn’t change for many days. As I said earlier, only in prison can one see the true colors of a human being; those officers who always wore dirty uniforms had their own thinking and those who always wore clean ones had theirs.
When we started receiving regular salaries, some friends started making pajamas and caps out of newly-bought bed sheets. A few officers were experts in sewing and others often asked them to make clothes for everyone. Almost all became expert in making prayer caps out of handkerchiefs – this was yet another useful way to keep ourselves busy. I had a small but sharp knife which I somehow managed to keep with me; I started making wooden cutlery with it. I would collect dry wood from outside and, when
there was nothing else to do, I would carve forks, knives and spoons out of it. The only reason I did this was to pass the time, and eventually I gifted them to my special friends in the camp.
Colonels and majors received a salary of Indian Rupees 110 and captains and lieutenants Rupees 90. This money was spent on things from the canteen for our personal use though the Indians sold limited stuff, and sometimes they would stop the cigarette supply to give smokers a tough time. The Indians knew that the ones among us who smoked could survive without food and water but not without their daily dose of nicotine, so they often reduced our cigarette supply and watched us suffer. Sometimes we witnessed sad situations only because of the reduced cigarette supply. Our officers would go out to the bathroom at night and gather cigarette butts. They would then remove the tobacco and roll it in a piece of paper to smoke it. It was miserable to see what tobacco addiction could do to a human being. Highly respected officers were forced to smoke those cigarette butts. My stock of cigarettes from Dhaka had almost finished and I always tried to replenish it on a regular basis. At that time, my brother-in-law was studying in England and he sent me four cartons of 555 cigarettes through one of his friends in Malaysia. Each carton had 40 packs of cigarettes, and this was a massive treat for me. The astonishing thing was that the Indians handed over all the cartons of cigarettes to me, as English cigarettes were rare even in India. My importance and status in the whole camp increased tremendously after receiving the 555 cigarette cartons. Even the Indian hawaldaar Thappa came to me in the evening and whispered in my ear that the Camp Commander had requested a pack of cigarettes for himself. He told me that they were only sold in Bombay and Calcutta and were very expensive. He even begged me and I felt good that an enemy officer who had imprisoned me was begging me for cigarettes. I gave him two packs instead. I had no intention of asking for a favor in return but I guess I wanted to prove my superiority. If they had wanted, they could have taken all my cigarettes away and I could have done nothing, which is why some of their actions were incomprehensible.
On October 12, 1972, the first session of the Bangladesh parliament was initiated with the recital of the Holy Quran alongside Gita. This was a deliberate act of Mujibur Rahman and his parliamentary members who had been blinded by ignorance. We also heard about the talks between India and Pakistan and were happy to know that at last the ice had started to melt. We didn’t like the agreement on the LOC, but we were hopeful that perhaps after the preliminary agreements, they would discuss our fate too. The difference between the victors and the losers was eventually evident. My transistor radio was routinely confiscated, only to be returned later. I had it back with me during those days, and we regularly followed the news and would later discuss the details. Everyone had their own point of view and sometimes our discussions turned into heated arguments. Anyone expressing an extreme and unpleasant view was immediately grilled by us.
One of our senior Colonel Sahibs was always interested in stock markets and shares; he also enjoyed Chaudhry Nizam Din’s radio program from Lahore. My transistor radio was the only source of excitement for everyone, and we loved the news about Lahore and our beloved land.
The weather of Gwalior was getting cold because of snowfall in Uttar Pradesh and we were given mattresses along with other stuff which belonged to us since the nights were getting chilly.
I received many letters from home along with several pictures of my growing children in the first week of November. I was in a weird emotional state after seeing the faces of my son and daughters after such a long time. Though their faces were engraved on my heart, I felt a strange sense of contentment in seeing them develop. I began to miss them even more – I often found myself looking at the pictures several times in a single day. I even made a pencil sketch of my son, Moeen – I still have it with me.
I think it was perhaps the 5th of November 1972 when the festival of Diwali was celebrated. Our camp sentries lit candles and dias in the camp all night long, we could see the lights even from afar. Sita was released by Ravan and the night was celebrated when Ram and Sita returned to Ayodhya. After a few days our own holy day of Eid-ul-Fitr also arrived. There was no Eid in a prison though we said our Eid prayers on the morning of November 8th after the blessed month of fasting. At night we arranged a Ghazal singing competition. The Indian Army officers visited us all day long to wish us Eid Mubarak. We didn’t like it much and we just responded to their Eid greetings, sorely missing our land and the festivities held with the people and our families at this time of year. In the evening, we heard encouraging messages on the radio from the President of Pakistan and Chief of Army Staff – this gave us some satisfaction that we needed at the time. Some civilian POWs were even sent home on November 10″, 1972. This was pleasing news for us after such a long imprisonment, and it was also a small ray of hope for those of us who remained. We even heard that the commanders of both the armies had failed to reach an agreement after a meeting since our commanders had refused to accept the conditions set by the Indian Army commanders. We felt proud at hearing this news; it was not appropriate for a Muslim to bow his head in front of the enemy under any conditions – no matter how terrifying.
Sometimes we availed the rare opportunity to sit outside on the verandah and observe the outside world beyond the fence. Just these observations were a very enlightening experience – the large ground in front of the camp was always crowded. The Hindu women and men wore ghararas and dhotis respectively, one could tell their poverty from their attire and their faces. Many times they collected leftover food from outside our camps, though the sentries continued to stop them. Despite being POWS, we felt truly sorry to see the kind of poverty that prevailed in India. The food of the POWs was of terribly low standards, but even those leftovers were precious to them. The Indian government was so caught up in accumulating arms and weapons that they remained ignorant of their starving population. We felt pride when we compared the conditions we saw in the enemy’s land with our own. Though the situation in our country was not one to make a citizen proud, it was still at least far, far better than India. When the MES workers visited us for maintenance work, we were always shocked to see what they ate for lunch though the workers had jobs, unlike the men and women lined up outside the prison. They ate a chapatti with either brown sugar or chutney and pickle. We often offered them our lentils and vegetables and they always accepted our offer with gratitude. We, the prisoners, donated our food to those who had put us there in the first place. Indians who claimed India to be the largest democracy in the world needed to see what it had done to its own working people. Poor people left for work early in the morning and in the evening they returned with wood or hay on their heads – one could only imagine their poverty and
lifestyle.
With these thoughts, activities and conditions, the year of 1972 passed, which meant that we had reached first anniversary of our imprisonment. Our discussions, commentaries and arguments had matured by then, but uncertainty left us hopeless and worried. However, the POW life had now become a routine. Officers had made groups and would argue and discuss unusual topics, some even calculated their savings since their families lived with their in-laws and they tried to come up with practical ways on how to live a comfortable life after their release. They would discuss cars, houses and plots – it was surprising how such individuals planned their future despite currently living a shameful prison life. The senior officer who got the stock market news on my transistor radio would regularly post letters to his wife advising her which shares to buy and which ones to sell off. He would come to my bed just a few minutes before the stock exchange news.
The entire group of POWs had started showing the psychological effects of their year’s imprisonment. With no news of our release, the officers who had shown courage at the beginning of our internment had become insomniacs, while many were depressed and only talked about their families. A few, more composed, individuals were surprised to see this side of their army brothers revealed once the strong façade was removed. Some of our friends even cried on receiving a letter, especially when the letter was from their wives. We often tried our best to distract them. They were happy while discussing their married life but again in the middle of the night they would wake up crying uncontrollably.
A few officers became irritating when depressed and would loudly announce that everyone should forget about Pakistan and that this was our graveyard, and that the Hindus would never leave us alive. Usually the officers who pretended to be very brave in the beginning but were weak inside said things like that, and they had become a source of amusement since most of us had no doubt that we would be released one day, no matter how far off that day might seem to be. After discovering the tunnel escape plan, the Indians seemed to be threatened by every move we made; many times a week they would have our beds taken outside just to conduct a thorough search to ensure none of us had dug a new tunnel. Most of these things were done only to bother us but we accepted all the hardships with humor and laughter. We even joked that a Hindu was sitting on the chest of a Muslim and was crying when someone asked him the reason for his dismay and he answered, “What would happen if the Muslim sat on my chest?” Sometimes mischievous young officers would pretend to secretly give envelopes to Indian Army officers, and when they opened the letter to read it, it would either be a plain piece of paper or a small piece of soap. The Indian officers were always aggravated as we laughed out loud in amusement. A few times some young officers were even punished, though they continued their jokes regardless – I still laugh at the memory of those practical jokes.
As the imprisonment dragged on, we kept on discovering new hobbies, mostly to keep us going. If we started playing cards, we would play for days; if we started poetry competitions, we continued them for days. Sometimes we even played chess for days – the experts enjoyed it while the rest enjoyed watching them. Our dear friend Major Mohammad Akram Khan (he retired as a brigadier, and he also served as the
commandant of Signal Center in Kohat) started teaching history and military subjects to the young officers. He would sit near the wall with his blanket and make military maps on the wall as he taught. This was perhaps the most useful way of passing time and, after their release, many young captains and majors were ready to take the Staff College examination because of his lessons.
One of our friends caught a baby squirrel and he kept it as a pet and trained it. Man is no doubt the most intelligent creature in the world. Within a few days, the squirrel became quite accustomed to us and would readily climb on our shoulders and heads. Sometimes she squeezed herself into our pockets. We noticed that eventually she began gaining weight and one day she suddenly disappeared. We thought she had hibernated because of the cold weather until she reappeared one day seeming weaker. We realized that she had been pregnant when she came back with her babies. The babies also became comfortable around us and the official owner of the squirrel was so thrilled that he felt the babies were his grandchildren. We nicknamed our friend Major Gulehri.
The Indian Officers wanted to keep us happy because they did not want to be bothered by us during the unexpectedly long imprisonment. But they also didn’t want us to do anything they disliked. We played with the volleyball we had been given throughout the afternoons till late in the evenings. One day a Maratha Indian Captain by the name of Powaar, who we had met previously in Dhaka, visited our camp. He looked like a Bengali and from the beginning of 1971 he had been working as an engineer in the Eastern Command Headquarters. He told us that we would soon be released and that he was visiting us to compile our lists. Most of our friends were in need of this welcome news and eagerly started discussions with him, though it seemed strange to many of us because they already had our names and lists. However, the news was some sort of encouragement. The officers were divided into optimists and pessimists – both groups were justified in their own schools of thought.
Once a few officers asked the canteen contractor to bring some dates and several other officers objected to our request. However, when the dates arrived in the camp canteen, they were cheap and good quality and the officers who had opposed the idea changed their stance and began saying things in favor of the dates – they claimed we needed such food because of the kind of diet POW camps served. I am narrating some of these incidents just to give an idea of the emotional fragility of the POWs.
6. The Political Games of the Leaders
We always waited for Mr. Z. A. Bhutto’s speeches as they were emotional, encouraging and powerful – they had the potential to greatly elevate our morale and hopes. We now believed that, after Jinnah, he was the greatest leader of Pakistan, because at the time we had no idea that our imprisonment was being prolonged for the political advantage of both Z. A. Bhutto and Indira Gandhi, otherwise we could have been released much earlier. As the year 1973 advanced, the talks and meetings continued and so did our hopes and anxieties. But we were getting more mail and parcels from home, we were shown Bollywood movies almost every week and time was passing by just fine.
In March of 1973 we heard about severe bloodshed during a political rally in Rawalpindi. We didn’t get any details from Radio Pakistan but we found this out from Indian newspapers. It was upsetting for us and it seemed that our political leaders had learnt absolutely nothing even after losing half of the country. It felt like they still prioritized their own personal and political gains over all the innocent lives and concerns. Such news about Pakistan made us more despondent. Being POWs, we had idealized our political leaders, especially Z. A. Bhutto; we believed that they would do things that we could be proud of and that they would make Pakistan a prosperous and powerful state.
The weather started to change as March ended. We decided on a suitable day and told the contractor we wanted our summer clothes from the store room. Some senior officers made a plan to escape and sacrificed some young officers in the process. The plan had absolutely no chance of success. It was the right of every POW to try and escape from prison but it wasn’t appropriate to conduct a disastrous mission. We had the chance to escape while traveling from Dhaka but no one had dared to do anything about it at the time. The tunnel plan was appropriate too though it was unsuccessful. The new idea was that a couple of officers would hide in the store room and decamp after dark. This was a farcical plan because whenever we were taken to the store, every person would be counted one by one, twice. Besides this check, the door of the store room was made of iron and was too strong to be broken with bare hands. The plan involved not only dodging the count and breaking down the iron door, but also crossing the multi-layered wired fence with the bright floodlights on, while remaining undetected by the sentries and the guard dogs. With the carefully conducted double counting, how could the Indian army officers not notice the absence of two officers? We tried to explain the flawed nature of this plan to our officers but no one could change their minds.
The passage from our barracks to the store room went through the multi-layered wired fence and each time we had to go in, we were taken in groups of ten officers and were counted twice until we returned to our barracks. There was therefore no question of even a single officer hiding in, let alone escaping from, the store room unnoticed. After the tunnel incident which could have easily been a success, the Indian Army gave us hardly one tenth of a second to think of another escape plan – we were watched constantly for twenty-four hours, seven days a week. Nevertheless, in accordance with the plan, all the officers went in to the store room and fetched their property, and on the way out the ten officers had been reduced to only eight. The Indian officers of course knew right away but never said a word and just locked the store room. They acted as if they didn’t know that there were two officers less in the team and pretended that they had been fooled successfully. Instead of checking the store room, the Indian officers started searching the barracks as the senior officers who had planned this mission advised them that two officers were sick and in the barracks. Anyone could see that it was an ignorant plan doomed to fail from the very beginning. After searching the entire barracks the Indian officers asked us where the two officers were. When we did not speak, they sent a few sentries to the store room and they calmly walked out with the hidden officers. We were all watching this when suddenly the sentries began to drag the officers, kicking and punching them. The officers were beaten up so badly that we began shouting and yelling at the Indian officers to
officers to stop. It was against the Geneva Convention to physically beat a POW and the Indian Army could have been punished but we had learnt that the Indian Army and the Geneva Convention were two very separate things. After the beating, the two officers were sent to solitary exile for 28 days and their daily rations were reduced by half.
We celebrated on April 10″, 1973 when the constitution was passed in the Pakistan National Assembly. Eid Milaad was celebrated on April 16h. I recited naats and said salaam and prayers at the end and in our jawaans’ camps naats and prayer recordings were played over the loudspeaker which we listened to throughout the day. In this way, the blessed day passed happily.
On April 171, 1973 we heard more important news over the radio. The Indian and Bangladeshi Foreign Ministers had issued a combined statement that the 195 imprisoned Pakistani Army Officers were war criminals and would be prosecuted in the courts. The others would be released in exchange for the Indian and Bengali POWs. The Pakistan government issued a strong statement against this claim and said that it would be the Pakistani Government who would decide if any of their army officers were war criminals, and that neither India nor Bangladesh had the right to hold any Pakistani Army officer accountable. For the first time the Pakistan Government openly demanded the immediate release of all the POWs. This was very exciting news in our camp that lead to a lot of discussion by everyone at different levels, although they all appreciated the tough stance taken by Pakistan.
As May arrived, the temperatures rose and we celebrated the first anniversary of our tunnel escape plan. Hamd-o-Naat and prayer programs were held all day long over the Pakistani radio stations. We could visualize Data Ki Nagri whenever we heard the live transmissions of any Lahore festival. Nothing significant happened in May but the entire month was painfully hot until May 30th when it rained and the weather eased up for a while. June was also incredibly hot and the high temperatures were made worse with the extremely hot breeze. One day Major Chawan (we nicknamed him Major Chawal) visited the camp along with the Red Cross team. We boycotted their visit but the Red Cross team openly told us that the Indian Army and government did not follow any recommendation seriously, and even the Red Cross was helpless before the shameless Indian Government. We told them in that case they should also refrain from visiting us just to go through the formalities and we would, Insha’Allah, have the power to face the cruelties inflicted upon us by the Indian Army. We did not need any favors from anyone. Our camp canteen was probably the only one without any fruits or vegetables, the only items available were soap, shoe polish, cigarettes and, occasionally, some summer drinks like squashes. As the team left, we experienced a major power loss, and humidity had also risen after the rain. The electricity was soon restored as the Indians didn’t want to leave us in the dark as that might provide us with another opportunity to escape.
The weather was scorching in June with a blistering hot breeze, and the days were long. We took up more hobbies to somehow get through the long, dry, hot spells. The month of June is normally an important one for me personally – I was married in June and both my wife and I share June as our birthday month. But in the prison, June came and went silently.
We were dejected after Sheikh Mujibur Rahman announced the delay of our release – we were to remain prisoners at least until September 1973. As POWs, so much insecurity and uncertainty pervaded our existence that one moment lifted our spirits while the next dashed our hopes. We wanted to know what the facts were, we did not care if they were good or bad – we just did not want to be kept in the dark.
Nothing very significant happened between June and September. One day Captain Ved came to our camp wearing a sweater that belonged to one of our officers. He was either being very stupid thinking we would not recognize it or he had worn it intentionally. When we asked him if he had stolen it from our friend’s luggage, he lost his composure because the accusation had come from POWs. He took two of our officers under false charges and punished them with a 28-day solitary confinement each. He also increased camp security checks for an entire month just to provoke us but we laughed and made fun of such a silly hardship. This made him even more livid and we enjoyed his discomfiture.
We began receiving more news about the fate of POWs. Long discussions and arguments ensued, and we heard that both the army commanders were negotiating through letters. One morning, a drunken Sikh captain showed up for a head count at 0230 hours instead of the 0400 hours routine count. Confused by the timing, I prepared to take a bath and was ready with a water bucket in my hand when one of the officers pointed out that it was way too early. There was no question of going to bed again so I decided to wait and give the azan at 0400 hours.
On July 27, 1973, Major Dalhon was made our camp in charge – he was from Lyallpur (which is now Faisalabad) and was a decent man. The atmosphere in the camp was oppressive because of the hot weather and the irksomely frequent counts.
It became pleasant during July 1973, and our attitudes and our behavior changed with the weather at the news of our impending release. The interesting discussions and conversations about our families continued, and we started missing our home and families even more. We also heard the news that the Indian Army CNC, General Gopal Bewoor, had planned to visit each camp of the Pakistani POWs to see them off. We also learnt that he was from the Baluch Regiment and wanted especially to meet officers from this Regiment. We were emotional and perhaps too naive to understand that we were not guests of the Indian Army and that their Chief didn’t have to come and say goodbye to us. This was a new topic of discussion and arguments and as I said we had become very emotional and arguments often took a serious turn. Just to avoid such misunderstandings, I invited a few friends whose thoughts were like mine to pray and chant Ayat ul Kursi regularly; we spent most of our time praying and asking God for forgiveness instead of wasting our time in pointless and endless arguments. Some of our sarcastic friends said that we were cowards since we avoided communicating and hid from confrontations, but God knew what was in our hearts, we just did not care for the remarks that were being made by our fellow officers. Eventually, several officers began to join me in remembering God and we all found peace.
Then we heard that a total number of 195 officers would not be released as they had been declared war criminals. They were to be handed over to Bangladesh so they could be prosecuted in the Bangladesh courts. This was extremely alarming and depressing news that was later proved to be a political move
made by India, Bangladesh and Mujibur Rahman, who only wanted to pressurize Pakistan. God is our witness that the majority of us weren’t worried by this news, but many of us who had pretended to be valiant lions lost their sleep over it and agonized over whether they would be included amongst the 195 names.
On July 19th 1973, there was a discussion about ‘war criminals’ in the Bangladesh National Assembly when it was agreed that a single testimony by any Bangladeshi citizen against any Pakistan Army Officer would make him a war criminal. This was all done in Bangladesh because of the encouragement they received from the Indian Government to ensure that negativity was attached to the Pakistan Army. They were attempting to hide the fact that the biggest war criminals were the Mukti Bahini and the Indian Army. History can’t give an example of how the non-Bengalis were slaughtered and how their women were raped. This reality had become obvious to the Bengali brothers according to Khushwant Singh, and he claimed that the hate graffiti in the cities of Bangladesh, such as ‘Quit Indian Dogs’, was a clear sign of the epiphany. But, as he said in Illustrated Weekly India: ‘What is the use of repenting when the birds have eaten the harvest?’ Soon the Bengalis would find out the truth of India’s intentions. The way the Indian Army had looted East Bengal and raped the women was becoming apparent.
Items of daily use were now scarce in West Bengal. The Bengali women did not even own a cotton sari or a piece of cloth to cover their heads or bodies and were forced into prostitution. Bangladeshi leaders were under complete Indian control and were blind to the pain of the common Bengali citizen. This was nature’s way of avenging the treason.
A major drought arrived in the last week of July in Gwalior, and it affected not just the POWs but also the common citizens who were crying out because of the water shortage, though we were provided water from trailers for drinking and cooking. We remained as calm and peaceful as we could through such a trying and testing week. Many Indians and Army officers, however, seemed irritable and would curse and complain about their own Indian government.
Meetings between the Indian and Pakistan armies were planned by the end of July 1973 to act upon the clauses agreed during the Simla Agreement. We started our prayers for our nation and our honorable release; those who had resisted it had seen the miracle of Ayat ul Kursi during the Simla Agreement and were forced by faith to join us. August 18, 1973 was the day when the meeting was held between the two armies and we desperately started counting days. Several of our friends had become lazy and had inevitably stopped writing letters to their families. Writing letters was a great hobby of mine so I wrote dozens of letters in August to my family. It was one of the best ways of passing the time and also helped me avoid the useless political discussions. But the delay in receiving replies to those letters often affected my mood very directly. By August the monsoon season had begun, and the days that were dry were made worse by the Indian Army officers who would come for counts just to bother us. God only knows what they were looking for. When the searches happened, the Indian Army NCOs would often tell us that they were coming. I would give my diary to one of the NCOs who returned it to me once the searches were over. My diary is a significant, if not the sole, reason I am able to write this book today. During that year, we
stuttering manner, “Congratu…la..la..lations now…..you will….be released so..oo..on.” I was busy at that time playing bridge, trying to make three no trip, and I was not too fond of Captain Ved anyway so I replied swiftly, “To hell with our release, let me make three no trip, please.” He was so flabbergasted by my response that, without a word, he got up and left me to sit with the other officers where he stayed for a while. He had received an official signal about our release and wanted to inform us about it. On September 8″, 1973 we found out that the release of POWs would be initiated by September 19, 1973. We were elated and life suddenly regained its spark for us. We all wrote letters to our families sharing with them the much-awaited momentous news.
7. The Return of the POWs
the sad news of the floods that had struck our beloved country and we started special prayers with extra namaz, and held ceremonies and said Hamd-o-Naat and prayers for our nation to soon recover.
On August 23, 1973, another unforgettable incident occurred. I suffered from a sore throat that wouldn’t heal. This was for the first time that I had got sick during prison life and couldn’t give the azan for a few days. I had a bad cough and I knew it was due to smoking. I still had my 555 English cigarettes but one day I suddenly decided to quit cold turkey. I realized how bad a habit it was considering that it was preventing me from giving the azan. I had also promised my son before coming to East Pakistan that when I saw him again I wouldn’t be a smoker anymore, but I had become a heavy smoker during the first 10 months of the civil war in East Pakistan. So I took out the two 555 boxes I had hidden under my pillow and decided to destroy them. I promised myself I wouldn’t touch a cigarette again. Major Akram Butt was with me at the time and he advised me not to destroy the boxes but to give them instead to other smokers who had become irritable because of the cigarette shortage. I agreed and didn’t destroy them but made a gentleman’s promise with myself that from then on, cigarettes would be haram for me. I announced that any friend who was ever short of cigarettes could come and get one from me. I didn’t want to give all of them away at once and make other friends unhappy. After that, my smoker friends would visit me after mealtimes to take one cigarette. I was sick for a few more days and I had my cravings and nicotine urges but then I thought that if I could tolerate so many hardships, I could live with this one too and eventually the cravings went away. I have not touched a cigarette ever since I made that decision. Along with the grim recollections of imprisonment, this incident has become a joyful memory for me. But the saddest thing is that my son who always hated smoking became a smoker when he grew up. Despite being a medical doctor, he hasn’t given up the habit and smokes cigars now.
Perhaps even the Indian soldiers were also sick and tired of their tiring and demanding day and night duties that had been necessitated by our prolonged imprisonment, because when the two governments reached an agreement on August 28″, 1973, both the camp and sector commanders came to congratulate us. Ironically, now that our release was drawing closer their tough and annoying demeanor had suddenly changed. Those people who had been without hope and didn’t expect to be released even in the next 20 years rejoiced as well. For the first time, in what felt like a long time, we saw real happiness in our camp. The 195 officers were mentioned in the Delhi Agreement and the number was expected to be flexible. It was also hoped that the political drama would end too. Bangladesh and India had seen that Pakistan couldn’t be blackmailed. Immediately after the Delhi agreement, the Bengali and Bihari prisoners began returning to their land and the insomniac officers relaxed too. We got our transistor radio back along with all our additional property that was lying in the store room. The Indian media that had constantly been criticizing Indira Gandhi’s regime for keeping us imprisoned also celebrated after the Delhi Agreement and now praised the regime. The weather was changing too as September started and fall arrived. We were somewhat assured that before the arrival of the next summer we would be free.
One day, as we were playing cards outside on the veranda, Captain Ved quietly came in and sat on the bed next to mine. We felt that he had something important to say. He finally addressed me in his typical
Instead of September 19h, the first train carrying the Pakistani POWs left India on September 26, 1973. The second train left on September 27, the next on October 2nd, and the final one on October 31, 1973. We were so overcome with joy that we got impatient and wondered when the train from our camp would leave for our beloved country. There was still the question of 195 POWs and everyone suspected that there was more chance of the Infantry company commanders’ names being included among the 195 names. My sixth sense was somehow telling me that I would definitely see my family again but the reunion might be delayed. I felt I might be spending more time in prison because of the unpredictable and unreasonable political farce. The train which had left on September 26 reached Pakistan on September 27″, 1973, carrying two doctors, two nurses, 125 jawaans and 100 civilian construction workers – all of whom had been POWs in India. With the release of POWs, the holy month of Ramazan also started and, somehow, this year we felt the blessings of Ramazan in a very different way. Those who had had no hope couldn’t control their excitement. Had we recorded the conversations of those people, or even of those who hadn’t been able to sleep at night, they would have known how their days and nights had dramatically changed in the prison camp solely because of Ramazan’s blessings. Those who talked about dying in camp became profound ‘truth-seekers’ and their talk and attitude were suddenly very annoying to us. Instead of just in the evenings, they played volleyball all day long now; everyone was exchanging contact information and addresses hoping to get in touch after they returned to Pakistan. If there were some misunderstandings between officers they were being addressed and resolved. Somehow every officer was extraordinarily busy in the camp now.
Two more trains left for our beloved country on October 14″, 1973 carrying battalion officers, JCOs and all the nursing staff from Allahabad, India. We were happy but envious at the same time. During this time we heard the news that the Arabs were at war with Israel, and we prayed especially for the victory of the Arabs. Two officers who had been released earlier because their brother personally knew an Indian general, although everyone else was told that the reason for their early release was their mother’s illness, wrote regularly to us. Although many POWs had lost their parents during their imprisonment, no one was released prematurely even after the death of a family member. Whatever the source, freedom is always a
blessing. Though several officers acted oddly during imprisonment, many became even more peculiar when freedom drew nearer. One of our officers often kept a toothbrush in his mouth during the morning count and when a senior officer pointed out the inappropriate nature of his behavior, he stated that he didn’t care about the Indian Army and was brave. However, his bravery quickly disappeared when he found out that he was among the 195 POWS. He had always tried to prove that he was ‘a different guy’ throughout our prison life. His attitude became more understandable once we learnt that his name was in the 195 POWs list. On October 11, 1973 another train took 133 officers and 840 jawaans back home. We often gathered around the radio to hear the names of the POWs being released and if anyone of us heard a friend’s name, we would shout loudly and applaud. Now almost every day a train was leaving for Pakistan, I was very happy to hear the names of Lieutenant Colonel Raja Khizar Hayat and Major Sadiq Nawaz, 21C of Four (4) East Bengal Regiment. Major Sahib was a personal friend from the Baluch Regiment but, more importantly, when we were in Brahmanbaria we had thought he had been martyred, so the fact that he was alive and being released was great news for me. Three trains left from the Agra Jail on October 16″, 17th and 18″, and we envied the lucky souls on these trains as they would get to celebrate Eid with their loved ones.
Diwali arrived on October 25, 1973. Like every year, lights were all around outside the camp. The sound of the live band from the Officers’ Mess made us nostalgic. It felt as if we had only heard such music played by our army in our dreams. Some groups on the road outside the camp were singing bhajans, and our jawaans in the next camp started chanting Kalma-e-Tayyabba loudly when they heard the bhajans. On the eve of October 29th, 1973, we all came out and tried to spot the Eid moon. We all were taking part in this ritual after a long time since most us relied on the radio and TV for Eid news. We exclaimed with joy when we saw a very thin, crescent-shaped moon on October 29″, 1973, and later we heard that the sacred chand was also spotted in Pakistan. More trains left for Pakistan on October 28th and 31 of 1973. The next day, we all offered Eid namaz in the prison camp; we hugged each other and, as was usual, missed our families and our beloved country immensely. On Eid day, 840 POWs reached Pakistan and the Governor of Punjab said his Eid prayers with the POWS at the border.
On the next day of Eid, the Area Commander visited our camp and gave us the good news of our release. We were supposed to have left in September and, though we were thrilled, we also complained about the Indian Government being so tardy in releasing us. India was and is a big country and has an extensive railroad network. If it had been up to us, we would have assigned the entire Indian railroad the sole job of releasing the prisoners, but the government planned and acted differently. Almost 800 to 900 POWs were being released to Pakistan on a daily basis. In November 1973, the Indian Government announced the release of twenty-five thousand POWs, and many Biharis left for Pakistan in November of 1973 via sea from Chittagong. On November 8, 1973, Akashwani radio transmitted a program in which the Indian Government was criticized because of the slowness with which the POWs were being released.
One of our doctor friends was even lazier than the Indian Government; he was short and would take tiny steps while walking. During the morning count he would come out in his underwear and vest.
Although he looked cute because of his size, we just wanted to pull him and somehow extend his length. Despite all that, he was a very brave doctor.
I had a weird dream on November 11, 1973: I was roaming around in a tonga in Model Town, Lahore with my dear friend Captain Javed Jalal Uddin when the tonga broke down and I later get the tonga repaired. When I woke up in the morning, I didn’t pay much attention to the meaning of the dream, but when I was later informed that I had to face more prison life, since my name was also on the list of the 195 POWs. I came to comprehend the meaning of that dream.
As the time of our release was approaching, we became less interested in playing bridge, volleyball and chess and spent most of our time talking to each other and about our future life. People who often discussed cars and houses became more enthusiastic and it seemed that they would readily rid themselves of the negative aspects of prison life. Some of our very lively friends often calculated their savings during prison life and planned how and where to spend the saved money after their release. It was interesting to see all the people behave so differently.
On November 24, 1973, a ship left Karachi port taking Bengalis to Bangladesh and on November 28th around 900 POWs reached Pakistan from Allahabad. On November 30th, 1973, I was allowed to meet a police officer relative who was in the JCO camp. I still remember meeting with DSP Abdul Khaliq. Another two trains left from Allahabad on December 4th of 1973. It was going to be the second anniversary of our prison life in just a few days. In the month of September, two of our friends had been released earlier because of certain hardships, Lieutenant Colonel Aftab of Baluch Regiment and Major Mian of Signals. This had a very adverse impact on our friends who always saw the negative in everything. They believed this meant that their own release would be delayed otherwise if we were all to be released soon, what was the purpose of releasing the two officers earlier? I believe that it was the imprisonment that made us intensely sensitive and emotional. On December 8, 1973 another train took 900 POWs to Pakistan.
On December 19, 1973, a socialist member of the Raiya Sabah party, Habib Tanvir, visited our camp but left soon after meeting with a few of our officers. We had been informed earlier by Captain Puwaar that the release of the POWs from Gwalior camp would start on November 28, 1973 and five trains would leave for Pakistan consecutively, with nine officers in each train. We didn’t believe the details, and some officers were even worried by that because, according to the calculations, it meant only 45 officers would leave in five trains. The question then arose as to when the rest of us would leave. Who would the 45 officers be? On December 11″, 1973, one of our senior officers, Lieutenant Colonel Abdul Ghafoor, was called in to the Indian Sector Headquarters for a meeting. This made all of us excited and anxious at the same time, and everyone paced about, anxiously waiting for Colonel Sahib’s return. Everyone wanted to hear the good news about the actual release as we all believed that the purpose of the meeting was to discuss our release. I can’t express the state of the POWs during that time and the peculiar restlessness that overcame us. As soon as he returned, everyone hovered around him, and he informed us that one train would leave in December and four in January 1974, each with 9 officers and 931 jawaans. This was happy yet unsettling news, as everyone wondered who would be released first. Everyone was lost in their
thoughts as we often worried about our release and were anxious to be the first ones to leave.
That day we also decided that, instead of circling parallel to the wired fence, we should adopt the habit of walking straight across now, since we would soon be released. So our evening walks were straight from the verandah to the wired fence and back. When I think of it now, it was abnormal behavior on our part but every one of us was affected psychologically by the two-year long POW life. At the time, we couldn’t analyze these changes in ourselves but we could clearly see in each other how the POW life had changed the way we thought and behaved. Colonel Sahib also brought the list of Bollywood movies which were to be shown to us every day. Perhaps India wanted to show us their hospitality by providing us with more entertainment now that the days of our freedom were drawing near. The next day Captain Powaar came to tell us that it was possible that four trains would be leaving in December. We also got an order that we could no longer buy anything from the canteen on credit. I think Lala Ji was afraid that someone would take their money and run off, never to be seen again. On December 14″, 1973, almost 668 POWs were sent off from Faizabad Camp. However, December 16th arrived with its eternally cruel memories: Bangladesh was celebrating her 2nd, so-called, freedom anniversary.
I was happy to hear that the names of Colonel Aftab and Major Mian were included in the list of people that had reached Pakistan on December 16th. After Captain Pawar’s visit, on December 17th the Indian Station Commander came to our camp with a few more officers and confirmed that two trains would leave on December 25th and 31*. We began to anticipate that we might be celebrating the next Eid with our loved ones. On that day the first train left from Bareilly Camp for Pakistan. At this news, I thought of Hazrat Ameer-e-millat Maulana Ahmad Raza Khan Barelvi and wished that I could be in Bareilly camp instead. However, I soon realized that Gwalior Fort had associations with Hazrat Mujaddid Alif Sani – every part of India had some sort of Muslim association and history.
We were waiting for December 25′ now and it seemed as if time had stopped. Our hearts sank when we heard about the railroad workers’ strike but, since it was only in Uttar Pradesh, we hoped that it too, would end soon. We felt almost as if we were sitting in a sinking ship and looking everywhere for boats to take us to safety, boats that could only be seen at random intervals. December 21″ came but brought no good news. However, at last Captain Powaar came to let us know that the release of POWs from Gwalior had been delayed for another three days. It wasn’t bad news given the circumstances, better late than never, though the POWs could only curse at the Indian government. On December 22nd the Indian Air Chief, Om Prakash Mehra, came to the camp on a short visit. On December 24″, 1973 we heard that we would be watching the film Pakeezah. This was good news because it was a common rumor that Pakeezah was the last movie shown in each camp right before the release. The officers and JCOs were shown the movie together on a big theater-like screen. I celebrated Christmas with my only Christian friend Captain Jalal Uddin; never once in the two years that had passed had we made him feel like he was the only Christian among us. December 28th was one of the coldest days. For the first time in two years, I felt numb with the cold. The last day of the year, December 31″, 1973, came and went without any significant news. We grilled Captain Powaar who showed up later – he had told us before that the program would be
delayed for only three days.
On the first day of the New Year, Colonel Anand informed us that six trains would leave for Pakistan in the first week of January 1974; the 7th train would be from Gwalior. We found out from the evening news that the release of POWs was to restart from January 1974. On January 20, 926 POWs reached Pakistan from Bareilly and Meerut and another 923 from Bareilly on January 30d. A JCO informed us that all the stuff belonging to the Indian Army would be taken away from us the very next day. Captain Powaar informed us that the first train from Gwalior would depart on January the 7th. Later we found out that four trains would leave one after another, and then another three trains would leave after that. We had come to Gwalior Camp as POWs on January 4h 1972; it was the 2nd anniversary of our arrival. We received our vaccinations that day which made us all suffer from a mild fever for a while; then we all offered our Eid namaz on the morning of January 5″, 1974.
We saw our JCOs going to our jawaans’ camp that day; we greeted them in signs and gestures. Captain Powaar arrived and informed us that the first train would leave on January 7, 1974. It would leave Camp No. 659, with 259 jawaans and 9 officers from our camp, including Lieutenant Colonel Fazal Haq from JAG branch, Major Munawar Bukhari from Baluch Regiment, Majors Mohammad Akram Khan and Arif Zia from Signals corps, Captain Nasir from Army Medical Corps, Lieutenants Mohammad Ali from Armor Corps, Shamas Uddin from the Punjab Regiment, and Assad Ur Rahman from the Baluch Regiment. As soon as an officer’s name was announced, we would hug him and share his joy with sincerity. It was a very joyous and rather odd thing to witness. The faces of the officers being released beamed with joy. The names of the officers traveling in the second train were also announced that day and these included Lieutenant Colonels Iqbal Amin, Sharif, Majors Mohammad Shabir, Salah Uddin – all from Signal Corps, Sheikh Ilyas from the Baluch Regiment, Manzoor Bhatti from the Army Medical Corps, Captain Javed Jalal from the Baluch Regiment and Lieutenant Anayat from the Signal Corps. Most of the officers in this train were from the Signal Corps. That day, 840 POWs were released from Agra. The officers who were leaving destroyed their unwanted property such as cutlery and toiletries.
The Red Cross came and forms were filled, 16 officers had left and we could see the difference already as we missed them. They had taken letters and messages for everyone’s families back home, everyone had congratulated them and they had wished for our safety as they departed. It was never a small occasion to be released from a POW camp, especially if the enemy were Hindus. Even the Hindus hugged and congratulated the officers who left.
The next day a third train was due to leave and the names of the officers traveling were announced. These included: Majors and SP Saabir, Ghulam Rasool Saahi from the Punjab Regiment, Assad Khan from the Artillery Corps, Qadeer from the Army Medical Corps, Late Captain Saleem from the Punjab Regiment, Captain Tariq from the Baluch Regiment and Lieutenants Talat and Ayyaz from the Punjab Regiment. As 24 officers left, the entire atmosphere of the camp became gloomy. There were several empty beds in our barracks now. We could see socks, sweaters, mugs and many other items randomly scattered around. We had lived together in the POW camp for two years; it was natural that the place
of other officers so that we could tell their families that they too would return soon and were in good health, as well as could be. We also promised them that we would welcome them when they crossed the Wagah Border. At that time, we had no idea what fate had in store for us.
looked haunted without them. Those of us who were left behind were obsessing about the 195 POWs. The infantry officers who had been spared were the lucky ones, the others were speculating.
The first train reached Lahore on January 8″, 1974 and, as we heard their names on my transistor radio, we exclaimed with joy – they had reached their beloved land safely. The names of the officers traveling in the fourth train were also announced. They were: Lieutenant Iqbal Chaudhry from the Baluch Regiment, Captains Bashir from the Artillery Corps, Shafiq Bhatti from the Medical Corps, Tabsum Rasool from the Signal Corps, Zafar aka ‘Guru’ from the Punjab Regiment, Ijaz from the Artillery Corps, Doctors Shafiq Bhatti and Salman Saddique. My mosque looked empty after Captain Saddique’s departure, and everyone particularly missed the charming Captain Guru. Half of the officers had already left our camp. There was a 10-day long break after the fourth train, and the ten days felt like ten years to us. All of us were overcome by obsessive thoughts: How would we feel after stepping on our beloved land after so long? How would it be to meet the family after all these years? How would we feel when we hugged our parents, siblings, children and wives? All these thoughts would swirl around in our minds. A dear and close friend Captain Tariq Saeed cried like a baby while leaving, he thought he might never see us again.
I was convinced that, during the 10-month long civil war, even a Bengali child would know my name and would guarantee that I would be on the 195 POWs list. I guess that was why Captain Tariq Saeed cried after hugging me tightly. God knows that whenever I suspected that my name would be included in the list, I felt calm and believed and trusted that God, who knew the way better than I did, would lead me out of the situation. I would think about the 195 POWs several times a day during that time.
I continued giving azan five times a day and the prayers were now led by our senior friend Ghafoor Sahib. We never differentiated between the Shia, Sunni or Wahabi at namaz times; we all stood in line together to prostrate before God. There were only a few friends left for the evening walks now, and the sentries also didn’t care much anymore. They didn’t bother us and we had also stopped provoking them. On January 12, 1974, 915 POWs, including three brigadiers and five full colonels left from Ramgarh. I was searching for something in my suitcase one day when I found a box of chicken korma given to me by Colonel Afzal Haq. I was very pleased and enjoyed the tasty Pakistani korma with Major Hassan and thanked God. It was a treat for us – the Pakistani chicken korma versus the Indian lentil dinner.
On January 15″, 1974, 900 POWs left for Pakistan from Bareilly. On January 16, Captain Powaar came with the list of the officers who were leaving in the sixth train from Gwalior. With our hearts racing, we heard the names of the officers and, this time, my name was also called out. I understood the happiness of the departing officers when I heard my name. Along with me were Lieutenant Colonels Abdul Ghaffar from Artillery, Riaz Hassan Jaffrey from Signal Corps, Majors Abdul Waheed, Ghulam Mohammad, Hassan from Artillery Corps, Captains Sher Ali from the Baluch Regiment, Rashid Nair from the Signal Corps and Lieutenant Munir Butt. We went through the usual protocol; we were given all our property, and made to fill out new forms. The Indian officers kept the receipts and with great difficulty I managed to save and hide my diary – the reason I am able to write this book today. We also noted down the addresses of other officers so that we could tell their families that they too would return soon and were in good
PART V
THE 195 SO-CALLED WAR CRIMINALS
1. Departure for Agra Fort and Jail
Early in the morning of January 17, 1974, I gave my last azan in the Gwalior POW camp. I looked at Camp 61 with nostalgia and embraced all the officers we were leaving behind. We were done with all protocol by the afternoon. The cards given to us by the Red Cross were somewhat different but we didn’t pay much attention to them at the time, we just picked up our luggage and came out of the multi-layered barbed fence for the first time in two years. The Indian Army vehicles were waiting for us. They had been modified and we were surprised to see that the seats were all fenced in with barbed wire. We felt like chickens about to be caged again, but this time in smaller cabins. The vehicles were secured; we wondered why such tight security was required when they themselves were releasing us, though we ignored our observations and concerns. Perhaps the vehicles had been designed earlier for the transportation of POWs and had not yet been changed. With these strange thoughts, we left Gwalior Camp number 61. After spending a few months in the Mess, we had some idea about the road that went to the railroad station so when our vehicle took a different road, our doubts began to surface – something was terribly wrong. We still rejected the thought – it was this blind hope in us. We told ourselves that we were to stop over at some headquarters for more paperwork but, despite every attempt to calm our nerves, those were desperately anxious moments and we felt suffocated after having thought that we were now free.
Suddenly, both the vehicles took a sharp turn and stopped in the front yard of an army HQ. It was perhaps the Sector HQ, there were many armed Indian army soldiers standing in the yard. We then started to very carefully observe the situation. We also saw some familiar NCOS, JCOs and officers standing together who often met us regularly in the POW Camp; somehow, no one was looking at us. It seemed and felt surreal. A jeep appeared and halted near our vehicles. We were looking at each other and trying to silently express and make sense of the uncertainty of the situation. It was a kind of anxiety and restlessness we had not felt before, and we were trying to prepare ourselves for the uncertain and unforeseen situation that was headed our way. An officer, a JCO and two Indian army jawaans jumped out of the jeep, and when we saw the handcuffs in the hands of their jawaans, we were left in no doubt that our destination was not Pakistan but elsewhere. The jawaans with the handcuffs came straight towards us with the JCO and in time we were all handcuffed. Two officers were handcuffed together, and the chains of all our cuffs were tied to the angle iron of the vehicle. The chain was long but so tight that we could hardly sit up straight on top of our folded bedding, and we had to keep our hands above the seats.
could hardly sit up straight on top of our folded bedding, and we had to keep our hands above the seats. Once this iron jewelry was put on us, any hope of freedom we had before vanished. All this happened so quickly that we couldn’t even talk to one another nor did we want to. The folded bedding on which we were seated provided us with some comfort otherwise we had to keep our arms quite high.
A Dodge truck came and parked in front of our vehicles. Our old enemy Captain Ved was in the front seat. One NCO and five armed Sikh jawaans jumped into each one of our vehicles. Each vehicle was ringed with barbed wire, we were handcuffed and each officer had two Indian Army jawaans standing upright beside them, pointing their rifles directly at them. They probably wanted to send out a message of how dangerous and important the war criminals they were dealing with were. Each vehicle was partitioned with wire into two sections; we were sitting handcuffed in the front part while the Indian Army jawaans pointing rifles at us were in the rear. Captain Ved gave a signal, our vehicles began moving and we set off for an unknown destination. We could only hope that we would be crossing the Wagah border alive and entering Pakistan.
Crossing the cantonment area, railroad track, city and the fort of Gwalior, our vehicles were moving in an unfamiliar direction. We were anxious to find out where we were going after we crossed the population and city limits. The idea of kissing our beloved land rapidly became a dream as we were put to a new test. After spending a couple of years as a POW in India, I had learnt a little Hindi and when I saw a milestone that read Agra, we knew where we were headed – I thought of Agra Fort and the jail. Agra Fort was not just for common men, even kings were once imprisoned there. We had heard many stories about the Agra jail. We exchanged looks to try to assess one another’s emotional state and were relieved to note that, apart from one faint-hearted friend, everyone seemed calm and ready to deal with the new situation with courage. Captain Ved suddenly waved and indicated for the vehicles to stop on the left side of the road. He then got out of his Dodge and came over, making his first attempt to communicate with us. He stated that there were some documents about to arrive in a jeep and we had to wait for them. Lieutenant Colonel Ghafoor casually asked him where we were headed, and the captain’s answer was that even he was uninformed but he was also sure that we were not headed towards the Wagah border.
He was taking traditional military precautions but, since I had read the milestone, I addressed Lieutenant Colonel Ghafoor Sahib, giving vent to my hatred for Captain Ved: “Sir, why did you ask him? For the time being we are going to Agra. And has Ved ever told the truth? Even if he knows he won’t tell you where we are headed.” Captain Ved’s expression showed quite a reaction and he said in his stuttering voice, “Yo…O…u are very i-i-intelligent pe….ee…ople,” and we got the confirmation of our destination. We didn’t pay any attention to Captain Ved after this conversation. A jeep arrived and after the driver handed over some files to Captain Ved, it left towards Agra. Our small convoy set off again, this time towards Agra. I don’t remember the distance from Gwalior but the area looked similar to the Pothohar area when we travel to Rawalpindi from Jhelum. As we continued, the Sikh sentries seemed to be getting into their stride; they avoided talking directly to us but were now telling jokes in Punjabi, knowing that most of us understood the language. When crossing a populated area, each time the Sikhs saw Indian women
hours when we woke to someone hitting the metal bars of our cell, trying to get our attention. We didn’t know who the man was – all we saw was a dark shadow with a long beard, a blanket on his shoulders – but he was addressing us in a low voice. He was holding a kettle of tea. I stood up and went closer to him and saw that he was a fellow countryman in POW uniform. He saluted me and told me that he was a jawaan from the Baluch Regiment and had come to serve us some hot tea. He poured it into the mugs and gave us four hardboiled eggs. He told us the eggs were sent by our old Gwalior friend, Lieutenant Colonel Raja Sultan, when he found out that some of his old buddies from the Gwalior camp had arrived. He had been sent here from Gwalior with a few other officers after the Indian Army had found out about the tunnel and our escape plans. The jawaan quickly told us not to worry and informed us that there were many Pakistani Army officers in the jail. He also told us that we only had to spend that particular night in the cell and wouldn’t be in much discomfort. With this news and after having hot tea with boiled eggs, it felt like someone had revived our bodies. While drinking the steaming cup of tea, we started to talk and discussed our thoughts about what the future held. With sunrise, the intimidating and eerie atmosphere of the cell also changed. We could clearly see the walls now, with the names of Pakistan Army commanders along with their addresses, and the days they had spent there. Some had been there a rather long time. It wasn’t hard for us to imagine after spending just one night how brave and patient the officers before us must have been.
As the sun rose on January 18, 1974, the sharp face of Captain Ved appeared as he entered with some officers. We were taken out and a list of our property was made. Only necessary things were given back to us, the remainder was kept aside to be dumped in a store. He then formally handed us over to the Indian MP. He told us he was going straight to the Agra railroad station where the train taking the POWs from our Gwalior Camp was waiting for him and that we could give him whatever message we wanted for our officers to deliver to our families. We didn’t want to take any favors from Captain Ved and I told him that we didn’t trust him and he was a liar. He felt insulted by my response in front of the MP officers, and they also didn’t seem to like what I had said. Colonel Ghafoor immediately intervened and advised me that it wasn’t a good idea at that point in time to aggravate the Indian Army. I wrote a very short message for my wife and father in-law in Lahore on an empty packet of cigarettes telling them that they should not worry at all. Captain Ved said goodbye to us almost as if he would miss us terribly after being with us for the past years. After my release, I found out that the message on the cigarette packet was delivered to my family by Colonel Abdul Sattar Sahib. Captain Ved was an awful man but I appreciated him for the first time in all those years.
After Captain Ved left, we picked up our luggage and entered the jail under the supervision of the MPs. After a few steps, we walked into an area of high walls and a gate with Gandhi’s statue outside. It had actually been a women’s prison before our arrival. As soon as we entered the gate, we saw many Pakistan Army officers waiting to welcome us. They starting chanting loudly, “Here come the real war criminals.” There were many old acquaintances and friends, and we embraced each other warmly. My old associate, Major Rana Zahoor Mohiuddin from Sant Nagar, Lahore and an old class fellow from Government
Major Rana Zahoor Mohiuddin from Sant Nagar, Lahore and an old class fellow from Government College, Lahore grabbed me and took me to the bed next to his. Right next to it was a place where a mosque was to be built. I was happy to find a spot adjacent to the mosque.
Our new friends welcomed us. With the hope of freedom, we had destroyed everything in the Gwalior camp and we only had a mug with us. Everything else, including our cutlery, we had either left behind or destroyed. However, our new companions in Agra jail immediately provided us with necessary items of personal use.
Four long barracks in one part of the jail were reserved for the 195 POWs. The barracks had two parallel beds in a row and a box with each bed, just like the usual barracks of army jawaans. The windows and doors had strong, thick iron bars, through which only the wind could pass freely. Perhaps because it was originally a women’s jail, the walls were pretty high and there was no contact with the outside world. All we could see was the wall. This part of the jail was in the center of the Agra jail and it was a very secure area. In addition to the high walls, multi-layered barbed fences were all around the walls – even a bird couldn’t enter. Multiple check posts for sentries were small distances apart, and all of them were heavily guarded day and night. The set-up and atmosphere was completely different from the Gwalior POW camp. Though the 195 still had a fear of the unknown, this place seemed more comfortable than the two years we had spent in the Gwalior POW camp. At lunch, we were given hot chapattis with lentils and everyone would take their plates, knives and forks out of their boxes and make fresh salad out of onions, lettuce, and radishes – it felt so strange that we were having fresh salad because we could only dream about it in the Gwalior POW camp. We could get anything with our salaries. We enjoyed this hospitality during the initial few days. The jail population increased every two or three days. After a few days the CO from my battalion, Lieutenant Colonel Aftab Ahmad Qureshi, and QM Captain Javed Warriach also joined us. We were very happy to see each other after two years.
According to the Indian officers, our camp had been made by the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb Alamgir for moral and social criminals. It was later converted to a women’s camp and now it was the home of the 195 Pakistan Army ‘war criminals’. Both our camps here, numbers 44 and 88, housed the 195 ‘war criminals’. Camp number 44 was comparatively better than ours as it had a veranda. Its walls were smaller and one could see the outside world, the houses and people walking around. Occasionally a kite would end up in the jail and the POW brothers would enjoy flying it. Sometimes women could be seen hanging clothes on the roofs of their houses to dry. Other times, they just came to see the POWs, and it was entertainment for the folks in Camp number 44. We were surprised to see this once we got permission to meet the POWs in that camp. The officers in Camp 44 were better off than us as we could see nothing but high walls in ours. The huge iron gate between the two camps was always locked though and we were allowed to meet each other every once in a while. One thing I really enjoyed was the sound of the azan coming from Agra city, especially during Fajr. This indicated that there was a large Muslim population in Agra. Sometimes we could hear the sound of music from outside and we figured that Agra jail was surrounded by a civil population. It was a good change after the Gwalior POW camp.
The office of the camp commander was right next to our barracks, he was a Sikh major. The area also had loudspeakers and we could hear the news and the names of POWs reaching Pakistan. We would shout loudly after hearing the name of someone that we knew. On January 19″, 1974, I heard the names of my Gwalior POW camp buddies who had crossed the Wagah border and I was happy, though I also envied them.
A senior officer from the Punjab Regiment, Major Lodhi, was responsible for giving the azan five times a day. One day I went to him and expressed my desire to give the azan once since I had become accustomed to it in my previous POW camp regime. After everyone heard my azan, they insisted that I be given the responsibility. I hoped that Major Sahib did not think that I had taken his place and I informed him that he could give the azan whenever he liked. Mash’Allah, the sound of my azan, especially the Fajr azan, could be heard in all the camps across Agra Jail.
The farce of the 195 POW‘war criminals’ was created by the Indian and Bangladesh governments to pressurize Pakistan for favors, though we were content and felt proud that our government had refused to make compromises and showed no sign of weakness. It was obvious that the list of the 195 officers was a fake one and the names of innocent officers were on it. It included officers like me who fought the civil war as infantry company commanders for 10 months and many others who were just guilty of coming to East Pakistan a few days prior to the surrender. However, they were pronounced guilty although it was clearly evident that it was impossible for them to have done anything in just a few days. Many officers hoped that they would soon be freed because their names were very common and they assured the Indian Army that they were innocent. One of the Major Sahibs insisted on justifying his innocence to the Indian generals, so everyone in the barracks shunned him. But, as I said before, one sees the many colors of the human psyche during imprisonment; colors that are perhaps impossible to see in normal life.
With the start of the POWs’ release from Gwalior camp, we had hoped that we would be free in a few days, so we had started spending our salaries. By the time we came to Agra, our pockets were empty. However, our fellow officers who were already in Agra didn’t allow us to feel deprived and helped all of us out until our next salary was handed to us. In the beginning, we were like thirsty men at a well unable to reach the water. Everyone had been hoping for a new, free life once they left the Gwalior POW camp. However, as is man’s nature, we soon got accustomed to the luxurious jail life of Agra and, after the hard and boring life of Gwalior, the days and nights in Agra felt pretty comfortable. Everyone took full advantage of the canteen in Agra, unlike at our previous camp.
Most of the officers in my camp were seniors, but a few of them were young officers who were responsible for some atrocities in East Pakistan. Some of them would experience nightmares because they knew that their activities would decide their future – they had become psychotic. We tried our best to instill a little hope in them but it hardly ever had any effect. Some of them were not in good physical health.
One of my old platoon buddies, Major Waheed Mughal, and another friend Colonel Mukhtar who had also served with me in Zhob Militia, were also in my barracks – their company made it easier for me to
pass the time. On January 21″, 1974, I took a prepaid envelope from one of my friends and wrote a letter to my family, cheering them up and encouraging them not to worry about me as I would see them soon. While writing the letter, I realized that imprisonment had affected my eyesight. One day, an Indian Army doctor visited us. He examined my eyes and advised me some exercises, asking me to get reading glasses. Somehow I didn’t want to get reading glasses in India so I simply reduced my everyday reading.
The in-charge of our barracks was an Indian Military Police Naib Subaydar Sikh, who was from the place of my forefathers, Central Majha region, and district Tarn Taran. My birthplace, the town of Patti, was near Tarn Taran – about 45 kilometers from Amritsar. He was a very straightforward and simple man and we would often communicate heartily in Punjabi. He always made us laugh. He was obsessed with his wife who, according to him, was a disloyal woman and slept around with other men in his absence. Though Sardar Sahib was aware of it, he did nothing to stop it. He claimed that she had even tried to elope with other men. He told us that whenever he went home on leave, he gave a lot of love to his wife but would also get drunk and abuse her verbally to avenge her adulterous behavior. Our senior officer, Lieutenant Colonel Akram aka Pashto from Punjab Regiment, would frequently talk to that Sikh JCO in Punjabi. He himself was a Pashtun so his Pashtun-Punjabi was a funny language. He learnt a Punjabi slang, Bhootni Daa, and would always address the JCO with it. Sardar Sahib would reply, “Sir, you are swearing at me.” Colonel Sahib would say, “Oh Sardar Sahib, is it swearing? I am sorry and I will never use this word again.” However, the next day Colonel Sahib would repeat it. The Indian Military Police officers and the sentries’ attitudes were relaxed and they were very generous to us and never bothered us.
Many officers were brought from different POW camps in Agra so we heard stories about the condition of several of the POW camps in India. Many of our friends had been depressed and sad as their imprisonment went on and they saw no light at the end of this dark tunnel they were in. A few of them had become psychotic and they would get up in the middle of the night and complain to God and sometimes even bother us, but we had no treatment for them and the only medicine for their ailment was their release. The real satisfaction in those times of uncertainty only came when we remembered God.
One of the Colonel Sahibs from the Baluch Regiment had been an obese man but had now become scrawny. He neither ate nor slept properly. He would only collect chapattis, let them dry out and then would eat them in pieces with brown sugar throughout the day. But the real reason for his weight loss was that he played basketball alone, taking the ball and shooting it at the jail wall, all day long. Other times he would come to the barracks and do a headstand for a long time. He seldom communicated and apparently seemed normal in his activities, but was not really normal. If anyone visited him, he would immediately offer a piece of his dry chapatti. There was another fellow officer who changed physically so much, God knows what he started eating, that the Indian Army officers began doubting if he was the same officer. He looked entirely different compared to his ID photo. He had to be photographed again so that another ID card could be issued to him.
We often jogged along the jail wall in the morning after breakfast and played volleyball in the evenings. Some officers had even gathered bricks so they could kill time by lifting weights. Some friends would
too long and loud at jokes and it was obvious that they were pretending to be brave and actually were petrified inside. Some would get furious over even a petty matter. All those officers who were in the 195 POW list had developed unusual personalities. One particular group would pray five times in the mosque and spent most of their time remembering God or reading books and magazines. They looked relaxed and carefree but it was deceptive as sometimes they would get angry when requesting another to pray. Everyone was different though. They were affected by the imprisonment and responded to circumstances in one way or another. Colonel Akram was my old companion and my senior administrator officer in the EME Center, Quetta in 1962. He was a very cordial gentleman and had a great sense of humor and I loved his company. My Co, Lieutenant Colonel Aftab Qureshi, was in Camp 44 and I often felt relaxed in his company whenever we got permission to visit. He was a mature and amiable person. I would often present him a packet or two of the 555 cigarettes I had saved.
The weather suddenly got chilly as winter gradually arrived and we spent more time in sports and exercise to beat the cold. On January 23, another train left for Pakistan from Ranchi, taking 841 POWS. I got back my transistor radio on January 24h and one of my favorite activities was restored, helping to pass the time. On that day, 827 POWs left for my beloved country from the Dhana Sagar Camp. This date was a memorable one for me when I got my commission in the Pakistan Army after passing out from OTS Kohat exactly 15 years earlier. I remembered visiting Lahore from OTS. I met my sick father in Mayo Hospital, Lahore and gave him the good news of my commission. I especially remember the happiness on my late father’s face. In spite of his illness, his face beamed when he saw me in the Pakistan Army uniform. Even today, I miss his smiles and the advice he gave me. The 24th of January came round twice while I was a POW and God knows why this time around I was remembering my late father to such an extent. His face was constantly in my mind and I couldn’t stop recalling his conversations. I kept thinking about how he would have felt if he knew that I was now a POW. I felt comfort in the knowledge that God works in mysterious ways. My father wasn’t alive and didn’t have to go through the pain of me being a POW in his old age.
The next day, on January 25%, 911 POWS left from Ramgarh Camp – a few of them were my senior officers that I had served with. On January 26, I held a majlis for the martyrs of Karbala in our camp mosque. Many friends from Camp 44 also joined us and we all cried at the end for the martyrs and prayed for each one of them.
As in Gwalior, we had a structured routine to pass the time – the routine counting was held early in the morning, then the azan, Fajr namaz, recitation of the Quran, exercising, walking and jogging, eating breakfast, conversing with friends on various topics, lunch, Zohar namaz, napping, Asr namaz, volleyball, dinner, Isha namaz, night counting and then early to bed for a few moments of slumber. The sadness of imprisonment, the memories of our beloved land and being away from our loved ones were central to everything we did. This was enough to make us sad but it was still manageable and we could refocus ourselves – I believe that the only reason we survived was because of our trust in God and his remembrance. One night, one of our fellow officers Captain Nayyer suffered a very high fever. The
barracks was locked at night and there was no medicine or doctor available. A few of us sat around his bed and didn’t sleep all night; our presence brought him some relief from his discomfort. That night, another 811 POWs were released from the Dhana Sagar camp.
Between the nights of January 29 and 30″, 1974, I had a dream about my son. I was worried because I loved him so much and since I couldn’t do anything from where I was I wrote a letter to my wife to give a sadqa for him. I cried for several days, remembering and praying for him. Slowly, the pain decreased and God gave me patience – it felt like he had heard my prayers and I heard the news that my son was healthy and safe.
In spite of being POWs, several officers adopted quite interesting hobbies, especially the officers of Camp 44. As I mentioned earlier, there were houses visible right outside Camp 44 where young men and women would climb the roof and wave to get the attention of the POWs. Just to pass the time, the officers would also respond by waving back at them. Human nature is odd. The people on both sides were well aware that these communications over a distance had no reason or goal but perhaps were a way to pass time. When we held volleyball matches between Camps 88 and 44, we had a big crowd of men and women watching us and cheering for us from their rooftops. There was often noise from both inside and outside the camp. A Persian poet once said that one forgets about love during starvation and droughts but our imprisonment was different. Although we were POWs we got our meals at regular times.
January 30″, 1974 was a cloudy day that got quite chilly. Since our camp was walled all around we were somewhat protected against the cold winds though it was frosty because the barracks doors only had iron rods. We had a new Sikh hawaldaar from the Indian MP transferred to our camp during those days. Not only was he from a place near my father’s town, Patti, he was also from Booch village where the Muslim Rajputs and my extended family relatives lived, a village situated on the bank of the river Sutlej Bias. I loved listening to him when he would tell me details of the area where I was born and where my family lived before 1947. He told me that my hometown had completely changed. There were roads and electricity in the town and it had all the facilities of any modern city. His words would often bring back painful memories of partition. Because of Radcliffe and the immorality shown by the Hindus, four police stations of District Kasur were given away to India illogically, otherwise the entire Kasur and Lahore districts would have been part of Pakistan. Patti was a big town in 1947 and its population was 40,000 at that time. Besides the graves of my forefathers, my childhood memories were in Patti, India. Now it had grown to be a city of district Amritsar and was the biggest Division. I just wanted the Sikh hawaaldar to talk about it all the time.
Another 911 POWs left from Sagar Camp on February 19, 1974. Till the last days of Muharram, under the leadership of Lieutenant Colonel Rizwi Sahib, we gathered daily to commemorate the martyrs of Karbala. We talked to the Sikh camp commander and invited a few Muslim religious scholars on 10 Muharram for Zikar. At the end, I offered a salaam for the Karbala martyrs – we believed that our imprisonment made us feel more pain for the martyrs. We could hear azans echoing in from Agra city, telling us that there was a large Muslim population there, but we also continued hearing music even
during the holy month of Muharram. Before partition, Hindus never dared to make any such noise during the holy month of Muharram but now India was a secular state and, apart from Hinduism, there was no respect for any other religion.
On February 2nd, 1974, The ‘Bandu Sahib’ of Bangladesh Mujibur Rahman released statements about the Pakistan Army ‘war criminals’ saying that a few Bengali attorneys had started preparing cases against them. This was not at all good news for the 195 POWs but, apart from a few of our ‘lion-hearted’ officers who got depressed, none of us paid any attention to that. Most of us believed that it was yet another attempt by Mujib to blackmail Pakistan. The great news was that the response he received from the Pakistan government was severe and that encouraged us.
India was looting the new-born state of Bangladesh. All the jute, fish and tea was being exported to India – Mujibur Rahman was pro-Indian and even his countrymen were beginning to see his true character and were turning against him. We would often be overcome by sadness when we read the condition of Bangladesh in the Indian newspapers; the Bengalis were after all Muslims and had been with us since 1947.
Another 916 POWs were released from Sagar camp on that day. In the evening, we listened to Shaame-Gharibaan by Rashid Turrabi Sahib on Radio Pakistan.
On February 4″, 1974, I suddenly developed a severe pain in my stomach. This was perhaps my first serious illness during imprisonment. My friends took exemplary care of me. They stayed awake with me, and one of them ensured I had a hot water bottle with me at all times while another often offered to massage me. I suffered from the pain for a couple of days and then got a cold because of the weather. But I had the blessings of God and the things he had given me in my life, so the illness seemed like just a minor setback. I thanked God over and over again. Such thoughts were often a great comfort and gave me relief during my illness.
As the weather got colder, the Indian government abruptly got harsher. I am not sure why they suddenly took a tougher stance. My transistor radio was taken away again. I badly needed it for the news in those days, and it was the only source of contact with the outside world. We could only hear Radio Akashwani that was played loud but these were only the songs and news which the Indians wanted to play. The facility of hot water was taken away too and even our volleyball. We were all worried because of such a sudden change in their attitude. We also had the duty of taking care of our fellow officers who were already heartbroken. In the midst of this harsh environment, the only reason we were able to tolerate all the hardships was because we prayed and thanked God and this gave us enormous courage and patience.
We were sitting outside in the sun to counter the extremely cold weather when the sentries began to blow their whistles and asked us to go inside to our beds. The barracks were icy cold. We were POWs after all and had no choice but to follow orders. Eventually we found out that the Sahib Bahadur, the Station Commander Brigadier Thomas, was visiting the camp. He was going into the barracks of each camp consecutively and as he left each one, it would be locked immediately by the sentries so no POW could escape. Such a thing had never happened before. We thought that perhaps the Indians wished to convey a
strong message to us – we were being reminded that we were ‘war criminals’. Late that afternoon the barracks were unlocked and we were allowed to come out as the sun was going down, though just being in the fresh air relaxed our muscles. We hated them more when such diabolical acts were inflicted on us, though it was not like we ever expected any act of goodness, kindness or favors from them. It was so cold that we often woke up in the middle of the night.
However, the next day we were given back our volleyball without even having to ask for it, and we could engage ourselves in an activity that helped us fight the cold weather. I had become quite weak because of the stomachache and fever and probably had become more sensitive to cold weather which is why I couldn’t participate in our volleyball matches for a few days. On February 8″, 1974, the charge of our camp was taken from Indian Military Police by the Indian Para Units; their sentries were smarter and more alert. That day the cold felt a little less too, perhaps it was subsiding. Also, that day they released 915 POWs from Sagar.
We were also deprived of the mail coming from our homes, since we couldn’t send them our new address. It was quite disturbing. On February 9, we were allowed to go to Camp 44 and we recited Ayat ul Kursi together. This also gave us an opportunity after a long time to socialize with the Camp 44 officers. On February 11°, 889 POWs reached Pakistan from the Ranchi Camp. Although the cold wave had passed, we often read in the Indian newspapers that a country which boasted of being the biggest democracy in the world was unable to save its citizens from the extreme climatic conditions. The poor Indians were dying every day in the cold weather as most of them didn’t even have proper clothes to cover themselves with, let alone keep themselves warm. Bihar province was the most unlucky Indian province where people dying in their thousands either due to cold weather, or floods, or sectarian violence was considered the norm. My illness had gone but my lips had dried and were sore which made it difficult for me to eat and drink, but a few more days of discomfort also passed with patience. Another train left from Ranchi carrying 935 POWs.
As the cold wave passed, the weather changed so much that even sitting in the sun became uncomfortable in the afternoons. Since we could ask for vegetables from the canteen, to get over my illness I started making soup out of the fresh vegetables. I found an empty fruit can, removed its lid and sharpened its edges by rubbing it on the bathroom floor. I could then cut the vegetables thinly with its edges and afterwards use the same can to prepare the soup. The soup was always delicious and it was also a new pastime for me in the camp. As I have repeatedly said before, it was necessary to have a hobby in prison. A few close friends found out that I made soup for myself in the evenings, so they became my uninvited guests at dusk. I could not make soup for everyone in a small can so I asked one of my friends to find a bigger can. Somehow he managed to find a large empty can that once had contained dry milk. Now every evening I had several guests around my bed and evenings in prison became fun. Prisoners were living in luxury in captivity. I also got some semolina from the canteen and started preparing halva. My friends got all the ingredients and I would be the chief chef – the readers might be surprised to read this but it truly was a big luxury in the POW camp.
The new Indian Para Unit made the security tougher; they conducted frequent ‘Stand to rehearsals. Perhaps they just wanted to keep us under pressure but we didn’t bother about them. Continuous talks were being held between the Indian Foreign Minister Sardar Swaran Singh and Mujibur Rahman about the so-called 195 war criminals and at the same time it was the policy of the Indian government to keep the atmosphere tough, insensitive, discomforting and dangerous for the 195 POWs. On the other hand, Mujibur Rahman wanted to gain other political leverage by using the trump card of the 195 ‘war criminals’. He was actually prancing about under the coaching of the Indian government. It felt like a decision was going to be made – we did not know if the decision would be good or bad, but it would be about the so-called war criminals.
The canteen contractor couldn’t bring anything until it was approved by the camp commander, and frequent unannounced checks were held just so they could prove their alertness. Some more floodlights were placed along the walls to keep a closer eye on the 195 POWs, while the release of other POWs was being declared pretty quickly now. Our jawaans who were cooks and helpers were stuck with us through no fault of their own but because the 195 POWs were all officers – we were very friendly with all our jawaans and we were happy that they had such high morale and were setting exemplary standards when serving their officers. On February 15th another 844 POWs reached Pakistan from Gaya.
Besides the frequent checking, POW would be re-written on our uniforms every other day before the previous writing could fade away, but we had become very accustomed to these cunning and mean tactics – we never really took any of their stupid actions to heart.
The noise coming in from the city had increased in those days due to the coming elections. Sardar Swaran Singh had returned from Bangladesh and although his meeting with Mujibur Rahman was the result of foreign pressure by the Islamic leaders, their joint statements after the meeting were not at all encouraging. Mujibur Rahman couldn’t do anything against the will of India and we were all looking forward to the reaction of the Islamic world after their joint statement was released. On February 16, 1974 it rained and got chilly, although after hearing Z. A. Bhutto’s speech on Radio Pakistan our hearts and bodies were warmed. His encouraging and emotional interview, especially regarding the 195 POWs, left a very good impression on us. In fact the strings of our hearts were connected to our countrymen and the leaders while our thoughts, morale and emotions depended on their decisions and statements. There was no doubt left after Bhutto’s statements that our country could never be blackmailed by India if they used the 195 POWs trump card.
Another train left from Sagar camp on February 17″, 1974 carrying 945 POWs. We also gauged from the news that day that, although Mujibur Rahman was influenced and undecided after pressure from the states that were to attend the Islamic Summit Conference, his real masters were in India. Because of this, there was a weird sense of uncertainty and our hopes for our freedom began to fade when we heard that Mujib would not attend the conference. The prolonged imprisonment had made all of us emotionally fragile and we began to think more negatively. On the other hand, any positive indication made us extremely happy. For example, on February 18th we all started chanting with joy after we read the
statement of Indonesia’s vice president, Adam Malik, in the Indian newspapers. His statement was that Mujibur Rahman had promised him that he would end the drama of the 195 POW ‘war criminals’. We again shouted with joy when we heard the news on the radio in the evening. There was only that one Colonel Sahib from the Baluch Regiment who remained unaffected by any news, spending most of his time playing basketball alone, hitting the ball against the high jail walls. I would advise him to limit his extensive physical activity and he would always say; “Garaeen, I don’t exercise, I just warm up so I don’t get lazy.”
On the very same day, the Foreign Minister of Bangladesh discredited the statement of the Indonesian vice-president, proving the stubbornness of Mujib. We were expecting some sort of commentary from the BBC but it remained silent on the subject, though it announced that Pakistan might soon accept Bangladesh. Such a statement was expected from Bhutto in a meeting which was cancelled at the eleventh hour. We were very uncertain about our freedom because of such news; we were unaware of India’s decisions.
Somewhere toward the middle of February 1974, I had a dream that indicated our freedom was to be declared before May. I always recited Ayat ul Kursi and Durood before going to sleep. I felt at ease and relaxed the next morning because the dream felt so real to me. I shared my dream with some of my close friends and also hoped that we would be released, Insha’Allah, in March or April. The dream kept me relaxed for several days. It gave me an inexplicable sense of contentment, although it slowly started to fade away with time.
After a few days the situation took such a twist that we could see freedom up close. I reminded my close friends of my dream and we all agreed that it was spot-on. The news was the Islamic Summit Conference would be held with all the heads of states of Muslim countries in Lahore. I heard the running commentary of the conference in the evening over the radio during the Mirza Sultan Baig aka Chaudhary Nizam Din program. I missed Lahore and Pakistan so badly that tears came to my eyes at the thought of it. The city and the people of Lahore were so far away.
The Foreign Ministers of Islamic countries were meeting in Lahore and, as in 1965, Radio Pakistan started broadcasting national songs. Our own spirits were lifted as we listened to the new national songs and poems but, at the same time, we regretted that we would not see the Islamic Summit Conference being held in Lahore. Many times our heart ached and grew heavy listening to the commentary in the lead-up to the Conference, especially for people like me who belonged to Lahore. We couldn’t control our tears sometimes because of the strong emotions and sentiments we had for our beloved city and country. Pakistan was refusing to accept Bangladesh as an independent state; we were happy that the Muslim World Leaders had gathered for this Conference and felt proud that Pakistan was not ready to accept Bangladesh. Our own countrymen had become traitors and with the help of the enemy, they had made a separate state and recognized it as independent – while simultaneously the changing political scenarios had made our fate uncertain.
On February 19, 1974, the attitude of the Indian Army abruptly changed again. The common gate
between Camps 44 and 88 was opened for a couple of hours and we were free to move about on both sides. We all met with our fellow officers and exchanged views and commentaries on the current political situation and felt our pain ease. The political situation was still very critical, and the Bangladeshi AL leaders and Indian Government were making harsh statements against the 195 ‘war criminals’.
The talks in Lahore started on February 20″, 1974 without Mujibur Rahman. A running commentary was being broadcast live from Lahore and every Muslim leader was introduced as he arrived – this made us more homesick. That day, a delegation of the Islamic Summit Conference suddenly left for Dhaka to have a meeting with Mujibur Rahman, apparently to secure a guarantee that he would abandon his threats about the 195 prisoners. This news was music to our ears and we looked forward to learning of its progress. The same day, 986 POWs left for Pakistan from Ramgarh camp but this time their names were not announced as the radio was broadcasting the Summit Conference.
February 21″, 1974 was spent waiting for some sort of news and, at last, on February 22nd we heard that all the Islamic leaders had forced Bhutto to swallow the bitter pill and thus the wishes of Bangladesh and India were fulfilled – Bangladesh was officially recognized as an Independent Sovereign State. Though this news increased our hopes of freedom, our hearts were in despair as we had lost a major chunk of Pakistan. We wanted to be free but at the same time didn’t want to recognize Bangladesh as independent. We had had no choice but to surrender in 1971 and it seemed that we would remain in denial. However, it was also a fact that Bangladesh was now independent and recognizing it had become inevitable too. Sooner or later, we had to face the music. We were emotional and ambivalent and in a situation like this, even our thoughts were hazy. We didn’t know which decision was the right one. Bhutto accepted and recognized Bangladesh with tears in his eyes and in an emotional voice declared his statement. Our emotions also came around with our leader. Bhutto was right, he wasn’t happy to recognize Bangladesh but it was a good idea to hug a long-lost brother.
This was the result of the meeting held between Mujibur Rahman and the visiting heads of Muslim states in Dhaka. There was no immediate reaction from India or Bangladesh but the statement in the news sounded ludicrous and amusing. Bangladesh stated that it had also accepted Pakistan as an independent State. It seemed like a well-played joke of the time. They were accepting the state after 25 years of independence. Many other Islamic countries also recognized Bangladesh with this news. There was still no news about the 195 ‘war criminals’ but we hoped the decision was not too far off. Our hearts were content that the decision would be in our favor. On the Friday, we heard the news about the arrival of the Islamic leaders at the Badshahi Masjid in Lahore. Hearing the poem of Allama Iqbal: Aik Hoon Muslim Haram Ki Passbani Key Liye stirred our souls and boosted our faith.
We also heard Colonel Gaddafi’s historic address at Gaddafi Stadium in which he stressed upon establishing friendship between Pakistan and Libya. Listening to these live broadcasts made us more emotional and we thought of our freedom even more. We would yell and shout with happiness and many times even surprised the Indian Army sentries with our loud and emotional reactions. We were overcome with the need to pray for the long life of our beloved country and the unity of the Islamic world.
On February 23, 1974, Mujibur Rahman, as head of an Islamic State, entered Pakistan and was welcomed with the 21-gun salute; he was being welcomed to the same place he was released from few years ago. The follower of Mir Sadiq and Mir Jaffar received a guard of honor as the Bangladesh National Anthem played. His visit to Lahore brought back the cruel memories of 1971 – these are historic events and accidents that have to be accepted, though the heart does not desire it.
It was on February 24″, 1974 that we heard the historical speech by Bhutto as President of Pakistan. It was an exemplary choice of words, style and emotions. Bhutto was responsible for Bangladesh with his self-centered thoughts, he had conspired with General Yahya Khan, we believed that he was guilty of everything, and the entire nation doubted him, but no one could speak against him after the speech he gave at the Islamic Summit Conference.
The Conference ended on February 24, 1974 with its unforgettable memories and faith-boosting news. We heard that a meeting would be held between India, Pakistan and Bangladesh on March 15h regarding the 195 POWs. Pakistan was invited for the first time. This lead to a heated discussion in the camp concerning our hopes for freedom.
On February 27, 1032 POWs left the Sagar Camp for Pakistan. The same day I received a parcel of 20 cigarette packets from home – they didn’t know yet that I was no longer a smoker. I immediately gave the gift to my smoker friends.
On February 28th and 299, 903 and 848 POWs respectively were released from the Ranchi camp in India.
We started looking for activities to kill all the free time at our disposal. I took a paper box from a friend to collect all the special newspapers and magazines and started storing the cuttings of important news clips in it. I drew the picture of the Agra Jail’s entrance on it. I brought that box and historical newspapers and magazines with me but they were destroyed by the rainwater in the basement of our house in Model Town. Many historical newspaper clips were ruined and I still regret it to this day.
On March 2nd, 1974, 851 POWs reached Pakistan from the Sagar Camp.
One of my fellow officers received a parcel from abroad that day which contained different kinds of soup. He invited several friends and we enjoyed the soup that night. We found out on March 3, 1974 that the March 15″meeting was postponed till the first week of April. This was disturbing for all of us but there was nothing we could do about it and we began to eagerly wait for April. The Pakistani media then confirmed the meeting had been delayed to April 4″ and the atmosphere in the camp changed again and we were filled with happiness. The same day 801 POWs left from Ramgarh for Pakistan, including 36 senior officers. A Red Cross representative, Mr. Trancy, visited our camp – he looked like an inflexible man. He had also visited us in Gwalior and we had refused to talk to him before.
Another 800 POWs were released on March 6, 1974, it was diverting to keep track of all the POWs who were being released and this also kept us updated and in good spirits. According to my own calculations and records, this was the data Released civilians and jawaans: 71,545
Remaining POWs: 19,900 Released Army officers: 1,185 Total: 92,630 Total trains that had reached Pakistan: 82.
On March 10h, 1974, I heard the sad news of the death of our neighbor in Model Town, Lahore, Civil Judge Saeed Umar Sahib, through his son Major Khurshid Umar, who was our companion in Agra Camp. He was a loving person and an amiable gentleman. I also heard the sad news of the death of the grandmother of one of our other neighbors, Major Zahoor Mohiuddin. This was followed by the death of a grandfather of another friend and then the passing of a brother of another close friend. We all recited the Holy Quran and prayed for the salvation of all the deceased. All of us had developed a very strong bond and cared for one another. For instance, one day I was exercising in a vest when a fellow officer handed me a t-shirt and told me to wear it while exercising. I had left most of my personal belongings in Gwalior Camp and had very little personal property – he saw me in a vest and figured out that I didn’t have a tshirt and so handed me his own. Though it was a small gesture, I will never forget his kindness, may God bless him.
2. The Light of Freedom
Another 800 POWs were released on March 14″, 1974 from Ramgarh and Bareilly. That day, two Pakistani Army officers, the late Majors Ghulam Ahmad and Esphani, joined the 195 POWs; they had come from Meerut and were accompanied by their wives and children. Most of the officers had sent back their families to West Pakistan – perhaps these officers had been unable to do the same. It was sad to see Pakistani women and children being guarded by the Indian Army sentries. The 195 ‘war criminal issue was a stunt, because many of the officers had surrendered right after they entered East Pakistan, and most of them never even got a chance to commit the highly publicized yet unsubstantiated war crimes. No doubt their wives wanted to be with them, but the women could have taken the children back home as the Indian Army and the government could not be trusted. We took on the responsibility of taking extra care of them as we had a natural attachment with the two families. It felt so odd to watch the wives of the two Pakistani Army officers with three children in the camp. Though the families were kept in separate barracks adjacent to ours we were allowed to meet them throughout the day.
They were brought in by an Indian Army officer and the attitude of that man in Meerut must have been better than Captain Ved’s as no one would have even spat on the face of Captain Ved. The atmosphere of every camp was different – there are all sorts of people everywhere. We gave great respect to the wives of those officers and everyone wanted to spend as much time as possible with their children, as everyone saw a reflection of their own families in the kids. The very presence of the kids affected the camp’s atmosphere too. At the beginning, every officer would hug the children and it would embarrass them, but they eventually got accustomed to it. We were surprised and happy to see that the children didn’t like the
Indian Army officers as they must have witnessed the cruelty of the non-Muslim Bengalis from a very fragile age. Sometimes the children would curse at non-Muslims in the presence of the Indian Army jawaans. We took great delight in seeing that our children had recognized the enemy at such a tender age.
Another train left with 809 POWs from Ranchi on March 15″, 1974. That day was the chehlum of the martyrs of Karbala. I visited Camp 44 and offered my salaam to the innocents of Karbala, while Lieutenant Colonel Rizwi Sahib did Zikar and offered prayers. That day, the Indian Army began to renovate our bathrooms. This had a negative impact on our otherwise optimistic outlook. If this was only a temporary camp, why did they feel the need to fix the bathrooms? But the Indian camp JCO told us that this had been awaiting approval for some time and the commander had decided to spend the money on repairs instead of returning it. India had the same culture of bribery as Pakistan. The camp commander Captain Gardave Singh eventually began to bring his wife and children to the camp sometimes, and they would often mix with the families of the late Major Ghulam Ahmad and Major Esphani.
One day one of Major Esphani’s children did something that we all enjoyed. There was a small area between Camp 44 and 88 that was occupied by a bust of Mahatma Gandhi. Gandhi’s eye glasses were made of marble. Major Esphani’s oldest son climbed the top of the bust and started struggling to remove his marble glasses. Of course he couldn’t remove them but the realization only seemed to make him angrier. A sentry was also watching this and laughing with us. Some of our officers were passing and told the kid that this was the statue of a Hindu leader. Upon hearing this, he took off one of his tiny shoes and started beating the statue. The kid was furious and, surprisingly, the Indian sentry seemed to be enjoying the sight of his leader being beaten up by a kid. Eventually we helped the boy off the renowned Indian leader.
We were listening to the news on Radio Akashwani on March 17th and the first news item was that Bangladesh had given the last list of the so-called war criminals to India. In the evening, we heard the news that there would be no more cases in the court or any other legal proceedings against the so-called 1971 Pakistani Army war criminals. There was also a possibility that all of us would be released by April. We wanted to believe the evening news; it was a great relief and gave us comfort.
On March 18″, another train of 801 POWs from Sagar camp left for Pakistan. There was a meeting among the senior officers of both the camps and it was decided that the coming 23rd day of March would be celebrated with a dinner, impassioned speeches and national songs. We also planned a volleyball match and both camps started the preparations.
India was freely looting Bangladesh and doing it in the name of import and export. The Indian merchants were buying jute, rice and fish from Bangladesh at cheap rates. There was a newspaper article by an Indian writer, Mr. Ghosh, with the title of “Imports by India from Bangladesh.” In it he warned the Indian Government to stop their inappropriate raiding in Bangladesh before the Bengalis opened their eyes and start exporting their goods to Pakistan or any other Islamic country instead. India was bartering her substandard goods for export quality goods from Bangladesh and the people of Bangladesh had openly started protesting against such deals. The writer was a Hindu and had visited Bangladesh; he had
witnessed this with his own eyes and was warning the Indian Government about what he himself had witnessed.
On the morning of March 21*, Lieutenant Colonel Akram aka Pashto Sahib woke me for the azan and interrupted a very beautiful dream. The dream was so agreeable that I remained in a good mood for quite some time – I was free and among my loved ones, everyone was celebrating, sweets were being distributed, there were songs being played and there was happiness everywhere. Back in reality I prepared halva after the morning prayers, invited my close friends and shared my dream. We started the recitation of the Holy Quran in our mosque after breakfast since we intended to finish the Quran by March 23rd. Another train took 798 POWs to Pakistan on March 22nd. We heard the address of Indira Gandhi on the radio that day in which she stressed the idea of promoting friendship and better relations between India and Pakistan. It seemed that my dream would soon come true as a leader like Indira Gandhi would not ordinarily talk about friendship with Pakistan when she was being worshipped in India because she had broken up Pakistan and played a vital role in creating Bangladesh. We were happy to finish the Holy Quran that night.
March 23rd was quite a busy day for us. The gates between the two camps were opened early in the morning. We gathered in Camp 44 and performed the flag ceremony after breakfast. We prayed for our beloved country and sang our national anthem. Many people came out on the roof tops to see us and saw the happiness and enthusiasm of the Pakistani Army POWs. The gates remained open all day long and we ate lunch together. Kebabs, sheer maal, korma, rice pilau, raita, salad, shahi tukray, and oranges: we had such a wonderful meal for the first time. The chefs of both the camps had prepared this special meal for us, and it tasted so different after the lentils. We spent the entire day as though we were not imprisoned and were living the lives of free men. The volleyball match was pretty exciting in the evening and, as always, we defeated Camp 44. The Indians watched the match from their roof tops and chanted slogans in our favor. The evening tea was also wonderful, served with pakoras and chutney. The presence of Mrs. Ghulam Ahmad and Mrs. Esphani and their children made the gathering far more colorful than it would have been otherwise. We had a poetry competition after Isha namaz and then we played music and started singing. All of this took place in Camp 44. I sang two ghazals and everyone enjoyed them thoroughly, then we returned to our barracks around midnight. This was probably the first time that we had spent so much time together. It was only when we went to our beds that we remembered we were POWs. March 23, 1974 had felt like we had been back to Pakistan and that one way or another we would be back there soon.
We rested all the following day. On March 25″ we made four teams in each camp and announced a bridge tournament. That day, 799 POWs were released from the Sagar Camp. The Red Cross team gave two parcels to each POW that day containing only edibles. Another 800 POWs were released from Ranchi. The bridge tournament started – the atmosphere of our camp changed altogether with these activities. The Indian Army commanders also visited us. A train had left from India with another 800 POWs the same day. The same Indian Army Brigadier who had come to Gwalior Camp visited us on March 29th. He
was in charge of all the Pakistani POWs. He informed us that in the coming meeting between the Indian and Pakistani high officials on April 5″, 1974, a decision would be made about the 195 POWs. Firstly, all the senior officers would be released and then the 195 POWs would be released if the officials so decided and if the Indian railroad did not go on strike. These were all signs that we would be free by the end of April 1974. The Indian brigadier was a typical army officer with little or no sense of humor and we all felt relieved to hear this from someone in authority and anxiously started waiting for our freedom.
Then the holy month of Rabi ul Awal started and filled us with spiritual satisfaction. All the restrictions and hardships were removed from our camp and the dream seemed not very far off now. Another 15 officers joined us on March 31* from the Ranchi Camp. With their arrival all the barracks were now completely filled. They were the last officers; they were brought without handcuffs and had all their property with them. These were all good signs and even those officers who had always felt hopeless seemed to be smiling. The negotiations between the Pakistani and Indian government officials were to start on April 5″, 1974. The Pakistani Foreign Minister, Aziz Ahmad, was visiting Delhi along with his team. We all prayed that day and chanted Ayat ul Kursi together. I wanted it to be our last Eid Milad un Nabi as POWs and one that should be celebrated with pomp and show. With the agreement of all the officers, we collected donations from both the camps so we could celebrate without worrying about the cost. I put in a good contribution and we collected a decent sum of money. We had a few meetings and made a list of the items that we would require to celebrate Eid Milad un Nabi. We asked the Indian officers to buy those items for us in the bazaar and kept it as a surprise from the rest of the officers.
The Sikh Indian Army Naib Subaydar bought paper for flags, jute rope, mustard oil and small diyas. We had kept some money separately for sweets as the same JCO had placed an order in advance through a Muslim shopkeeper in Agra. We had been collecting fruit tins which were sent to POWs in the parcels and had been removing their tops with a cutter. A few officers would sit in the mosque all day, talking cheerfully and making small paper flags and diyas with jute rope. Even today, I remember how we enjoyed doing that along with praying and chanting Durood all day long. We had no responsibility and had nothing to worry about; our satisfaction came from remembering God.
A few days later, some officers from a battalion of the Punjab Regiment also joined us. Lieutenant Colonel Matloob was one of them and his bed was next to mine. I later served as his accounts officer in the Punjab Regiment Center in Mardan. He was a very pious man and is retired now. The atmosphere of our mosque suddenly changed after the arrival of Colonel Sahib, as he would pray and chant the name of God day and night. A few other officers joined him later.
Many officers asked us what was going on after they saw the traditional flags and diyas of cotton and jute, but we wanted to keep it a secret. The holy day of Eid Milad Un Nabi was on April 5″, 1974. We hung all the tins on nails on all the trees of the jail’s front yard and, by the evening, we had placed all the diyas in the tins. The diyas were made of mustard oil and a small piece of jute rope; they were all lit as evening fell. We decorated the center of the jail front yard with the flags we had been making. We had put the
sweets in small bags during the day. The Indian Army officers and sentries were watching our activities and perhaps were even entertained by them since they made no objection – this was also an indication for us that our long imprisonment was coming to an end. I gave the Maghreb azan and we laid out sheets to pray and, as it became dark, we lit all the diyas. The front yard of our camp transformed into a beautifully lit place and our friends looked on in awe and surprise. Even the Indian Army jawaans appreciated the decorations. In spite of being POWs with limited resources, we had given a new spirit to this holy day, in a way that no one had expected. Camp 44 had already been invited, and everyone came. The Indian Army officers and jawaans had come to witness the celebrations too. When everyone had arrived, I briefly announced the details of our program; I recited two small naats for our Holy Prophet, and everyone specially enjoyed the “Murhabba Syed e Maki Madni Al Arabi” naat. Lieutenant Colonel Matloob Sahib gave a brief address and then we asked everyone to stand up to offer Salaam to our dear Prophet. It didn’t matter if anyone was Sunni or Shia; we were all united as one at that time, one Ummat offering Salaam to their Prophet. Lieutenant Colonel Matloob offered the prayers and the sweets were distributed. And so, the brief but spiritual celebrations came to an end. I treasure the memory of it to this day.
We were back to our routine life the very next day, and most of this meant exchanging thoughts and commenting on the current political situation. Everyone was eager to hear something about the Delhi meeting and we were hopeful.
On April 8th the Indian Army stopped locking our barracks even at night, and this was yet another good sign for the POWs. Many officers dragged their beds outside into the front yard. They would lie under the tamarind trees and enjoy the feeling of sleeping outside under the wide open sky – it was a pleasant change.
Another 800 POWs were released from Ramgarh on April 9, 1974, and at the same time we heard the news that negotiations had ended and an agreement about the 195 POWs had been signed. Though we didn’t know the details of the agreement, we thought that if the Pakistani officials had also signed it, it must be in our favor – how else could they have signed the agreement? A wave of happiness swept over our camp and we all offered Nawafil to thank God. We didn’t know for certain that we would ever be free again, but in our hearts we were hopeful that perhaps, at last, the chains of our long imprisonment would be removed. We were not just ordinary POWs, but members of the list – the 195 POW ‘war criminals’. We had been hearing a lot about our fate and our feelings when we heard about the Delhi agreement just can’t be explained in words. The drama of the 195 ‘war criminals’ had been created solely to blackmail Pakistan, but we were not expecting it to end so soon.
After this news, our camp mosque was packed and the people who previously had never bothered to pray started showing up at prayer times. Those who had saved items they had received in parcels took them out and sent invitations to each other to share the edibles sent by loved ones. There was laughter in our camp all day; every face had changed. Emotions rose to the surface as we thought about the immediate future, of meeting our loved ones after being apart for so long and of seeing our beloved land.
April 10″, 1974 passed with these thoughts. The next day the camp commander sent a memo round that
any diary or note being kept by the prisoners should be deposited for a security check. I took the risk and hid my diary because I didn’t want to waste my three years’ worth of effort. Afterwards, superficial security checks were conducted.
We had a power shutdown on April 12th and the generators were not switched on, so all of us took our beds outside in the front yard for the night. We made cold coffee using the water of surahis and invited others to join us as there didn’t seem to be any reason to save anything now. The power came back after some time but no one returned to the barracks and instead spent the entire night in the front yard. I put powdered milk in a bowl to make yogurt overnight and in the morning I boiled potatoes, onions and tomatoes and made a spicy chaat. I invited my close friends who always visited me at breakfast time and we enjoyed the chaat in the camp and thanked God for such luxuries even in prison. It might sound strange that I talk about the hardships we faced as POWs and at the same time mention how much fun we had together. The fact is that God has made man an interesting creature; these simple gatherings were our source of entertainment during the POW life. There was also a lot of difference between the uncertain future we had faced just a few months ago and the sudden news of our freedom on April 13″, 1974.
We were leaving in two trains; one train had to leave after six days and the next after thirteen days. The first train would take the POWs who had arrived at the camp first, followed by the rest of us. I struggle but fail to put down in words the rush of emotions we felt as the time of our freedom arrived. We didn’t even want to sleep and would chat, tell jokes and sing songs through the long nights of the last days in prison. After a long time we were shown a Bollywood movie on April 14″. None of us were really interested in the movies anymore. We enjoyed them when it was a good way to pass the prison time but now no one wanted any favors from the Indian Army – at least not anymore. The people who had set up the theater went away disappointed when they saw our lack of interest. Our camp commander got quite upset by our reaction and the gates between the two camps were closed, but no one cared any longer about the Indian Army officers. He asked all of us to watch the movie, and our lack of interest was an insult for him and that was something we enjoyed.
Although Majors Ghulam Ahmad and Esphani had come to the Agra camp after us, we all insisted they leave first and they were boarded on the first train along with their families. On April 16, Colonel Matloob Sahib invited all the officers of the Punjab Regiment for high tea in our barracks and since I was close to him, he asked me to make all the arrangements for the party. I made cold coffee in the surahi, and onion, tomato and potato chaat for everyone. I also made sandwiches and tea and served tinned fruit. I put blankets down for the people to sit on and they brought their own mugs and plates. Everyone enjoyed the party and it went on till late that night.
On April 17h, the camp commander called the senior officers from both the camps, Colonels Ali and Akram, and explained the detailed plan of departure in the two trains; now we had no doubt whatsoever of our release. The first train was scheduled to leave on April 23″ and the second on April 26″, 1974. It was like Eid for both the train parties, the only difference being that Eid would arrive on the 29th of the month for the first party and on the 30th for the second. One of my neighbors in A Block, Model Town in Lahore,
Major Sarfaraz from Artillery, was leaving on the first train and I was thrilled since he would be able to give the blissful news to my family. Camp Commander Major Gurdave Singh visited our camp on April 19th. He was in a good mood and chatted with us for a longer time than usual. One of our senior friends, Colonel Sarfaraz from the Punjab Regiment, was a blunt man and a brave soldier; even the Red Cross team and the Indian Army Officers were intimidated by him. When he found out that Major Gurdave was having a chat with us, he came to our barracks and started talking to him with great urgency to distract him, and soon the camp commander decided to leave. Throughout our imprisonment, the Indian Army had no doubt whatsoever that we would never ask them for any favors or even desired them to soften their attitude towards us. The only impression we left them with was that we hated them and our hatred would only continue to grow. I am proud that we maintained the same attitude towards them till our last day in the Agra Camp.
We were sad when we heard on April 19″, 1974 of the demise of Field Marshal Ayub Khan. We gathered and prayed for his forgiveness. He was accountable for many things in Pakistan’s history and what happened in 1971 but had his own standing and role. As a soldier he was a graceful, attractive and an unquestionably impressive army officer. He had quietly relinquished his power and that day he had quietly left the world – that was his greatness. No one is or can be flawless, though he was so popular that his portraits can still be seen on the back of buses and trucks, with quotations like, “You were remembered after you left.”
The officers who were leaving on the first train were making their preparations and we were given all our property from the store room on April 21″. The officers in the Agra camp who had lived for a long time in Dhaka along with their families had a lot of luggage and property with them, including the stuff belonging to their wives and their children’s clothes and toys, and they were repacking them. We were determined they had to remain in good spirits since they had bravely faced so many hardships, so whenever we saw something interesting that belonged to their wives, we made fun of them and laughed heartily. Even the senior officers were acting like newly commissioned officers. The downhearted officers were full of relaxed charm too, and it was very obvious how circumstances can change human behavior. That day, senior officers like Major General Qazi Abdul Majid, General Rao Farman Ali, Brigadiers Atif, Manzoor, Naeem and many others, along with 735 more officers and jawaans, left for Pakistan. On April 22nd, 1974 we were able to move with complete freedom between the camps – the gate was permanently open. The officers who were to leave in the second train were constantly telling the departing team to give messages to their respective families. The restless anticipation we all felt during those days was more intense than anything I have ever experienced. The departing officers left much of their property and edibles behind for us. Both the camps were wide awake at 0300 hours on April 23-d and we helped with the luggage of the departing officers. We didn’t expect to be treated in the same way as when we departed the Gwalior Camp, but we didn’t trust the enemy – our anxiety was justified and would remain until we achieved freedom in its truest form. At last all the departing officers gathered at the main gate of Agra Jail with their luggage. We embraced them and then saw them off as they left for our beloved land. When we
returned to our barracks, it looked as if a city had suddenly vanished, and there were only a few officers left in my barracks in particular. The barracks was littered with items left by departing officers – mugs, soap holders, shoes and many edibles.
Colonel Akram arrived after some time and informed us that they had left Agra railroad station. It was prayer time so I gave the azan and later we offered our namaz. With the help of one of my friends, I started collecting all the scattered items as I thought that we could hand them over to the Red Cross instead of the Indian jawaans. Luckily, we found two wooden boxes in the mosque and started filling them up with all the edibles and other items left behind by our officers. I continued packing them until the end of the next day, by which time both the boxes were filled, closed and nailed down. On all four sides we wrote in large letters: “Pakistan Red Cross”. That day a train from Ramgarh Camp reached Pakistan with 875 POWS.
The barracks looked deserted and haunted the first night, and there were only 4 beds left in the entire barracks. There was a time when the same barracks was crawling with POWs, and we could hear people having nightmares. In my imagination, I was traveling with the departing team from Agra to Delhi, to Jalandhar, Amritsar, Attari and into our beloved land, where freedom, my house, and my loving family awaited me. I spent the entire night lost in such blissful thoughts.
The departing officers had left so many things to eat that we experimented cooking different things the next day. There were large quantities of powdered milk. I asked one of my friends to put Ovaltine in a glass of milk and give it to Colonel Matloob Sahib. He was also lost in his own thoughts and, instead of Ovaltine, he put a few spoonfuls of coffee in instead. Colonel Sahib couldn’t even swallow a single sip. We laughed at him, exclaiming that this was bound to happen to him since he never drank coffee or Ovaltine and was more of a ‘lassi kind of man’. At night, we heard over the radio the names of our friends who had reached Pakistan. I especially missed Model Town in Lahore when I heard the name of my neighbor, Major Sarfaraz Uddin. The news sent me back in my imagination – I was visiting my house, I saw the happy faces of my family and my eyes were filled with tears.
PART VI
HOMECOMING
1. My Last Day in Prison
April 25″, 1974 was supposed to be my last day of confinement in the place I had spent the past months in, and that day felt almost as long as my entire time as a POW. We had prepared the large boxes for the Red Cross and the Indian jawaans took them to the main gate. We had thought that the Indian Army would not approve but strangely they had no reservations or objections. There was a power shutdown again at night but we took our beds outside and prepared sandwiches for the journey. We slept for only a few hours that night, most of which was spent dreaming about the next day. We conducted a final check of our few belongings and were taken to the main gate around 0300 hours. It was dark and we could see nothing apart from the walls of the jail and the banyan trees. We had arrived through that very gate a few months earlier with dejected faces but at this point in time we were departing happily. We inhaled deeply. Although I was physically still in Agra my thoughts and soul had already crossed the border and entered my beloved country.
We left the jail in army vehicles under a sky that was crowded with stars, and headed towards Agra railroad station. The sentries were still with us but this time they were for our safety and now we thought of them as our personal guards. The bazaars were empty and there was no traffic on the roads. We reached the railroad station, alighted from the vehicle and went onto the platform. Some carriages were marked and we took the assigned seats, carrying our baggage. We had traveled in the first class section when we came to India from Dhaka, and this day we were in first class again, but there was a tremendous difference. We were POWs the day we arrived and now we were free as birds. And this time, these first class cabins looked nicer and cleaner. My cabin was a four-seater and next to my seat was my CO, Lieutenant Colonel Aftab Qureshi – he was later promoted to a Brigadier until he passed away. We put our luggage in the overhead bins and came out onto the platform and then we watched as the sun rose in the
of them were Muslims. They were smiling at us. When we had departed from Dhaka, the Indian Muslims could be seen crying. Ironically, this time on the opposite side of the platform, countless Hindu men, women and children stood in a line, with their dhotis and ghagras raised, answering the call of nature. A train arrived after a while and it was full of Pakistani POWs. We greeted them and waved. There were a few familiar faces among them. Our carriages were attached to the inbound train and we left for Delhi at 0800 hours.
The first station after Agra was Raja Ki Mandi followed by multiple smaller villages and towns. Our joy and excitement was increasing by the second. Eventually we reached the Sikandra railroad station and we could see the tomb of the Mughal Emperor Akbar from our cabin windows. It did not appear very wellmaintained as the grass in the surrounding grounds was overgrown, but we could still appreciate the glory of the great Mughal King. Monkeys were jumping around on the tomb’s walls. After this town called Ballabgarh, there was a large industrial area with a number of factories and the view was much the same until Faridabad. After we passed Tughlakabad we came across ship factories. All these areas were under the rule of Hindus now but we could almost smell the presence of Muslims even though that had been centuries ago. We noticed that there was barely a tree visible in Tughlakabad. Our train stopped at a small station in the town of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia, and we could see the minarets of his tomb from the train windows. We offered our prayers for him while sitting in the train and also recalled the incident when a man had betrayed us in Gwalior Camp by pretending to be a follower of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia.
The train was stationary for quite some time. A large crowd of women and children gathered on the other side of the station and seeing them, it was quite obvious how destitute and physically neglected were the citizens of the so-called biggest democracy in the world. There was dejection on their faces, their bodies were emaciated and their expressions hungry. A few of our jawaans threw some chapattis towards them and the crowd ran to get the food. We took some satisfaction out of that as we got the opportunity to behave as traditional Muslim hosts. We also threw lentils wrapped in chapattis, shoes, and plates, anything that we could lay our hands on, towards the crowd. The Indian railroad police came in and tried to disperse the crowd with a lathi charge but the crowd took hardly any notice and struggled to catch the stuff we were throwing. It was ironic that the POWs were giving donations to the free citizens of India.
The train then gradually began to move, and the Delhi railroad station was no longer so far away. The speed of the train was so slow that we could clearly observe and even appreciate the buildings, roads and bazaars of Delhi, every corner was crowded. We passed Tilburg and Mansur railroad stations at a steady pace, the train kept moving and we reached Delhi. We couldn’t see much of the city. When we got off onto the platform we began to spend all the Indian currency we had left with us. I had a coke from a stall after a long time – it wasn’t cold but I simply loved the aroma and flavor of it. The platform was crowded with mostly Hindu laborers. I returned to my cabin and wrote a couple of paragraphs in my diary about what I had seen.
Our train left the Delhi railroad station in the afternoon. We saw a small mosque beside the railroad. The train was traveling at a slow pace and we saw many people preparing for Zohar namaz, some were
sky.
A train was coming from Sagar Camp and we knew that our carriage would be attached to it. It was prayer time and I performed my ablutions with tap water on the platform and gave the azan as usual, something I had been doing all along while a POW. I was loud and confident that my voice reached the farthest ends of the platform. By the time I was done with the azan, many people had gathered on the other side of the platform to watch us. From their clothes and their expression we knew that the majority
was about four or five kilometers from the Attari station buildings. We passed through the Attari village along with our jawaans. The Sikh men and women were standing alongside the road, watching us cautiously. The journey was just a few kilometers but it seemed so long to us and we observed the area carefully as we crossed the famous Indian village Chogawan and the river flanked by a barbed fence and solid bunkers. It was an important strategic Indian defense post and we were walking slowly to observe it. The dam was high on the Indian side and low on the Pakistani side. The bank of the small river was sort of rocky and I wondered if it would be difficult to cross it on foot. At last we could see the Indian Post on the Wagah border and the Indian Taranga flag. Just a few steps away was the Pakistan Rangers check post and what we felt when we saw the green flag with its crescent moon cannot be described here. We were stopped a few yards away from the border and asked to sit down, probably to check documentation, and those moments felt like an eternity. We just wanted to flap our wings and fly across the border.
2. Salaam to the Mitti of our Land
entering and some were performing their ablution. They probably figured out that it was the Pakistan Army traveling on the train and they showed true courage and chanted ‘God is Great’ over the mosque’s loudspeaker. We did the same in response and waved at them to demonstrate our solidarity with them. Very soon after, we reached the Punjab. By the time we passed Rohtak, it was evening and darkness fell. This entire land was new to us and we didn’t know which areas we were crossing through. We finally reached Ludhiana railroad station around 2300 hours and, despite it being midnight, the station was crowded, mostly by Sikh men and women. Our train had to remain there for about an hour and we spent our leftover Indian currency buying Indian newspapers and magazines. There was no longer any restriction on our movements, so we would get off whenever and wherever we wanted.
With the start of April 27″, 1974, our train left Ludhiana station around 0100 hours and reached Jalandhar an hour later. It was dark but crowds of Sikhs could be seen and heard conversing in their typical dialect. The train soon left and we reached Amritsar railroad station which was familiar to me from my childhood. Just before the station junction was the Gol Bagh, and the place reminded me of when I was a child and I would often go from Amritsar to Ajnala to spend time with my maternal grandparents. It was still dark out but my thoughts went to my late grandmother’s village of Ghoga.
After crossing Amritsar, Ajnala appeared and this area was also crowded by Sikhs. I realized when we were at the station that I had been longing to hear the sound of God is Great’ in Amritsar. The last time I had heard that sound was during my childhood. Our train was about to leave while I was performing my ablution at the platform and by the time I was ready to give the azan, the train had started to move. I didn’t care and started the azan. The Indian Army jawaans realized I was going to give the azan and they started blowing their whistles. The train stopped, I completed my azan and calmly came back to my cabin. I can’t describe the spirituality I experienced while giving the azan at Agra and Amritsar railroad stations. I had never enjoyed my azan as much as I did then and it was probably my last one in India. When the Indians began to blow their whistles to stop the train while I was giving the azan, all the POWs began to chant ‘God is Great’ at the top of their lungs. It was a memorable scene.
After leaving Amritsar, the area we passed through seemed familiar to me. It was Majha. It was supposed to be green but there was only drought everywhere. It felt like the land had soaked up so much Muslim blood and there was so much rape of Muslim women in 1947 that God had sent droughts as a form of punishment. The area belonged to the Sikhs and it was understandable why it was neglected by the Indian Government. The wheat crop especially was so sparse and meager, although by the end of April one would expect the yield to be healthy.
I offered my Fajr namaz after some time. Our train was quite close to our Pak Sar Zameen, and with that thought, I could almost hear my heart beating erratically. By 0600 hours, we reached Attari railroad station – this was the last station for us as POWs and there was a temporary camp set up for us there. Officers and jawaans were assembled separately and we were counted for the last time. The officers were asked to sit in the train and the jawaans were ordered to walk towards the Wagah border, but we refused to sit in the train and decided to walk with our jawaans and kiss our Pak Sar Zameen instead. The border
From where we were sitting, we could hear the national songs of Noor Jehan and our feelings were indescribable as the sound of the melodious voice was so sweet to our ears. Indian Army men were on our side of the Iron Gate at the border and Pakistani Army men on the other. At last, the wait ended and we were asked to join them one by one. Each one of us had to confirm our name with the Indian officer and then with the Pakistani officer. My turn came and, as I reached the Pakistani officer, I saw my green flag. I didn’t look at the officer nor did I say anything. I just saluted my flag. Just the sight of it was making my heart jump out of my throat. I lowered my hand after the officer asked me to come in and as I set foot on the ground of my beloved land, I couldn’t hold back the stream of tears falling from my eyes.
There was silence on the Indian side but the Pakistani side of the border was decorated like a bride. The first lady of the Punjab Mrs. Hanif Ramay and other ladies threw rose petals at us as we walked across. Then we were welcomed by the GOC of Lahore Garrison, Major General Naqvi. Our emotions were in such turmoil that nothing mattered to us and all we wanted to see was our beloved land. I wanted to ignore General Sahib and move forward but he grabbed my arm and embraced me. I do not know who was saying what, all I was aware of was the welcoming chants of the crowd, the national songs being played in the background and the tears that were flowing unchecked from my eyes. After a while I found myself in a magnificent looking tent – I really don’t remember how I got there. A Baluch battalion had set up that tent to welcome the returning POWs. We were offered a variety of cold drinks, ice cream, pastries, samosas and sandwiches – such food as we had not seen for what felt like a lifetime. It was an odd and bizarre situation. All the organizing officers of the welcoming battalion were known to me, and I felt at ease.
Before eating anything, I went outside the tent and offered a namaz and bowed for a long time to say thanks to my Creator who is the most powerful. We returned to the tent and the wife of the Punjab Chief Minister had now arrived. While talking to her, I found out that she was my old class fellow from
day before. Someone informed me that my luggage included two big wooden boxes. The Red Cross people were also there and I asked them to take those boxes. All I had was my bedding and a small suitcase which was placed in a bus as none of our family members was allowed to come to the border – they were all waiting in a Mess in Lahore Cantonment. All the paperwork and documentation had to be completed once we arrived at the Mess. It was a nice crowd of officers in the tent but all we wanted to do was touch and caress everything that felt like our own.
We were seated in the buses right next to the tent after some time as we grew impatient to see our loved ones. As the bus moved off, we saw everything with our eyes wide open – the fields, towns, trees and even the people. We crossed Wagah, BRB canal bridge, Batapur, the suburban towns, and were thrilled to see the historical Shalimar Gardens. We were like kids out on a field trip for the first time. We entered our beloved city of Lahore and, after crossing Mughalpura, we entered the cantonment area. As the buses entered the Mess after crossing Sarfaraz Rafiqi and Supply road, all the families almost attacked the buses like food being pounced on at a wedding. Some couldn’t wait for us to come out and forced their way onto the buses. The ache in our heart had been with us since we last saw them and not a single eye was dry that day. Every one of us hugged our loved ones again and again, every time like the first. I found peace after hugging my old mother, there was no replacement for such a feeling. My son and daughters were hanging onto my legs like flies cling to honey, trying to make up for the long absence of their Abu, and only my youngest daughter refused to accept me as her father. She was born while I was still in East Pakistan, and she kept exclaiming, “This is not my Abu.” She had only seen me in photographs and she didn’t accept me for some time. It took a while to meet and greet each member of my extended family. However, when my eyes met my wife’s, we both felt the raw pain of the silence of being apart for three years. We went to a room which was allotted to each family and we spent some time there. It all felt like a dream to me – almost as if I was watching a movie. My son, who always had a special love for me and is now a physician in the USA, clung to me the entire time. He was nine at the time and I believe he thought that I might go far away again. A lot was said in silence that day – none of us said a word – our eyes did most of the talking for us, often accompanied by a pool of tears – tears of joy, pain, separation and a heartache that was finally alleviated.
All of the ex-POWs then got a message that we needed to gather in a grand hall. We didn’t want to leave our families but there were certain procedures we had to go through before we could leave for our homes. The non-local officers and their families had been accommodated in the Mess. The Baluchi officers in the hall gave us a few forms to fill. We began immediately and we particularly disliked the column that asked us to write of the weaknesses of our fellow officers. The question was: had they made any mistake or blunder? Had they done something wrong during their time of imprisonment? The purpose was obvious – the government intended that the officers should be pitted against one another. Later we found out that Bhutto wanted to create his own personal army with a minimum or even absence of Pakistani morals. All of us left that column unanswered, though they insisted we write something, anything. However, they could not force us to speak against one another. Every officer was given Rupees 1100 and those of us
could not force us to speak against one another. Every officer was given Rupees 1100 and those of us whose homes were in Lahore were told we could return to them but to visit the Mess again the very next day.
Surrounded by my family, I went to my house in Model Town, where I had spent my childhood, adolescence, and my college years. It felt rather changed now after three years. My brothers and all the children had decorated the house with miniature Pakistan flags, everyone was praising me and calling me a Mujahid but I felt ashamed that, having lost a war, I had become a prisoner of war and had returned home after such disgrace. My wife had arranged for sweets to be distributed in huge quantities to the neighbors, friends and all who had come to welcome me and even to the strangers passing by on the road. I hugged my children over and over again and when we got home I felt the need to hug them even more. It was like a festival in my house, and I felt at peace among my loved ones. As I looked at each family member and friend, their faces made me forget all the hardships of POW life. The hugging and greeting continued till late that night; I was neither tired, nor hungry or sleepy. Once everyone had departed, I went to my bedroom and it was then that my wife also hugged me, and all my children stuck to me like glue without any intention of letting go. No matter how hard I try, the ability to describe that particular scene and those distinct emotions is beyond me. At last, my children gave in to exhaustion and went to sleep in our bed. Before I knew it, I was also asleep – in my own bedroom, in my own bed, next to my wife and children in utter peace.
On April 28″, 1974, I went to the cantonment and reported to the Officers’ Mess. Commander-in-Chief General Tikka Khan was to address us that day, and large tents were set out on the Mess lawn. There was still some time before the General Sahib was to arrive and a Baluch Regiment Colonel from ISI brought back our forms and insisted that we fill the column we had left empty the day before. We despised the ISI for persisting in such a trivial matter. We had no idea why the government even wanted us to do such a thing and turn POW camp partners and army officers into enemies. We later found out that a few officers had written something against their fellow officers. However, that only created unnecessary enmity and animosity as no action was taken against the victims. When we all refused to fill the column, the ISI Colonel told us that we would not be allowed to leave and go home until everyone had done what he demanded of us. All of us who belonged to Lahore had already spent a night at home, but many were from out of town and had spent the night in the Mess or in hotels and were eager to go home after three painfully long years. Although we had been released by the Indian Army, our own ISI officer was threatening to confine us. We had not been intimidated by the Indian Army officers, so how could we possibly tolerate such an inappropriate threat from our own ISI officer? Some of our senior fellow officers lost their patience and forced the ISI Colonel Sahib to beat a hasty retreat. The particular column was not filled and nor could General Tikka give his address, so all of us returned home. Another Baluch Regiment ISI major had calmed everyone down and requested us to come to the Mess again the next day. On April 29th we received our two months’ salary and leave with our new ID Cards and we all returned home. This was the last unscrupulous incident involving the ISI on the orders of the Pakistan government.
reader has every right to view my effort and work in any way they please.
feeling at peace and our state of mind and emotions began to gain normalcy. I visited and inhaled the city I had missed so much – Anarkali Bazaar, Liberty Market in Gulberg, the Mall Road – and attended the parties thrown by family and friends. As I settled down and was brought up-to-date with the socioeconomic conditions of the country, the sky-high prices of goods and the activities being conducted by PPP workers, the image of a new Pakistan that we had dreamed of in the POW Camp began to rapidly vanish. It was obvious that after having ninety thousand of its men tortured as POWs, and losing half of the country, our nation had learnt nothing at the end of the day. Instead of being united, people gained pride in being a Pashtun, Punjabi, Sindhi and Baluchi – the pride of being a Pakistani was somewhat lost and redundant. The castles we had built about our nation came crumbling down to the ground. My heart would sink each time I recalled our life as a POW, the traumatic memories of 1971, our sacrifices and the uncertainty I witnessed in half of the country I was now living in. I could do nothing but pray for my nation. The Pakistani government had also tried to disgrace us when we initially arrived by repeatedly asking us to come to the Mess just to put down a few words in that ludicrous column of theirs.
At last, our vacations ended and we joined our old and new battalions and the usual army life restarted.
I have in me the bitter, sad, hurtful and traumatic memories of the three years after 1970, including the war and POW camp life. I never got the chance to write this memoir while I was still serving in the Pakistan Army. I had been saving my notes since my first day in East Pakistan and kept them hidden while I was a POW – now I am publishing them. I have no idea how the world will judge what happened in 1971 because countless books and numerous articles have been written and read on this topic. I couldn’t publish it for some time after I retired but have long held the desire to do so. With this memoir, I give life to that one desire.
Although it has now been a few decades since 1971, this incident in history will remain forever in the memory of people who witnessed it. They may try to forget it but its impressions will be embedded in their hearts for eternity.
It is possible that I might have written some names and dates incorrectly. I apologize for that. I especially would welcome the feedback and fraternal criticism of those who witnessed the horrors of 1971 and the officers of Thirty Three (33) Baluch Regiment. It is through the grace of God that, though belatedly, you have my book in your hands.
I also apologize to the reader as I am not a writer or an intellectual and my writing and words might not have been appropriate or aesthetically presented as they would have been had they been the words of a literary intellectual. I repeat that whatever I wrote in this book are mere facts. I still expect criticism, whether negative or constructive, and would like to see how the nation views this effort of mine. The reader has every right to view my effort and work in any way they please.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY
Thanks for reading my father’s story. This is not a history book to be taught in schools, so I do not want to delve into details that can be found just about anywhere else. It saddens me when I read the history of South Asia, starting from the late 19th century to the present day.
The events of 1971 in South Asia were an important part of my father’s life. As his son, I have been a keen student of history and have read multiple history books in the last couple of decades. I have also been very curious as to where we came from and where we are going. The plethora of historical data has affected me profoundly and the questions that continue to perplex can be summarized as follows
Was Independence inevitable after the Second World War when half of London was burnt? How did the slogan of Independence change to the slogan of Partition in the early 20th century? What became of the country where my forefathers were born and raised? Why was the Cabinet Mission proposal rejected by the All India Muslim League leaders, and what exactly was wrong with it? Did Congress support Partition because it could break the second majority population of India into two and, later, three countries? How did the local people become minorities in their own land on August 16, 1947? How did the nationalism and patriotism of people change overnight on August 14 and 15″, 1947? Did the founders of the two countries comprehend the implications of Partition when they demanded it? Did the founders even know on the eve of Partition about the boundaries decided in the plan of June 3, 1947 made in a drawing room in Delhi? Did they ever think of the lives lost, the thousands of women raped and made to live as concubines in the newly-born states during and after Partition? Did the average Indian citizen understand what Partition meant? Why didn’t all the Muslim minorities in India migrate to Pakistan if it was created in the name of Islam? Why was the ‘Two-Nation Theory’ conceived in the early 20th century and were the Muslims living for centuries with Hindus ‘bad Muslims’ because they didn’t believe in this theory? Was the ‘Two-Nation Theory’ invented by Muslims or by Hindus?Why did the two communities need Partition after living together for centuries? Did we have to break up Hindustan for these non-stop ongoing conflicts? Is there any other incident in the history of mankind as tragic and sad as the partition of Hindustan in 1947? Can’t a Hindu be a Muslim, Christian, or Sikh who lived in Hindustan, or is a Hindu a person who is a follower of the Hindu religion? Was Hindustan ever ruled by Indian Muslims or was it ruled by foreign Muslim invaders? Was Partition an isolated event or is it an ongoing thing, affecting our lives even at this very moment as I write? Did Mohammad Ali Jinnah want Partition or did he demand it after the 1940s when Congress failed to give rights to the Indian Muslims? Did Allama Iqbal want a partition of India when he addressed the historical Allahbad address? Was the incident of 1971 one of the ongoing chapters of Partition or an isolated event? Was Abul Kalam Azad or Islamic parties who were against the partition ‘bad Muslims’ and aren’t the predictions of Abul Kalam Azad for Pakistan and Muslims coming true? Were not Pakistanis, Indians and Bengalis all part of one nation and did their armies not wear one kind of uniform at some point in time? Has anyone ever wondered about the impact
armies not wear one kind of uniform at some point in time? Has anyone ever wondered about the impact the border and enclaves has on the lives of the people living on the Bangladesh, Pakistan and India borders that go deep inside each other’s country? What was the parent political party of AL? Why didn’t Jinnah visit East Pakistan for months and refuse to give them the basic right of their own mother tongue? Do you have to give up your ethnic and cultural identity to prove that you are a patriotic Pakistani, Indian or Bangladeshi? When was the term ‘Ideology of Pakistan’ invented and by whom? Would Pakistan have been different if General Ayub Khan hadn’t rigged the elections and Jinnah’s sister, who was also supported by the Bengali leaders, had been the Head of the State? Did Mujib support Fatima Jinnah in the elections against Ayub Khan and, if so, were Mujib and Fatima Jinnah anti-Pakistan? Did the people of West Pakistan give equal rights to Bengalis? Did Bengalis choose to be a part of Pakistan so that they could be ruled by the generals in West Pakistan and their own political leaders imprisoned? Did the leaders and generals of West Pakistan just want to get rid of East Pakistanis? What was the role of the Agartala Conspiracy? What was the role of the USSR in breaking up the two wings of Pakistan? Was there any help from China and the USA? Were the soldiers of the Pakistan Army in East Pakistan war heroes or war criminals? Were Mukti Bahinis terrorists trained by India or were they simply patriotic freedom fighters? How many of the Mukti Bahinis were Indian Army jawaans? Does the government of Bangladesh overstate the atrocities as it is the only way for them to remain ‘patriotic’ and get more votes in elections? Why is there so much of a difference in the numbers of people killed according to the official counts of the Bangladesh government and the reports of the unbiased independent foreign media and in the Hamood-ur-Rahman Commission report? Is there any data suggesting that intellectuals and professionals were killed by the Pakistan Army in December 1971 as claimed by Bangladesh? Could 35,000-55,000 troops kill millions and rape women, and survive at the same time in a civil war? Why don’t Bengalis talk of the atrocities inflicted on the Biharis and where did their largest segment disappear? Would history have been different if there had been a democratic government in 1971 in Pakistan? Why did Bhutto leave the UNO Security Council when it was suggested by Poland that this matter should be resolved politically? Did Mujibur Rahman want separation till the end or did he want to be the Prime Minister of a united Pakistan? Why did Mujib surrender to the Pakistan Army in March 1971, instead of fighting for freedom with his fellow Bengalis? Was it because all he was interested in was the power and till the end he struggled to become Prime Minister of the united Pakistan, and was this action of his fair to the Mukti Bahini? Was the military establishment afraid that if Mujib was made Prime Minister the GHQ would be transferred to Dhaka? What does it mean if a country retains its original name and flag after the separation of 45-55% of its population? Why was Mujib not given the opportunity he deserved to form a government? Why did General Yahya send the army to East Pakistan and did he and the leaders in West Pakistan abandon the army fighting in East Pakistan during the last days of the war? What was wrong with Mujib’s 6-point agenda? Didn’t Indian generals accept the bravery of the Pakistan Army in the 1971 war? Was General Niazi given the order for a cease-fire or for surrender? Did General Niazi ever say that he wanted to change the blood of Bengalis and is it true that later he used to