From: kazi@ravel.udel.edu (Zunaid Kazi)
Newsgroups: soc.culture.bangladesh
Subject: Looking back at life in '71 and in a Concentration Camp. LONG!
Date: 5 Apr 92 16:29:22 GMT
Organization: University of Delaware

Like Shahriar, I too would like to harken back to the days in a concentration
camp. Press "n" if uninterested.


We were in Dhaka for most of 1971. My father was a doctor in the Army, and
he posted to the Medical Directorate General. I was just 6 at that time and
a lot of the memories are sketchy.

After March 25, even I could feel that things weren't the same. I could
sense the fear and anxiety of my parents, no matter how hard they tried
to shield us. 

We were totally housebound during that period. We couldn't leave the house,
let alone the cantonment. [For the curious, we lived at what is now Shahid
Aziz Polli] My father had to go to the office. I remember he was always
escorted by armed guards to and fro the Army HQ. Looking back, we were
lucky that we were in Dhaka. The Pakistani army couldn't overtly do
anything to the Bangladeshi officers unlike what happened in many other
cantonments. In Jessor, the Bangladeshi Army Doctors were severely beaten
up, and some still suffer permanent disabilities.

I had an uncle living with us at that time. He later escaped and joined 
the Mukti Bahini. I can recall drawing the flag of Bangladesh with my
crayons. The version with the golden map of Bangladesh inside the red
circle. I remember listening to Shadhin Bangla Betar Kendra. I distinctly
remember "Eckti Full-kay ba~chabo bolay...", since we had snipped some
roses from the garden and stuck them to the flags my brother and I drew.
Looking back, I realize the risks my parents took. 

That was life for most of 1971. It was late in November when my father
broke to us the news that all Bangladeshi Army Officers in Dhaka had
been posted to West Pakistan. I think by then the Pakistanis had
realized the futility of their actions and wanted as many Bangladeshis
under their control as they could. 

My father tried his best to have the order rescinded. But ultimately
we had to leave. We left for Pakistan on the first of December. That
was the last "civilian" flight out of Dhaka. If only the departure
could have been delayed by one more day, then we would have been spared
the 3 year long incarceration. 2 days later India joined the war. The
flight took a circuitous route all the way around India, overflying
Sri Lanka, and we finally landed in Karachi. [All our stuff, which was
supposed to be shipped out later, ended up somewhere in Iran as the
ship couldn't reach Karachi, and that was the last we ever heard of
them]

We ended up in Abbottabad, a famous resort town in NWFP [North West
Frontier Province]. We were placed under house-arrest in a building
outside the cantonment. There was one other Bangladeshi doctor sharing
the house. We were guarded 24 hours by a contingent of the Baluch
Militia. 

One night, around 2 am in the morning, we were awakened by loud raps
on the door. [Doesn't the scanario seem familiar]. There was an
armed contingent of Military Police led by a Colonel in a Sandhurst
moustache. He wanted my father to get dressed in 10 minutes and 
accompany them.

At that time, I think my parents thought that my father was going to
be court-martialled. I couldn't understand but I could feel the
apprehension and fear. My mom was crying, and just before my dad
left he hugged us and I saw tears in his eyes. That was the first time
I saw my father cry. I guess he never expected to return. We spent
the second worst night of our lives that night.

Early next morning, we were relieved to see my father return. It seems
like all the Bangladeshi officers at Abbottabad, and at Bari, were taken
out to a remote field, and after subjecting them to some mental
torture, were asked whether they opted to remain in Pakistan or
return to Bangladesh. Thw whole idea of the drama was to probably
scare the officers to opt for Pakistan.

There was only one Bangladeshi officer who had opted for Pakistan. We
never did hear what happened to him. The rest of us were ordered to
pack up and be ready to depart in three days.

That began our 2 year long "sojourn" in a concentration camp. We were
bused to Chak Daulat camp. On the way I remembered our bus being stoned
on the outskirts of some town. This was in Punjab. Our guards were
Pathans and they pacified the mob and we were able to "safely" continued
on our way.

Chak Daulat camp is in the middle of nowhere and the Jhelum desert. It
was initially a camp for workers building the Mongla Dam, which was
about a couule miles away. We always hear the loud roar of the dam.
It was a small camp, completely surrounded by two rings of barbed wire.
The camp was in the heart of Punjab and that accounted and miles from
any locality. Each family was housed in a single room. My father was
given a meager amount of money, from which we had to buy food stuff
from the camp store at exhorbitant prices. Only food stuff was available,
and for 2 1/2 years we had to survive with old clothes, some which hardly
fit after sometime.

For us kids, life was generally good. No regular school, except some of
the parents got together and started a school for us idle kids. Otherwise
we all spent our time roaming around the campus, playing cricket, and
generally getting into scraps and fights.

I rememebr the morning rollcalls. The weekly searches for tunnels and
such. The day all the Pathan guards were replaced by Punjabi guards. The
Pathans are nice folks and they would occassionally smuggle fruits and
candy for us kids. When the word of this got to the camp commandent,
they were replaced by a Punjabi Brigade, end everything changed. I 
rememeber the subfreezinf winter nights and 130 degrees summer temperature.
We used to wet blankets and hang them around the room. I rememeber the
collaborators, the whiners, the brown-nosers. Playing bridge with the
camp commandant and acting servile, so that they did not have to stay
in a single room. Some are now generals in the Bangladesh Army. 
I rememeber the arguments amongst friends because of the lack of
privacy. I now rememeber, my parents saying they weren't really hungry
as they piled all the meat onto our plates. 

One of the finest days was the day we received a package from the
Red-Cross. It was sent by my wonderful Irish-Canadian aunt. No one
knew where we were, and this wonderful person, knowing only our
last names and our nicknames managed to trace us out. Clothes, candies,
board games, and most wonderfully an Atlas. And it had Bangladesh, 
not East Pakistan. I spent many pleasurable hours with that Atlas, the
pride it gave me on seeing Bangladesh,and to this day I still have it.
One of my finest treasures.

I could go on and on about life in the camp, but that would make this
post unreadably long. We were amongst the last Bangladeshis to be
repatriated. It was in June 1974, after two and a half years in the
concentration camp, that we were told we would be repatriated. We
were allowed to carry only a hand bag each. We were then taken to
Lahore and flown out by Afghan Airways. 

So we reached Shadhin Bangladesh. Our sole possessions were what we
had with us. Nothing remains of the past before 1971. No photographs,
no mementos, nothing. [Only the chassis of our Fiat 1100D, that my
dad bought in 1965. :) That is still in some Army warehouse in Chittagong]

1971.

Bangladesh Zindabad -- Joy Bangla

-- Zunaid