(This is the second and final part of the memoire. To read the first part please visit: www.dhaboman.com, select issue 2 (Eid issue 2017) and go to the article: 1971—The Journey.)
I was always the little guy, everywhere - so at a very young age I realized that the only way to get respect from the big guys was to beat them at something physical. So, I learnt to do PANJA or arm wrestling and became quite good at it. This helped me a lot in various situations in different countries throughout my life.
Coming back to my training days at Tandua, I was very excited to work with and be trained by Gurkhas because they are supposed to be the best soldiers in the world. However, soon after arrival, I began to notice that although very nice and polite, the Gurkhas seemed to look down at us Bangali boys as if to say, “go back to your mommies, boys; you don’t belong here with real men like us”. This attitude started bothering me and I decided to do something about it.
One afternoon, a few days after arrival, I walked straight into their hangout and found about a dozen rough and tough Gurkha soldiers staring at me! Without hesitation, I challenged all of them in arm wrestling. They looked at me, the whole 98 pounds of me – and burst out laughing! But when I took off my watch and put it on the ground for anyone who could beat me, they stopped laughing and just stared at me in disbelief. My brother had given me that watch the previous year. I had my eyes on it for a while and one day he said if I did well in my Matriculation exams, he would give it to me. I did – and he had given me his watch. Needless to say, this watch was of great importance to me, but what was at stake here was also very important to me. I guess for reassurance, one of the Gurkhas asked, “so you give me that watch if you lose?” I looked at him, then directly at the dozen or so rough looking men and defiantly said “yes” – and so it began. I beat all of them until - the last one, this one was the biggest and roughest looking one. Gurkhas generally are not big people, but this one was, he was also the one in charge of my training. He took a good look at the watch and then sat down to arm wrestle me – and after a long struggle, or so it seemed, I went down. I didn’t really care if I lost, I just wanted their respect and as it turned out, not only did I get their respect, I also won their hearts.
As the days passed, they also started admiring me because I could completely dis-assemble their SLR (self-loading rifle) and then put it all back together in 27 seconds. I could take THEIR machine gun, put it on “brush” mode and fire “single” shots from one mountain to another more than ½ a mile away and score every single shot a hit. Until they met me, they thought these things were not possible. I admired them too. Whenever we wanted to bathe, we would have to go to the stream about 3,000 feet straight downhill – and then come back up. They could do it and not break a sweat while we would all sweat to the point of wanting to bathe again.
They liked me so much that they wanted to keep me there as a trainer. I didn’t want to stay back because I wanted to come back to fight the Pakistani soldiers. But the Gurkhas insisted and appealed to the officers to keep me as a trainer.
By the end of the 1st week, the head office asked me to “command” the morning and afternoon assemblies. Our training was like regular classes and also involved
attending lectures on Mujib Baad for a couple of hours every day. It was Sheikh shaheb’s idea of how Bangladesh would be run after liberation. A very pure way - very far from how the country has been run so far. A mild form of Socialism. During these lectures, we were told that we were not soldiers, we were “guerillas”, that our job would not end with the independence of Bangladesh, that we would have much more to do after independence, we would need to rebuild infra structures, educate, help people, we were dedicating our entire lives to the service of our motherland – and because there were so few of us - each one of us was defending and representing about 10,000 people - women, children, the elderly and intellectuals. Therefore, no matter what, we must live. Never go into face to face combat against better trained professional soldiers. We were told to hit and run, hit and run and keep doing that. If in the process we had to leave our arms and ammunition behind, never hesitate, never were we allowed to forget the defenseless people depending on us. We were constantly reminded that there would be a day for frontal combat, when we had weakened the enemy enough and we were strong enough, but not until then. Little did we know how quickly that day would approach!
I wanted to return to Bangladesh as soon as my training was over, but the Gurkhas managed to keep me there much longer. Even one of the lecturers on Mujib Baad, Mahbub bhai told me to consider staying back. He said, “don’t think you would be doing any less for Bangladesh by staying back and training guerillas, they will derive encouragement from seeing you as a trainer alongside the Gurkhas who are considered the best soldiers in the world”.
I’ll give you one example to illustrate how badly the Gurkhas wanted me to stay. I was asked to take the instructor’s test which I was going to refuse, but my Gurkha buddies insisted that I take the tests and after some arm twisting, I agreed. The tests were on mines, explosives and fire arms. The last test was to fire a light machine gun (LMG) and hit a target from one mountain to another across a valley. We were required to put the LMGs in the “brush” mode. It is very hard to hit a small target in the “brush” mode. The best way to hit a target with a light machine gun is to use it like a rifle and fire single shots because it is very difficult to keep the gun focused on a small target when several bullets are shooting out of the gun so quickly making the gun vibrate in the brush mode. But it is also extremely difficult to fire single shots in the brush mode because the triggers are very sensitive. Besides, the target was so far away that after squinting one eye, one would have to guess where the target was because it was hardly visible. No telescopes in those days.
The Gurkhas were in charge of the ammunition on this side and some Sikh soldiers were posted on the target mountain to count the hits. Their communication with the base was via wireless radio. We were given 10 rounds each. The competition made me nervous because 5 of the ten LMGs set up were being fired by professional soldiers. My gun was number seven out of ten. As the test started, the index finger of my right hand trembled for a split second as I touched the trigger, my gun roared – and I saw three specks of dust beside what was supposed to be my target. I cursed myself because I had let out 3 bullets out of ten and they had missed the target because the gun vibrated in the brush mode. I only had seven bullets left and I knew I would have to make every single one count. I composed myself and re-focused on the task at hand. I fired off seven consecutive single shots - all on target. Then, just for the hell of it, I touched the trigger again and another bullet left the gun! I did it again and again and counted a total of fifteen bullets! The first three had missed the target, so I had twelve on target - but we were only allowed ten rounds! That is when I realized that my Gurkha buddies had slipped five extra rounds in my magazine, just in case!
The fun started when on wireless the commanding officer asked the Sikh soldiers for the number of hits on target by gun numbers. On the wireless radio, he asked “number one” and the reply came “five”. “Number two” – the reply came “six”. “number three” – the reply came “four” - and so it went until he asked, “number seven” (my gun) – and there was a long pause from the other side. How could they say “twelve” when we only had ten shots? Again, the commanding officer asked, “number seven” – and again there was a pause followed by a short discussion - and then the reply came “TEN” (not twelve) – and the Gurkhas went into a frenzy! I was happy but sad at the same time because this meant that I would have to stay back as an instructor. I did - but not too long because the possibility of a war between India and Pakistan was looming very close to the horizon and the camp was ordered to send “everyone” to fight.
I was shipped back by train with a group of about 50 other guerillas. We were crammed into a third-class compartment with wooden benches. Standing room only. Because I was so thin and small, I could slide on my back along the floor under the seats - but I couldn’t turn sideways. I wrapped a brick in a cloth, used it as my pillow and slept my way for about 15 days until we returned to Agartala. I felt sorry for the others as they mostly had to stand for the better part of the trip!
By that time India was preparing for war and many Indian soldiers were being sent to Agartala on the same train. They were allotted one first class compartment for every four soldiers so each soldier had a comfortable bed for the whole journey. They were far better trained than us and were all armed with automatic weapons while we were given almost nothing to fight with. We were all on our way to fight the same enemy. Although treated as expendables, we were all overjoyed with the opportunity of fighting the enemy. Most of them stayed drunk for the whole length of the trip - because “they were going to die”. There was evidently a huge difference in morale between us. We sang - and they cursed and bitched.
Upon arrival at Agartala, we were given a guide to take us across the border to join Khosru bhai inside Bangladesh. Still with no arms, we walked for days on and off the beaten track always staying out of sight, until we caught up with Khosru Bhai. I was given three anti-tank mines to carry and told to keep walking. The mines were heavy and I had difficulty keeping up, so I tied them in a jute bag and hung the bag over my head so the mines hung around my neck, chest and shoulder. It was easier that way. We walked mostly by night. It was very dark, so dark that I couldn’t see my hand even if I held it right in front of my face. Because of the darkness, we used to walk in a line each one holding the shoulder of the one in front as we walked. One night, there was a sharp turn on the muddy track and as the fighter in front of me turned to his left, I lost my grip and thinking he had gone straight, stepped forward - and tumbled about 20 feet down a steep muddy river bank with the mines banging against each other around my head. They could have exploded any second, but nothing happened and I thanked God that they were made in India! I scrambled up with the mines but couldn’t see anything in the dark. By then, someone realized that I had gone missing and flashed a light once. So, I managed to catch up with my group and we kept walking. We were all so tired but Khosru bhai rushed us on, as he kept saying “get up, keep moving, to Dhaka, to Dhaka”.
Other than a few captured Pakistani soldiers we didn’t see any action along the way – until we arrived at Damra where we saw traces of fresh fighting and dead bodies along the highway. We were told to keep walking, we hadn’t slept for more than 40 hours, we were in no condition to fight, but we kept walking. Around the 15th or 16th of December, as we were approaching Dhaka, we saw some helicopters coming towards us from behind. I was given an old World War II machine gun and told to get ready. I strapped it on my shoulder, pointed it at the oncoming helicopters and was about to start firing when I was told not to fire, because they were our allies. The Indian helicopters were distributing flyers asking the Pakistanis to surren
der. Telling them that they would be treated in accordance with the Geneva code if they surrendered to the Indian Army, instead of the Mukti Bahini, which was out for their blood. Although everyone cheered, I almost cried when I heard that and I probably would have fired at those helicopters if I wasn’t stopped. If the Pakistanis surrendered to the Indians, all the hardship I had gone through the last few months, all the sacrifices I had made, would end in nothing. The fight was going to be over even before I got a chance.
But Khosru bhai knew better. There was still much to do and he kept pushing us and we kept on walking towards Dhaka. We approached the BDR camp near New Market at about 2am. He said that the BDR camp was full of Pakistani soldiers and we would disarm them. No one really knew how many, until he asked me to climb the wall. I jumped over the storm drainage, kicked the wall and was up on it in a flash. As soon as I was on the wall a thousand weapons went off with deafening noise and numerous bullets hit the wall around me. I fell off the wall from the impact, on our side luckily. We had no idea there were so many fully armed soldiers in the compound! They kept firing nonstop for about 30 minutes. Finally, Khosru bhai said “let’s go – we’ll go to the Central Jail in the Old Town and free the political prisoners.” It was early morning by the time we arrived at the Central jail. There were about 30 of us and as we broke down the gate, a crowd of more than a thousand-people gathered around us. They had never seen “mukti Bahini” and were simply overwhelmed. We all looked very scruffy, everyone had a beard from many days of not shaving. As I stood guard in front of the jail, a young man pointed at me and said “there, that one, that’s Belal bhai, I know him”. He was from my school in Chittagong (FCC). I still have no idea how he recognized me with so much hair on my face and on my head.
There were about 10 soldiers guarding the jail, but they had run away when they saw us. As soon as we had freed the prisoners, bombs started exploding around us. The soldiers who had run away had rocket launchers with them and they were firing rockets at us from somewhere. Unfortunately, because old Dhaka is so crowded, the rockets were landing on the crowd and people right in front of us were being blown to pieces. There were arms and legs everywhere. No one had to say anything, the months of training went into action almost by instinct as we ran zig zag towards the place the rockets were being fired from. With my light machine gun strapped to my shoulder, I ran from one open porch to another zig zagging the streets. I stopped opposite a burnt out two-storied house, looking ahead to my right, paying little attention to the house. There were electric posts along the street with about 20 wires running parallel to each other from one post to another. Gias came running over, he was carrying some grenades in a pouch and squatted down to arm the grenades (open them, put the detonators inside and then close them) a few feet from me. As I looked ahead, I thought I saw or felt movement through my peripheral vision. The slightest of movements was in the burnt down house directly opposite me – my training kicked in and I dove to the ground. The second I hit the floor, I saw a flash across the street and a hole opened up in the wall where I stood, it was followed by a very loud explosion and then there was debris all around me. The soldiers were in the house opposite me less than fifteen feet away - and they had fired a rocket directly at me! Even before I could get up, I saw Khosru Bhai standing in the middle of the street firing away at the soldiers with his small Indian Sten. His chest out, not a care in the world. In a second or two, some others joined him, some climbed the wall and surrounded the house. Most of the soldiers were killed in the exchange but we captured three of them, marched them along us until we reached a “Habib Bank”. They were made to face a wall in front of the bank and then executed. I saw sweat on the forehead of the fighter who was ordered to execute them. I think his name was Farouk. I remember the third soldier turning to his side after a few bullets hit him and then he went down.
Very soon, pandemonium broke loose around us. There were men, children and even women running alongside us, first in the hundreds, then in thousands, hugging us, blessing us, feeding us, offering water. Their joy was pure, from the heart. Many of them
were crying. The experience was so overwhelming for me that I thought all my sacrifices, the journey, the training, everything was for that moment. It was all worthwhile, nothing was in vain, nothing was wasted, not a single moment. The pure joy we witnessed, the love, the respect, the gratitude and the blessings we received. It was as if a tremendous evil weight had come off everyone’s shoulders, anxieties had vanished, the agony of losing loved ones finally released, after nine months of unbelievable atrocities, the enemy was finally vanquished. We could all breath again. It was as if we had won the whole war just by ourselves by taking on and defeating the whole Pakistani Army! It was just unbelievable!
We were ordered to walk back to Iqbal Hall (university hostel in Dhaka), we made camp there for a few days. Khosru bhai split us in small groups of three and four and gave us specific tasks for each day. I was placed in a group with Farouk bhai (my recruiter) and Gias - the young man who accompanied me from the beginning. We were given the task of picking up Razakars (traitors) and peace committee members. “Peace Committees” were concocted by the Pakistani Army and they were made up mainly of pro Pakistani Bangalis. We called them traitors. The chiefs were the biggest traitors and they were in high demand by the Mukti Bahini. We were given a VW van to do our jobs - but unfortunately none of us knew how to drive. Since the jobs had to be done, Farouk bhai pointed at me and said “drive” – and I got on the driver’s seat and drove! The going was rough for about 30 minutes, but after that it was fine and I became the “driver”.
One day we were told to pick up a “big chief” who always had armed body guards around him. We were told to be cautious. We quickly found the address, it was an apartment building. Before going in, we fired a few shots in the air, made a lot of noise and kicked down the door of his apartment – but there was no one. The bodyguards had jumped off the 2nd floor balcony. We turned everything upside down but there was no “big chief” to be found. As we were about to leave, I decided to look under the bed and I found a man hiding under it. It was the “chief” – and he was “big”. As we looked at him in disbelief we suddenly understood the meaning of “big chief”- he was a huge muscular guy, looked like a villain from a movie. We used the buts of our guns freely on him, tied him up, gagged him, blind folded him and made him squat in the van as we drove him to our camp at Iqbal Hall.
We arrived, and very proud of our achievement at having captured the “big chief” informed Khosru bhai. He told us to bring the chief over for interrogation. We kicked him all the way to the interrogation room and took off his blindfold. Kosru bhai and the big chief stared at each other in total disbelief! The chief screamed “Khosru” ! and Khosru bhai replied “Ostaad”! and all was forgotten as they hugged each other! We couldn’t believe our eyes! This evil man was Khosru’s wrestling coach!
I can recall another trip where we were sent to capture a “razakar” (armed para military helpers of the Pakistani army). As we hunted and captured him, we saw that he was just a boy - no older than I was. I became very hesitant about taking him back to camp where he would probably be executed. So, I decided to hold court in the local area. I asked for anyone who witnessed any crime committed by the boy. Nearly a 100 men and women came forward and confirmed that he had tortured and killed several Bangladeshis. Even then, I had difficulty accepting it – but Farouk bhai stepped in, told Gias to tie him up, gag and blindfold him and then dumped him in the van. We took him back to camp. To this day, I feel sad whenever I think about it. I still can’t understand why that kid had to kill people.
A large part of our job was to visit the mass graves to identify bodies of intellectuals who had been kidnapped by the enemy. We visited several in and around the 2nd capital area. The largest one was along Shatmasjid Road. There were thousands and thousands of dead bodies. We found sacks filled with human eyes. Most of the bodies had clear signs of torture and trauma. Hardly any had eyes, many had fingers cut off – puss oozing from the injuries. Most of the people had been killed with bayonets. It looked like the enemy was rationing bullets towards the end. Hungry dogs and vultures had been feasting on the bloated rotting bodies and it was very difficult to recognize people. The stench of rotting human flesh is very sharp, it seemed like it used to pierce my brain. It stayed with me a very long time.
On the 3rd day, I told Farouk bhai that I needed to take care of some personal business. He said he wanted to come along, so did Gias. We drove to Dr. Zubeiris house in Shamoly that morning at about 9am. He was the Minister of Fisheries, the man who had pointed a gun at my father and insulted him in front of me during the war. He probably would have shot my father had his wife and daughter not been with him in the car. We fired a few warning shots and burst into the house, only to find it empty. I called the local people over and asked them to take all the furniture. Then I told them where I would be and asked them to apprehend Zubeiri if he tried coming to his house and to inform me as soon as that happened. A few days later a young man arrived. He seemed to have run at least part of the way from Shamoly to Shiddheshwari. He told me that they had Zubeiri in custody. We climbed onto the van and drove as fast as I could to Shamoly. When we approached Zubeiri’s house, we just found the local people who seemed very confused. They said that they had Zubeiri in custody, he was tied up, but some armed “white men” had showed up and had rescued him. We never saw Zubeiri after that. To this day, I don’t know who these “white men” were.
I decided to go home on the 4th day because it looked like we suddenly had run out of things to do, at least for the time being. I approached our temporary home in Shiddheswari almost after seven months. I had no idea if my family was still living there. My hair was long, face full of beard, I was wearing a helmet, carrying a rifle. As I entered the front courtyard, I ran into my father. He looked at me – I saw the disbelief in his eyes first, then I saw the tears of joy as he ran over and bear hugged me. My helmet hit his head hard and cut it open, blood poured out – but no one seemed to care. The landlord who was an active Awami Leaguer and was in hiding during the war had returned home a couple of days ago. He heard the commotion and came down. We had never seen each other before but as soon as he saw me, he also hugged me and started crying. Many emotions were at work at that time and tremendous sacrifices had been made. It was probably pride that I was a mukti joddha, joy that I had safely returned to my family and his passion for Bangladesh that made him cry like a child. My mother came out, my sisters also – then the whole neighborhood – and everyone seemed to be laughing and crying around me at the same time. The boy had returned home!
Belaluddin – an ex-cadet of Faujdarhat Cadet college is a Chartered Management Accountant currently living and working from Brampton, Ontario. (belal@imanandiman.com )