Rina’s Story

I

I am Rina, one of those thirty war heroines who were willing to leave the country with the Pakistani prisoners of war. You people created quite a scene once you knew our intentions, as if the Pakistani soldiers were running away with the Helens of your kingdom! You couldn’t believe us when we informed you that we were going on our own accord. I saw shock and surprise in your eyes. How would you understand what we had gone through? I mean, how could you ever empathize with us? You didn’t see the abhorrence and the disgust that shone in the eyes of some of our own countrymen when they rescued us from the bunkers. You didn’t hear the obscene comments made about us as they helped us get into a van on our way to Dhaka. We never dreamed of coming out free and alive from that bunker; and sadly, we never imagined we’d receive such disgusted welcome --- for being alive, for dying for our country --- every single moment of our imprisoned life! We had always dreamt of being acknowledged by the countrymen, because we had suffered for our motherland. We gave ourselves so that our men could fight for our freedom. I mean, tell me, what was our fault? When all our men went to war, who did they leave behind to protect us --- our little children and old parents? What did they expect us to do? Commit mass suicide? We could have done that, but then who would have taken care of their homes and the loved ones they had left behind --- their parents, sisters, children, lovers? We could have run away, but where to? They would have hunted us down from anywhere, with the help of those traitors of our country. Our men went to war leaving us behind; our parents were killed and thus escaped humiliation. Pregnant women got kicked in their wombs and lost their unborn babies before being forced to become wartime concubines. The new wives and young sisters, mothers and daughters were raped and tortured to death. We somehow survived and waited to see the day of victory.

The day of victory did come, but it was not meant for us. Our freedom fighters were ready to celebrate their achievement; unfortunately, they were not ready to accept and acknowledge us as their co-warriors. They saw in us signs of their shame and guilt. Maybe that was why they treated us the way they did --- as objects of pity, if not of abhorrence. The look in their eyes told us that they were ashamed that we were still alive; it was as if that they would have very much liked to discover our dead bodies instead of our living, breathing ones. Death would have brought us honor. But answer this for me: why shouldn’t we live? Why couldn’t we hope for a better life in a newly liberated country? They blamed me for living; but why? Why should they hold me accountable for not dying? No, not anymore! I want to hold them accountable for not giving me what I earned with my honor: and that is respect and recognition as a co-fighter!

II

I once belonged to a respectable family. My father was a Secretary of the East Pakistan Government, an extremely important high official. My older brother had recently joined the Pakistan Military Academy, and my younger brother was a second year Engineering student in Dhaka. I was a third-year student of Political Science at Rajshahi University. We lived in our own house, a big house, well maintained, with servants and gardeners, chauffer, and a butler. My mother was a homemaker. She was a pretty woman, and everyone used to say that I resembled her in beauty; some said I was even prettier. I was tall and slender; I had long black hair, dark eyes, and full lips. Attaur used to say that he could hide in the thick darkness of my long hair and no one would be able to find him. Attaur and I were in love. He was finishing his degree from Engineering University in Dhaka and already had a scholarship offer for doing a Ph.D. in the USA. We had planned to get married once he came back from the USA, in four years’ time. How time flew! It flew away as fast as it could while we all stayed busy: my older brother, finishing up his military training; my younger brother, completing his Engineering degree; my parents, living a happy marital life; Attaur, making plans to leave for America; and me, staying busy on campus with my classes and my political involvement with the Student Union of East Pakistan. The country was going through a tough time. Many army officials had lost their jobs and were charged with treason after the Agartala Conspiracy Case against Sheikh Mujibur Rahman in 1968. Father was always worried about Asad, my older brother. He was doing okay though; he was shining in his career and following a career track that was only going upward. The country, on the other hand, was following her opposite, downward direction. West Pakistan was antagonistic and trying its best to destroy the political movement for autonomy that was gradually gathering strength in Dhaka. In the Parliamentary election of 1970, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s party won the majority of the seats. But West Pakistan did not respect the demand for democracy; it became rabid and created a blueprint to demolish our spirit for independence. And then came that dark night of 25th March. We heard they had massacred Dhaka, killing hundreds of thousands of civilians in their sleep, destroying Dhaka University’s campus and student dorms, teacher’s quarters, and women’s hostels. Within a few days the wave of unrest reached our peaceful town. We heard gunfire all night long; we heard people screaming, crying, praying, and wailing. Then all became dead silent for the next few days. No one came out; no one spoke. The university was closed for an indefinite time. The country was at war. Ashfaq, my younger brother, went to join the war. He told our father to move to a remote village and maintain a low profile. But my father, being a proud government official, believed that his high-ranking job would shield him from every danger.

His confidence was shattered one April by the cranking engine of an army jeep. An officer stood at the door and offered his hand to my father. My father shook his hands and asked him in. The officer politely refused the offer and enquired about my older brother.

“Why are you looking for him here? He is at the military base, serving his country!” I heard my father’s surprised voice.

“But whose country is your son serving now? Yours? Or mine?”

“I don’t understand. Why are you interrogating me? Do you know who I am?” My father’s voice revealed his impatience at this point.

The officer suddenly slapped my father so hard that he fell on the ground. “Yes, Sir, you son of a bitch, Sir,” the officer hissed, “we know who you are. We just want to know where your son is hiding.”

My mother screamed and ran to help my father. “Move, bitch!” Said the officer and pulled out his gun. Ali Uncle, our butler stood before my mother in order to protect her. By that time the officer had already started firing. I came out from my hiding place and sat by my dead parents. One of the officers grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him. “What a beauty!” He said, “Come, beautiful, come join our team!” A bunch of wild military men carried me to their jeep. The man who killed my parents started to caress me and kept saying soothing words: “Don’t you worry, darling. I will take care of you from now on, don’t you worry.” I sat all frozen as they drove the jeep to their destination. We reached an Army Quarter somewhere. They made me sit on a sofa in a lounge and asked me if they could offer me anything to drink. I had just bathed in my parents' blood, and I was still thirsty. When they brought me a cup of tea, I immediately grabbed the cup and finished it. I put the cup down and immediately vomited on the carpet. The killer of my parents asked a maid to clean up. After cleaning up the mess, the old woman took me to the bathroom and gave me a new set of clothes to wear. She warned me not to close the bathroom door; they wouldn’t like it if I tried to escape through the window or commit suicide, she said. After I took a shower, the old woman took me to a nice bedroom. She pushed me in and said sheepishly, “You have earned this room, darling, because the boss has picked you for himself. You will live here like a queen, until he gets tired of you.” I looked at the woman’s cruel face and said nothing. She brought me a hairbrush and some other essential toiletries and asked me to tidy up; after all, the big boss wouldn’t want to waste his night on an unattractive girl.

My self-proclaimed protector asked me to join his troop for dinner. Everyone paid special attention to me as the killer of my parents did all the talking. He asked me about my older brother’s whereabouts, my university life, especially about my male classmates and my professors. I think he was trying to gather as much information as he could. I gave him false information, you know, I tried to mislead them by not telling them the whereabouts of the members of Student’s Union. After an informal interrogation, he reassured me of my safety. I should feel safe there because no other man in that camp would have access to my room. I was educated, smart, and pretty, and I deserved his personal care, he said, emphasizing the word personal. The cruel old woman was appointed as my maid cum guard. She looked immensely pleased about the whole arrangement. “I am sure you will live like a queen. Did you notice how much the Colonel admired you?” I was past caring. It was as if everything was happening to someone else and I was just an observer.

I fell on the bed and went to sleep right away and did not wake up until morning. The old woman brought me a fresh set of toothpaste and brush. “They are waiting for you at the breakfast table,” she informed me. I told her to bring me a breakfast tray. “As you wish, my lady,” the wily woman said, “the world is now revolving around you anyway.” I said nothing in response to her crude remarks and sat down to finish my breakfast. The world was revolving around me! Where was my world? I was supposed to get married that very year and move to America with my husband. Attaur and I were planning to have our new home in a new world. We were meant to spend a happy life together. What would happen to that dream world now? I was now a usurped queen in a thug’s world. This Colonel seemed like a nice man. “What do you think he will do with me? Do you think he will take me with him if he is transferred from here?” I asked my bodyguard. She smiled at my naiveté and commented, “Wait and see what happens. But don’t expect him to take you with him or stay with you if his wife comes back. You don’t want to be here when she is back from Islamabad. She will squeeze the last breath out of your pretty throat if she finds you with her husband!” I felt I was going to suffocate because of her chilling words.

The Colonel took me as his own --- should I say concubine? I submitted to his desire because I realized that submitting to one man’s lust was better than being raped by many. From April till mid-June, I played the role of the Colonel’s mistress. Sometimes he would take me out with him for a short drive around the cantonment area. By that time, I found out that we were living in the Army Officer’s Housing in Comilla. It had become a city of death by then. All the houses and stores, offices and academic institutions were shadows of bygone days. Sometimes I would sit stiff by the man, and sometimes I would close my eyes and think of Attaur. I would pretend I was with him in America, taking a long drive in some beautiful city. One afternoon, during one such afternoon outing, I saw a bunch of little homeless boys, playing by the roadside. The Colonel was driving slowly; as the jeep stopped on a traffic light, one of the boys looked at me. I smiled at the boy and asked in Bengali, “What game are you playing?” The boy sternly replied back, “Don’t talk to me, Bengali whore --- whoring with the enemies!” My face went pale as if someone had drained off my blood. I was a whore --- a whore! And it was so obvious that a little homeless boy could see it in my face! Like Lady Macbeth, all the perfumes of Arabia were not enough to cover my crime. I saw in the eyes of a little boy nothing but contempt. Oh, dear Lord, what had I turned myself into? My enemy’s whore? For what purpose?

The Colonel looked at my pale face and got annoyed. “Did those boys say something to you? I will go back and teach them a lesson!” He said as he made an effort to U-turn. I requested him to go back to the Officer’s Quarter. I was not feeling well, I told him blankly. As we entered the driveway of the quarter, we saw a big four-runner blocking the way. The sentries told the Colonel that Brigadier Khan had come from the Headquarter to pay the officers a visit. My Colonel asked me to enter my room through a backdoor. He told me to stay there until he came for me. Unfortunately, the poor man could not come for my rescue when his superior officer attacked me. His superior officer was eager to check on the officer’s bounty. Brigadier Khan. A big officer. A monstrous creature. He entered my room like one hungry animal and devoured every part of my body. He punched and pinched and bit and slapped and choked and hit me --- constantly --- and did not leave me alone until I passed out. When I came back to my senses, it was early morning. The Brigadier had left and took the Colonel with him. I crawled out of bed and went to the bathroom to spray water over my wounded body. As I stood in front of the mirror, I saw the face of a harlot, whoring with the enemies --- as the little boy had said yesterday. I came back to my room to find my other clients waiting for me. The animals then took me, sometime one at a time, and sometimes in groups. And it was just the beginning.

I woke up in a hospital bed, inside the Military Compound. I was bruised and battered inside out. I had a broken arm, torn lips, torn private parts, and much more. The nurses and the doctors were Bengali and they seemed quite sympathetic towards me; but they were afraid for their lives and could not do anything to help me. All they could do was to repair me for further use.

After a few days, they came for me and took me to a different place, a camp house, which was crowded with women like me. I think we were twenty women living in one big room. A girl in her late teens sat in one corner of that room. She looked at me and called me by my name, ‘Sister Rina!’ I instantly recognized her. Her name was Banshi, our gardener’s daughter. “Oh, dear God, Sister Rina, they have got you too!” Banshi started crying. For the first time since April, I found tears clouding my eyes. I held Banshi in a close embrace and cried with her. She was on her way home when they took her. Her family had no idea where she was and she was not sure whether her parents were alive or not. “I wish I could die, Sister Rina, I wish I could kill myself. But I am so weak, I am such a coward!” Banshi kept lamenting. I told her to stay strong. Taking one’s own life is not that easy. I was also a coward, wasn’t I?

The animals in this camp were more desperate than the ones in my previous cell. At least I had the luxury of being raped in a private room. Here, they would just enter and pull a girl out from the flock and jump over her right in front of the rest. They would make us watch the whole gang-rape and let us wait for our turn. As I watched their brutality and watched others watching me being gang-raped, I saw many of the women laughing and screaming, or sitting there with a face devoid of any expression. The horror of war had already desensitized them.

The situation changed in mid-November. Our abusers became busy fighting. From our camp, we could hear exchange of gunfire between the two groups. Banshi always anticipated the victory of our fighters. She believed that we would be rescued at any moment. Early December, they loaded us in the back of a big military truck and hit the road. This time they brought us to Dhaka Cantonment. I recognized the place because I used to visit that place with my older brother. They dumped us somewhere in a big building. We could hear sirens and air raids. We heard airplanes dropping bombs and saw signs of fear in the faces of our enemies. Something was happening out there. We didn’t know what or how, but something was happening for sure. Were we free? Had the freedom fighters taken control over Dhaka? Was my brother coming to save me now? What was happening? Who would tell us? We stayed there in constant suspense, undisturbed by our predators.

III

One December morning, we heard someone playing the radio somewhere. It was broadcasting a notice of surrender. One General Manekshaw was repeatedly asking General Niazi and Rao Forman Ali to surrender. Then on December 16, we heard that Pakistan had surrendered to the joint force of Bangladesh and India. We were told that we were free to go home. Many of us ran out the moment the announcement was made. About thirty of us decided to stay there. Where would we go? Who would take us back? Where were the people who would take us back? The Indian Army and Bangladeshi officials came to collect our home addresses to notify our families. Within a week, our family members started to crowd the camp in search of their daughters and wives and sisters; but they had come only to visit us. After all, no one was ready to take back with them the ruins of war. Only Banshi’s father came to take his daughter back. Banshi hugged me before leaving and promised to contact my brothers on my behalf. She was sure that my brothers were on their way to pick me up. But I knew no one was coming; and even if they were on their way, I was not sure I would go back. How could I show my brothers the face of a harlot? I would rather go to Pakistan and spend the rest of my shame-filled life with these monsters. Handling these animals would be easier than confronting my loved ones. And if these animals refused to take my responsibility now, then I knew what to do; this body could sustain a few more years of torture to provide my livelihood. Wasn’t I a skilled whore by now?

One day, three women professors from Dhaka University came to meet us. They came to talk us out of our decision to leave Bangladesh. You were one of those three professors, Sister Neelima. You tried to convince me that I was educated enough to make my own living in this country. You offered to help me find a job and a place to stay. “Don’t go, Rina,” you pleaded, “why would you leave your own country to spend your life with those who robbed you of your honor?” Do you remember how angry I got? I snapped at you, saying “How would you know what we have gone through? You people lived in your comfortable home and slept in your comfortable bed and dreamt your big dreams while we suffered in the battlefield. You wouldn’t understand our pain.” I was angry with all of you for no reason. I didn’t know that you people had been fighting for the country in your own way during the war, and then dedicated your lives for the betterment of the war-effected women of the country. I was quite stubborn and did not alter my decision. But you were also very persistent and kept pressing me. Finally, you gave up; but fortunately for me, you didn’t forget to note down my family information. Nawshaba, the other professor was also very nice. She also tried her best to make me change my mind. But despite your effort, I stuck to my decision.

Finally, the day came when the thirty of us got on a military truck, leaving behind a country full of memories. The roads of Dhaka, the university campus, my home, my homeland, and the newly earned national flag --- I left behind everything. No one cared about us, not then, not now. The country had shown respect to the heroes by naming streets and roads in the name of martyrs and by building monuments for them. But did anyone build anything in honor of the war heroines? Didn’t we suffer for the country? Didn’t we fight for it by giving up our bodies? Then why doesn’t anyone have the courage to publicly acknowledge our contribution? Don’t we have any right, as women, as human beings, as citizens of this country? Don’t we deserve anything from this country?

I know I am digressing, so let me go back to my story. The military truck was on its way to India via Benapole, the western border of our country. In India, we were taken to a big office building to be registered as citizens of Pakistan and receive our travelling documents. And this was when I came back to my senses. I realized I was about to do a grave mistake by surrendering my identity. I was never meant to be a Pakistani and I would never be. I would rather kill myself before giving up my nation and my culture. I informed the attending Indian officials of my decision: I did not want to go to Pakistan. I wanted to apply to be documented as a citizen of Bangladesh. The waiting period was long. Days passed, then weeks, and I still heard nothing about my application.

One day an attendant of the shelter came for me. I had a visitor, I was told. A visitor? Who would come for me here? I slowly walked to the visitor’s room to meet this unwanted visitor. To my surprise, I saw my brother standing there to greet me! My older brother Asad --- the army officer who had defected from the Pakistani Army and had joined the Bangladeshi force and fought for the freedom of his country --- had come all the way to India to find me! I jumped to embrace my dear brother and broke into tears. How did he know I was here? Who told him? How did he track me down?

He told me he was looking for me everywhere, in every camp, and in the women’s rescue shelter. Then finally he went to Dhaka Cantonment, where he was told of the thirty women who were willingly going to Pakistan. He wanted to see the list of those women. Mr. Ashok Verma, the Indian Brigadier in charge of that deportation mission, informed my brother that Neelima Ibrahim, a professor of Dhaka University had prepared a list of those women. My brother then went to meet Neelima Ibrahim. It was you who told him that you met me in the camp. You confirmed to him that I was one of those thirty unfortunate women. Had you not written down my name and address that day, you would not have remembered meeting me, and I would have lost a second chance to life. I am forever grateful to you for that reason, Sister Neelima!

My brother signed me out from that deportation camp. And I stepped out of the camp as a citizen of Bangladesh. We were in Kolkata and my brother took me to a shop in New Market. He bought me a sari and a pair of sandals. We spent the day shopping and eating and watching a movie in a movie theatre. I held my brother’s hand as we crossed the roads and I giggled like a little girl. It was not a dream! It was really happening! I was free and happy again. I asked about our younger brother and was relieved to know that he was alive and well. Ali Uncle, our Butler, had also survived, but unfortunately one of his legs had to be amputated. They were waiting for us in Rajshahi, in our old house, my brother told me. We stayed at a hotel that night and flew back to Dhaka the next morning. From Dhaka we took a train to Rajshahi. The place looked the same. Ali Uncle wept for me and kept apologizing for not being able to save me that day. “You tried your best, Ali Uncle. You shielded my mother with your body and you almost lost your life,” I consoled him.

The four of us did everything we could to bring the house to life again. We arranged a prayer gathering in remembrance of our parents. Neighbors and relatives came to console us and left without asking any questions about our turbulent past. Life gradually started to run its normal course. Asad went back to his workplace; my brother had to go to join his military base, leaving Ali Uncle and a maid to look after me. “Go back to college and finish your degree, Rina,” my brother suggested, and I took his advice. I resumed my student life as a final year student of Political Science. Most of my classmates were back on campus. After the class, we would sit somewhere and listen to the boys as they narrated their war experiences. Most of the girls were lucky to stay safe during the war, and they talked about their harrowing experience when travelling, the horrible living conditions in the villages, and the slums where they would have to take shelter. I always sat quietly with them, listening to their complaints. Then one day one of our classmates asked me, “What about your experience? Where did you go when the town was attacked?”

“You really want to know?” I bluntly asked. “Okay, then listen to my story.” I spoke in a monotonous voice, casually narrating my nine-month-long war experience, starting with day one. And I talked about everything, step by step, detail after detail. They wanted to know, didn’t they? Their laughter waned and their self-pity disappeared, and all of them sat around me like a bunch of rocks.

My open declaration made my story known to everyone in my department. Some of my professors were sympathetic while others gave me a look that I had seen in the eyes of my ravishers. And some senior professors stopped having eye contact with me, as if I had some kind of contagious disease. Only my two brothers stayed glued with me like my two wings. I implored my older brother to find a nice girl and settle down. He said he would like to see me settled first. Then he would follow my path. My path --- to what? I didn’t see any happiness waiting for me at the end of that path. It had been five months since I came back. I knew Attaur was back from America to visit his family. I knew that he was aware of my presence in town. But would he come to see me? I did not think so. He was a good man, of course, but unfortunately, he had no backbone. I would not even expect him to grow one at this stage. I stopped thinking about Attaur and concentrated on my studies. My finals were coming up soon. I was dying to graduate and move on with my life. The campus was also not the same anymore. After my erratic outburst, I did not feel comfortable with my classmates; needless to say, most of them were also doing the best they could to avoid me. It may sound funny, but I really pitied them! They used to boast of their knowledge, and were always planning to touch other lives with the light of inspiration, but when the time really came for them to deliver light, they had gone dark. I was adamant to have strong ground beneath my feet so that I could walk like a strong human being one day. I didn’t need anyone’s sympathy.

Finally, Attaur showed up one day. Ali Uncle served him tea and biscuit as Attaur sat nervously. “What happened to your leg?” He asked Ali Uncle. “Oh, it’s nothing; I just gave up a leg for the country. You know, millions have died and many millions have suffered. I just lost a leg,” Ali Uncle said curtly.

“Oh, I am sorry to hurt your feeling!” Attaur apologized. “Why didn’t you come earlier? Didn’t you know I was back?” I asked him.

“I knew, but I couldn’t come. You lived alone here, and I thought it might look bad if I barged in.” Attaur’s western brand of politeness shined in our dark drawing room.

“Rina, would you like to take a walk with me by the river?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, trying to control my tears. I knew he was offering too much warmth. My warrior heart was too weak to bear that burden.

After a few weeks, my older brother asked Attaur of his intentions:

“So, what are your plans now? Are you planning to ask for her hand, or what?”

“Let me discuss the matter with my parents.”

“Why do you need to talk to your parents now? Don’t they already know that you have been seeing my sister for, what five years now? You were supposed to be married by now. Weren’t you planning for a wedding in June 1971? Now what changed in two years? Why do you vacillate now? I asked you if you were planning to marry her, and your answer should be either yes or no. There is no scope for a vague commitment in marriage.”

My brother literally stormed out of the house.

“Why did your brother get so cross with me? What did I do? Don’t I have to discuss this with my parents before I take any serious decision? I am their only son, you know.”

I understood his dilemma. “Don’t take it so hard,” I urged him.

“What do you mean? Don’t I even have the right to feel angry when I am being snapped at for no reason?”

“You see, Attaur, it’s really amazing how our country’s independence has really worked out for people like you, because you’ve gained from it. But people like my brother and I --- we have sacrificed too much to earn this freedom for your kind. So, it’s only natural that he would get mad when you end up slighting his sister.”

“What are you trying to say? Are you blaming me for all your troubles?”

“Of course not! I don’t blame anybody, especially you. But don’t you dare consider me your burden. I will accept you only when you are ready. And if that means you’re having to ask for your parents' permission, then do so. But come back only when you are ready. I am not going anywhere.”

Attaur came back after paying a visit to his parents a few days later and proposed to marry me. My joy knew no bounds. My brothers became excited. My older brother started preparing for a big wedding party. Attaur however insisted on having a very small gathering. He didn’t want it to be a public event. He would go back to the US once we were married and file my immigration papers. Then within six months, I would be able to join him there as his spouse. But until then, our wedding would have to be kept a secret.

“Why the secrecy? Are you ashamed to publicly acknowledge my sister as your wife? Did you even tell your parents? I don’t think so! I don’t think you had the guts to declare your love because you are such a coward! A real coward! And you are telling me in my face that you really consider my sister a piece of trash; is that so? Is that so? It’s not true, I am telling you! You don’t deserve her; do you hear me!” My older brother lost his calm. He sunk back into the chair holding his head with his two hands, crying like a boy lost in a labyrinth.

This time I stood on my own two feet and walked towards Attaur to face him. I looked at him and said in a cold and stern voice: “Listen carefully now; I am setting you free from obligation. Don’t you ever think of coming back to this house to ask for my hand. Don’t you ever think of me, or dream of me! I cannot be yours, for you are too weak to hold onto me. I grew up in a family of heroes and did not meet a coward until you showed up. You know what? I hate cowardly men. I am a woman warrior and no coward can have me!”

I ran to my room and broke down. Attaur had left the house. My brother came to my room and held my head in his chest. “Why did you do that, sweetheart? Why did you blow your chance of happiness?” I wiped his tears and told him never to worry about me. “I will let you know if I ever want to marry anyone. I am done being weak and soft. I will be a strong and independent woman from now on, I promise.”

V

Our life became normal again. My two brothers came to spend time with me whenever they could. Ali Uncle looked after me like a caring father. My older brother finally decided to rent our house and take us with him to Dhaka, where he had finally got permanent posting. We restarted a new life in our older brother’s new house. He was still hesitant to marry. He said he would give me a year or two to settle down somewhere with a job. He promised me he would find a suitable girl for himself soon. I got a job as a school teacher and made a new friend. Her name was Mitu. She was older than me by a few years and was engaged to a man who lived in Abu Dhabi. They were to get married within a year and settle in Abu Dhabi. She and her mother lived with her only brother, a medical doctor in the Army. Nasir, Mitu’s brother, was quite a charming person. Every time I visited Mitu at their house, I would meet him --- always happy, always teasing his sister, and always finding something to laugh about. They were in the lookout for a suitable bride for her brother, Mitu’s mother once casually informed me. I got her hint, but said nothing. What could I have said? Would she have the same willing heart if I told her that I was raped by war?

I was quite surprised when Nasir came with Mitu to visit me one day. “I had to extend my leave,” Nasir said giddily, “I am expecting a visit from a prospective bride’s family. They want to inspect....”

I started laughing as he spoke, but he interrupted, “Don’t laugh! Ask your friend if you don’t believe me!”

“Well, he is right,” Mitu added in a voice of confirmation, “A bunch of inspectors is indeed coming, you know, just to make sure that their selected groom is not missing any limbs or anything,” she giggled.

“Have you met her? Your prospective bride, I mean,” I asked him.

“Oh, no! I’ve heard about her, and about her father’s wealth as well! And as I was told, that should be enough to impress me!” He winked at Mitu and laughed.

Mitu followed me to the kitchen and stood quietly beside me, watching me prepare tea for them.

“Rina, do you like my brother?” She suddenly asked me. “What do you mean?”

“Do you like him? Would you marry him if he proposed to you?”

“Why are you asking me all this, Mitu?”

“I am asking because my brother will ask you the same question. He is in love with you and he will propose to you. I just want to make sure that you won’t break his heart by refusing him when he asks.”

“Please give me some time to think about it, Mitu.”

“What’s there to think? Where will you get someone better than my brother?”

“I know I wouldn’t. But did you ever think the other way around? What if I am not good enough for your brother?”

“Nah; that can’t be.”

When I entered the room carrying the tea tray, I found him standing in front of the framed picture of my parents.

“They were killed by the Pakistani Army,” I said calmly, putting down the tray on the center table. I then told them about the tragic incident of their death. Both of them were utterly shocked. Mitu never knew about my parents. She kept apologizing for her ignorance about my tragedy and for not being a good friend all this while. I smiled reassuringly, “Don’t you worry, Mitu. This is not the only tragic event of my life. You will have plenty of opportunities to be a good friend once you know everything about me.” Nasir’s curiosity was boundless. He wanted to know everything about my parents, my two brothers, and me.

“The story of my life is not that short that I can tell you all in one breath,” I said, “You have to come back another day to know the whole story.”

After they left, I sat quietly, thinking of my life. Did Nasir really want to know about my past? Would he be able to handle my truth? I was adamant not to hide anything from anyone anymore. I had already experienced the cowardice of men like Attaur. Would Nasir act differently once he heard my life’s tale? Or, would he behave just as Attaur did? Would he be able to earn my respect, or would he just prove himself to be just another man --- weak and incapable to face the truth? The more I thought about it, I found it really impossible to believe that Nasir would be anything better than Attaur --- the cowardly man --- for whom I had no place in my heart! The only feeling I had for these cowards was pity just pity --- and nothing else. However, after thinking through the whole situation, I decided to give Nasir a chance, for I was curious to see how he would react when he heard about my past.

Next day was some sort of a government holiday. I don’t remember now what holiday it was though. I just remember that I had no school that day. My older brother went out to meet with some of his friends; the younger one was also not home. I sat on the veranda sipping my tea and flipping through the paper. The newspaper was filled with horrific reports of murders and killings and robberies and rapes and suicides. Somewhere some husband had killed his wife by throwing acid on her whole body. A young man had raped a teenager to death and left her lifeless body by the river. There was not a single positive thing to find in the newspaper. I don’t know why I expected to find news of hope and peace in a country where the founding father of the country had been murdered in his own house. I heard a motorbike stopping on our driveway. I looked down and saw Nasir standing there, waving at me.

“What are you doing here so early in the morning?” I asked as I opened the door for him.

“Didn’t you ask me to come back to hear more stories?”

“That was only last night! I don’t remember telling you to come back first thing in the morning.”

“Well, I don’t remember you telling me not to,” he teased me.

I got nervous. What did he want to know? Why did he have to know everything? Surely he was not prepared, no one was prepared to accept me the way I was?

“Why do you look so grumpy?” Nasir was persistent. “I don’t like grumpy people. You better bring a smile back to that face before you ask Ali Uncle to bring me a big breakfast. I am really starving!”

“Do I have to listen to everything you say?”

“Well, I don’t know. But you can give it a try though. I have a pleasant voice and a charming smile, and people, nay girls, find me quite irresistible.” He kept smiling.

I relaxed a little and invited him to sit with me on the veranda. He wanted to hear the story of my life and I delivered it, without skipping any details. The man did not interrupt me; he never lost his attention or showed any apathy. After narrating the tragic tale of my life, I looked into his eyes and asked him not to interpret my past as my weakness. I was proud to be a part of the liberation movement of my country and considered myself a true warrior. I wouldn’t be able to endure any pity or compassion from him.

“Why should I pity you? I admire you for your bravery. I am a freedom fighter myself and I consider you as my compatriot. Not an object to be pitied. If I have the right to be proud to be a freedom fighter, then you deserve to be equally proud.”

He knelt before me and held my hand as he continued: “It was our failure that we couldn’t protect you from the lust of our enemies; and it was our failure that we couldn’t show you the respect that you had earned as a soldier. I ask you to forgive us for all our failures. I promise I will never fail you ever, if you have the heart to trust me.”

Well, Neelima, I trusted him with all my heart. We got married within a few weeks after that. On our wedding night, Nasir held me tightly and whispered softly, “I congratulate you for being a true hero of the country and I offer myself to you.”

What can I say, Sister Neelima, I am a happy woman! I am a happy wife and a happy mother of three children. I soon left my job to spend time with my children. Nasir takes me to travel with him, anywhere he goes. I had visited the USA a few years ago. He also took me to the Army Officer’s Quarter --- the horrible place where I had lived the life of an animal for six months. I guess I needed to re-visit that place in order to find some sort of closure to my story. Nasir has given me everything a woman wants. I really have no complaints and no regrets. But if you ask me to name one thing that would make me happier, I would say this: I would love to see the day when a young man or woman of this generation will come to greet me as a brave warrior, the bearer of their national flag, the protector of their motherland. I would love to see a smile of recognition in their faces. I know it is an impossible dream, because I know that my contribution to the war and my existence as a war heroine is hidden from their knowledge. I know for sure that history has made it impossible for them to know of my existence. But despite everything, I will still keep dreaming that, one day, they will recognize me, not as a victim of the war, but as a brave hero.

Source: A WAR HEROINE I SPEAK --- Neelima Ibrahim.

Translated in English by Fayeza Hasnat.