Shefali’s Story

You want to know my identity? I am a war heroine --- not because of the sacrifice I made for the country, but because of the courage and heroic spirit I possess. Are you laughing, my readers? You must be thinking in your head, “What spirit is she talking about? She is only a war heroine, who was raped by the enemies, and nothing else....” Isn’t that what you are thinking? Well, let me tell you this: if you are a fifty-up man from Bangladesh, reading my story, then I can assure you that I am braver and stronger than you in every aspect; that I have seen you all; that I have seen the inside of you. You are nothing but cowards, if you didn’t fight for your country. The real men have either fought or died for this country. Twenty-five years after the war, I still want to spit at the faces of those who fled the war to save themselves or carried on living their lives listlessly, while the whole country suffered. Why should a war heroine be so proud, you ask? After all, according to your judgment, a war heroine is nothing but a whore of a war. You wanted to redefine the heroes like me as whores, and that is why I abhor people like you! I am a hero and I have the courage to challenge your judgment.

So, let’s talk about my identity. I am a proud woman of Bengal, whom you had left unprotected when you fled the country. Once the country was free, you came back and wore the masks of freedom fighters. You had sided with the enemy and had helped them in their fight against the real heroes of the war. You had betrayed your country and had secretly joined the enemy force, instead of helping the freedom fighters. Pakistan did not bring the Razakars and Al-Badars with them from their part of the world; the Middle East didn’t supply those pro-Pakistani militants. Then where did they come from --- these opportunist volunteers, who bowed their heads to the Pakistani Army? Of course, those traitors who sided with the enemy and helped them destroy this country --- were born and raised in the country they had decided to betray then! Now that the motherland has risen, they want to deceive her once again; now that people of the country want to identify and punish the war criminals, they have suddenly become aware of their situations, and want to flee! But where will they hide? After all, no crime goes unpunished, and criminals of war should not be exempt from their crimes either. But I have digressed; let me go back to my story now.

My name is Shefali, but I am also called Shefa by some people. Yes, it is my nickname, and no, Sister Neelima, I don’t feel comfortable disclosing my real name here. I don’t trust anyone anymore, especially the men of my country. Eleven years ago, they left girls like me unprotected in a war-torn country. Some went to join the war and some tried to evade it --- but they all went nonetheless --- only to come back to cast their condescending eyes on me. Some felt pity because I survived a nine-month long rape feast of the enemy soldiers; and some --- the ones that either ran to the enemies to lick their feet or ran away to save themselves came back wearing the masks of war heroes only to scorn me for surviving hell. I was nothing but an accident of the war, and they wouldn’t want to see me strong and have me reinstated in society; after all, I was the one who could betray them by unravelling their true identities. They were afraid that I might tell the world that it was my own countryman who had delivered me to those sex-starved hyenas. Because I reminded them of their guilt, they would do anything to obliterate me. Therefore, Sister Neelima, I will not tell you my real name. But I will tell you this much: I lived in a small town by the river Padma. My father worked as a lawyer at the District Courthouse. Ours was a politically active family. My father was involved in the political movement of East Pakistan in the late 1960s. When I was in the 10th grade, I followed my father’s footstep and took an active part in mass demonstrations, rallies and picketing. The year was 1969, and the mass upsurge movement was getting stronger by the day. My father got arrested for his involvement in the uprising and was sentenced to jail for six months or so. My mother worried that I might end up in jail as well. By the time my father was out of prison, the political unrest was already taking the shape of a more organized movement in demand of a federal form of government and fair parliamentary election. Within two years, that is to say by 1971, the whole situation of the country would change, as you know by now, and we found ourselves involved in the liberation war.

The carnage that took place in Dhaka on the 25th of March had a tremendous impact on our provincial town; young men started to flee the town; the brave ones joined the rebels, while the opportunists joined the enemy side. Women and children remained in a state of constant fear. My father had to go to the village to take care of some family matter --- at least that was what my mother told us --- from where he only came back after the war; you can guess, where he actually went, can’t you? Yes, he joined the war. The district court judge lived next-door. His son, Faruq and I studied at the same college. My classmates were quite sure that Faruq had a crush on me. He was very shy, or well behaved, as many said. But we called him an awkward guy; he would never talk to me, or even if he did, he would never look me in the eye. He would behave like the meekest creature you would have ever seen. So, naturally, he was considered a harmless companion. After my father left for the ‘village’ the Judge used to send Faruq to check on us, to find out if we needed anything. My siblings and I gradually accepted Faruq as a friend, while my mother considered him a guardian of the family and a potential son-in-law. She confided in him and asked for his advice regarding our household affairs. When my father wrote to us about taking shelter in my uncle’s village home, Faruq tried to convince my mother not to leave. He promised to take care of us until my father returned. But when my nineteen-year-old brother ran away to join the war, my mother began to worry about our safety. She packed our bags and decided to leave town as soon as possible. As a concerned family friend, Faruq offered to go with us to make sure that we reached our destination safely. One April morning, my sister and I woke before dawn and waited with our mother as Faruq went to fetch two auto-rickshaws for us. Faruq directed my mother and my younger sister Sonali to get on a rickshaw while he sat with me on the other one. We were headed for the train station. But after a few miles, Faruq instructed the auto-rickshaw driver to take a different path. I was a little worried. I knew our rickshaw was definitely on a wrong track. When saw the other rickshaw take a right turn and vanish from sight, I told Faruq to stop the rickshaw.

“Why are we taking this route?” I asked.

“Freedom fighters have blocked the other road,” Faruq said.

“Then why didn’t you instruct the other rickshaw to follow us?”

“They will turn around.”

Faruq, the apparently harmless, helpful neighbor, and my meek and potential suitor suddenly had changed his color. He pulled me close, putting his arm tightly around me, as if he was afraid, I might jump. Well, I did want to jump off the moment he pulled me towards him. I started screaming and asked the auto-rickshaw driver to stop the engine. I tried to push Faruq away but his hands were heavier than a rock. I pulled one of his wrists close to my mouth and sank my teeth into his skin. The man screamed in pain. He then took out a piece of cloth from his pocket and tied it around my mouth. The auto-rickshaw stopped at the gate of the Army Quarters. Faruq pulled me down from that rickshaw and dragged me inside to hand me over to the Chief Army Officer. I was his personal gift. The Officer patted him on the back as Faruq took his leave. That Faruq --- the generous gift-giver has become a District Judge now, just like his father. I came to know that he now introduces himself as a freedom fighter and shows people his wounded wrist as a proof of his heroic encounter with the enemy. That bastard!

Anyway, after Faruq left me at the Army Quarter, I became hysteric. I complained to the Army Officer about Faruq and asked them to arrest him for kidnapping me. The Officer smiled. He filled his glass and poured some for me.

“Whisky. Drink it; it’ll do you good. I promise I will punish Mr. Faruq.” The Officer pulled me towards him, asking me questions about Pakistan. He asked me if I had ever visited Karachi. He described to me the incomparable beauty of the beaches of Karachi and promised to take me there one day. Then he undressed me and forced himself inside me like a hungry beast. And that’s how I lost my chastity the first time. I fell unconscious, and when I recovered, I found myself lying alone in a room, guarded by a non-Bengali maid. The woman asked me to get up and take a shower. I looked at the mirror, but could not recognize myself. The face that the mirror reflected could not be mine, I thought to myself; it was cut and bruised, and was blotched with nail scratches and bite marks. I took a little toothpaste on my fingertip and tried brushing my teeth. My mouth was sore and my teeth were still hurting. The pain was an aftermath of my last night’s countless attempts to bite off the skin and flesh of the beast. I took off my torn clothes and stood under the shower, hoping to be cleansed and washed by the flow of fresh water. A thorough wash would clean this tainted body, I told myself. But the feeling of contamination kept growing inside me, no matter how hard I scrubbed and washed. Alas, all the rivers of the country would run out of water in their failing attempt to wash me clean.

The woman brought a breakfast tray and ordered me to finish it. I asked for a piece of paper and pen, but she ignored my demand; instead, she gave me a fresh pair of shalwar-kameez, and asked me to wear them.

My next client was a self-proclaimed poet. He recited a few poems by famous Pakistani poets. He tried to entertain me by singing ghazals. Then he raped me for his own entertainment. I spent about a month in that place. Afterwards, I was moved to another place with a group of women. There were about thirty women in our group. Sometimes they kept all of us in one room and did not bother about privacy when they needed to satisfy their carnal lust; and sometimes they would move us to individual cells. Time passed slowly; I could only sense its passing from the changing of the weather and temperature fluctuation. It was April when I was brought in. I had felt the scorching heat and heard the constant rain and felt the cooling weather. I prayed every moment for the safety of my parents, my brother Santu, and my sister Sonali. I wished I could see them at least once before I breathed my last.

They shifted us again. It was a very cold night when they pulled all of us out from our individual cells and dumped our mangled bodies on the back of a truck and covered it with a big plastic. After a night long journey, the truck finally stopped, and the soldiers then ordered us to stand in line and enter an underground bunker. They took off our clothes this time, leaving us naked and shivering in the cold. They would enter into that cave whenever they needed to, fed us if they pleased, but paid no attention to our other bodily needs, or our health and hygiene. Our hair grew into dreadlocks and our bodies became a nesting place of lice and bugs. We forgot to talk or scream or cry. We excreted in one corner and ate and slept and got raped in the other; we sat in close groups like a flock of animals and tried to generate warmth from each other during cold nights.

One night we heard people speaking loudly in celebratory language right above our bunker. They were running and screaming “Joy Bangla!”; “Victory to Bengal.” One of us ran to the bunker door but came back. We were shoving each other to go to the door and ask for help, but none of us had the courage to face the outside world in our condition. I then stood up and went to the door. The door opened easily after all of us had pushed it together. I climbed outside, putting one hand over my chest and the other one over my groin.

“Anyone here?” Someone spoke in a non-Bengali language. “Do not fear, we are the soldiers from your Allied country, and we are here to rescue you!” That voice said again.

“Please, please don’t look! We have no clothes on!” I started crying.

“Oh, my dear God! Oh, my dear mother, yes, you are my mother, and I will save your honor!” The man burst into tears. He was a Sikh soldier from India. The kind old man took out his turban and offered it to me. “Oh, my mother, please cover yourself with my turban!” He then offered me his hand and shielded me with his body as he brought me out. “Mother, my name is Jogi; Jogindar Singh.” And I, an eighteen-year-old girl, held the hand of my middle-aged son and came out to face the light of a free country. By that time other soldiers had collected some clothes from somewhere and offered them to the other prisoners. They brought us to a hospital, gave us warm bath, clean clothes, and hot food. In the hospital, I told the attending nurse to chop off my hair. “Why do you want to cut off such beautiful hair?” The compassionate nurse said, “Let me shampoo it and brush it gently; the dreadlock will go away.” I looked at the nurse’s face and realized I was back in the civilized world. When the doctor came to check our vitals, I told the doctor that I was pregnant. Once the doctor confirmed my pregnancy, I pleaded him to help me; I didn’t want to nurse the seed of a thousand rapes. I was in the first trimester, I was informed, but the doctor agreed to help me. After the procedure was done, I was sent to Dhaka, and it was then at the Women’s Rehabilitation Centre that I met you.

My parents came to see me. My younger sister Sonali also came with them. But Santu did not come. Father told me Santu was suffering from some kind of trauma. He was angry with himself for failing to protect me. He was ashamed to show me his face. My father signed all the necessary documents to hasten the process so that he could take me home. But the doctors at the center were not ready to let me go. Some of the girls were infected with some sort of sexually transmitted disease, and I was one of them. But luckily, we were told, we would get cured after a month-long treatment. I promised to return home the moment I was declared healthy. Sonali kept sobbing when she heard I was sick. “What kind of sickness is this? Why can’t we take her to the doctor?” She kept asking. My father assured her that he would come back the moment I was cured. After they left, I spent my days hoping to get better and stronger every day.

Before the war broke out, I was taking a secretarial training course and had learned typing and shorthand. I used to help my father with his office work and sometimes worked as his personal typist. My typing experience came to my rescue at the Women’s Shelter. One day I entered the office room of the Chairman of our shelter. His name was Justice Kazi Sobhan. I nervously stood by his desk and waited for him to notice me.

“How can I help you, dear girl?” The Justice wanted to know.

“Can I offer you some help? Can I work for you as a stenographer or something? I know typing and shorthand.”

“Is that so?” He looked interested. He then asked for Sister Moshfeqa, the Director of the Shelter and informed her of my intent.

“I think we can employ her,” Moshfeqa said. “It would be really good for her. We can decide to pay her....”

“No, no, I don’t need the money!” I interrupted, “I just want to do something to kill time!”

They smiled affectionately. I was hired as a typist instantly. I think you saw me there at that office, didn’t you, Sister Neelima? I remember you used to visit us every week: you and Basanti --- Basanti Guha Thakurta --- wife of the martyred English Professor Jyotirmay Guha Thakurta. You two would come and chat with us for hours. I remember telling you in great length about Faruq and his father. You are the one who informed me that Faruq and his father had ties with the ruling political party and therefore were beyond the reach of law.

After the medical doctor gave me clearance, my father came to take me home. We took an auto-rickshaw and went to the train station. The auto-rickshaw driver gave my father a worried look and said: “Is this your daughter? A Birangana, I presume? She was raped by the enemy soldiers, no? Poor thing. What will happen to her now? Are you taking her home with you? Do people of your town know that you are taking her back?”

My father’s face grew paler as the driver kept grilling him with all these questions. He pressed my hand firmly and whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry, my child, I will not let anything happen to you.”

We reached home in the afternoon. My two siblings ran to hug me; my mother pulled all three of her children close to her bosom and wept like a happy mother.

At the dinner table, Sonali told me their side of the story of that ominous day. “When your auto-rickshaw made a sudden turn on another road, Mom thought you were going to the Marriage Register’s office!” Sonali said, “Maybe Faruq and Shefali decided to get married before we went away, Mom said. We thought you two were in love. We thought he was madly in love with you and didn’t want to lose you!” My mother put her hand over her eyes in an attempt to control her emotion as Sonali continued: “We went to the village and waited for you. Weeks passed, but you and Faruq did not show up. Then we heard from some people of our town that you were abducted by the Army. Mom didn’t lose hope; she always knew we would find you one day. Finally, the war was over. Our father and brother returned home to find you missing. Our brother went crazy in rage! He blamed himself for not being there to save you. Father then decided to come back to our old house. What if you were here, looking for us? We came back to a totally vandalized home. Some people had taken our beds, furniture, TV, phone, cutleries --- you name it --- everything was taken away. It took a long time for us to fix the house and resume our regular life. Then one day in mid-February, we received a letter from the Dhanmondi Women’s Shelter in Dhaka, informing us that they had found you. We were so excited when we heard you were alive!”

“I am as good as dead, Sonali” I murmured.

“Don’t say that!” Sonali screamed, “Don’t ever say that!”

Our house began to feel normal again. Sonali started going to school. Santu, my brother, went back to college. I also wanted to start fresh. My brother warned me that people were not ready yet to accept the dark realities of the war; they were not ready to understand the toll a war could have on people. I shouldn’t rush to join college, he cautioned. But I was too stubborn to acknowledge the truth. I decided to resume my college life. The first day in college was exciting as first days usually are. My friends came running to me to unload bags full of queries: “Where have you been? Did you also take shelter in some remote village? Were you safe? Thank God, the Army didn’t kidnap you! We heard how they raped and tortured so many girls! Aren’t we all fortunate not to have gone through all that?” Luck? Was I lucky --- like so many of them? But how could I tell them what I had gone through? Would they accept me as one of them? I decided to keep my secret safe within my heart. In a war-struck country, it was easier to wear the mask of a happy woman than to unravel one’s wounds. But how long would I have to wear that mask? I had no idea!

However, I was fortunate in the sense that I didn’t have to wear that mask for long. An ugly family incident changed the whole scenario. A relative of my uncle’s in-laws was getting married. My father’s younger brother lived within our vicinity. I was quite attached to my uncle ever since I was a little girl, and he also loved me very much. It so happened that someone from his wife’s family was getting married, and my uncle’s in-laws had invited my family to that wedding as well. But my uncle’s in-laws were reluctant to include me. Quite nonchalantly, they informed my uncle that everyone except me was invited to the wedding. The presence of a raped woman might tarnish the blessed atmosphere of their daughter’s wedding ceremony. My uncle got furious! He refused to attend a wedding where his niece was not invited. My whole family was upset. And the incident made me realize that coming back to the same home was never possible for a woman like me. I wrote to sister Moshfeqa in Dhaka, asking her if she would re-hire me as a typist at the Shelter. She responded immediately with a big affirmative. She also said that she had arranged for me to stay at the Working Women’s Hostel. She also promised to help me find a better job.

My parents were devastated by my decision. But I had made up my mind. I would not let my family go through any more humiliation for my sake. But my father had already started his war against Faruq and his powerful family. He tried to file a lawsuit against Faruq but failed, because that criminal knew influential people at every sector of the government. Father then went to meet Banga-Bandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the then Prime Minister of the country. “He will listen to me; after all, this place is also his hometown, and he knows me by name,” my father said. After much hassle, my father succeeded in bringing Faruq’s father to justice --- well, some sort of justice, I should add. After hearing my father’s story, Banga-Bandhu demoted Faruq’s father from his position of power. That was victory enough for my parents for they thought it would somehow help me regain my dignity. But that did not prevent me from leaving my hometown.

In Dhaka, Moshfeqa Mahmud got me a job as a typist at the Red Cross office. With my salary, I was able to bear my expenses and live comfortably in the Women’s Hostel, where I met many other rehabilitated war victims like me. My roommate Jaya was from Comilla. She was taken from her house on the 25th of March and endured a nine-month long imprisonment in various bunkers, barracks, and Army quarters. After the freedom fighters had rescued her from a bunker, she came to live at the Women’s Shelter, like the rest of us. But no one came to visit her, let alone take her home. She was a Hindu girl who had been gangraped for nine months by Muslim soldiers. Even the Gods did not know how many times she had lost her caste, Jaya would say. Jaya and I lived like two sisters.

I felt at home living there with the women who understood my pain. I was happy with my life as an independent woman and began to get accustomed to these feelings of happiness and bliss. During one of these blissful days, I met Imam in the elevator of our office building. I was going out for a lunch break and Imam was coming up to meet someone from our office. We bumped into each other a few more times before he finally introduced himself. He was a businessman and had his office in the third floor of our building. He invited me to lunch one day and I accepted, and after that, we started seeing each other regularly. Within a month, I told Imam the story of my past and for the first time in my life, I felt happy to find a man who did not disrespect or humiliate me. He was compassionate and respectful. None of his family members went to war, he told me. All his brothers went to India, where his parents had already moved before the war broke. They all came back after the war. They lived in a big joint family ---three brothers, and their parents. Their sister was happily married and lived in her own house. Imam said he respected my heroism; he said my mental strength and my resilient spirit had amazed him.

Ours was a grand wedding. Our families worked together to arrange the whole event. My father proudly invited all his friends to his older daughter’s wedding. Imam’s whole family also showed the same kind of pride. I considered myself fortunate to be surrounded by all these generous and affectionate people.

Imam’s business prospered day by day. In a few years after our marriage, we all moved to a new house; my in-laws moved in with us. When I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, my father-in-law named him Armaan. But I named him Jogi, in honor of Jogindar Singh, the first one to call me mother --- my first son who had rescued me from a dungeon and had offered me his turban to cover the shame of a woman, who had been raped because of the war. Sonali, my younger sister, married a smart young man, who went to England to earn a Ph.D. in Nuclear Physics. My brother got accepted at the University of Engineering and Technology in Dhaka. My parents were happy to see us all settled in life. I felt proud to live a normal life as a happy woman.

But my happiness was disrupted when Banga-Bandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was assassinated. Imam’s family had a close relationship with Banga-Bandhu. My father-in-law could not handle the shock and fell ill. It took him a while to recover. Then one day Imam got arrested. My father-in-law bailed him out and brought him home in the evening. Imam told me that their connection with the Awami League had made him a political target, but somehow, I couldn’t trust him. If that was the case, then my father-in-law’s name would have been at the top of that list, and Imam’s older brother’s name would have come next; after all, those two were much more influential than Imam himself was. I was sure that the arrest was not made for purely political reason; it had something to do with Imam’s business ventures. After Imam was arrested, my older brother-in-law declared he would not stay as Imam’s business partner anymore. Imam then took his younger brother Aman as a new partner, and then the two brothers became busy throwing parties and entertaining business clients. Imam even set up a bar lounge at our house to entertain his guests. Powerful government officials and high-ranking Army officers became usual guests at our house.

The change in Imam’s lifestyle started to scare me. I tried to make him understand his role as a father and a husband; besides, I wanted him to remember the instinctive grudge that I had against people in uniform. “What? Are you crazy?” He exploded one day when I told him not to entertain Army officials in our home. “These are Bengali men, my business partners; they are not those Pakistani soldiers who raped you!” I looked at my husband’s face in my attempt to read his thoughts. How could he so easily forget our country’s past? How could he not realize that a man is a man, even if his body is hidden under piles of clothes? How couldn’t he notice the lust that I see in the eyes of his so-called business partners? It was the same lustful look that I had seen in the eyes of my rapists! Is it a man’s predatory nature, or is it the power of the uniform that he wears? Even though Imam didn’t see it, but I could clearly see the resemblance between his friends in uniform and the Pakistani men who had raped me. There is something in that uniform that changes men, I am sure.

My sister-in-law stopped visiting us. “I don’t like the company my brother keeps,” she told me one day. I couldn’t say or do anything, for I was powerless. I spent my time tending Kunda, my newborn daughter, and Jogi ---my six-year-old son --- who had just started going to school. My brother Santu visited me once in a while, and he always complained about Imam’s lifestyle. “Why don’t you say anything to him?” He asked me one day. “Don’t you know what goes on in these parties? People say bad things about Imam, you know, about his connections with the Army...really bad things.”

“I know. But what can I do? He doesn’t listen. So, I let him hang out with these people hoping that one day he’ll find out the truth on his own. He says he needs money, a lot of it, to raise his kids. He wants to send Jogi to the USA for higher studies, and he wants to save money for Kunda’s future. To him, life means nothing without money.” I calmly told Santu.

“It’s not good, no, not good at all. The country is going through a political turmoil; there have been a good number of military coups, and there will be more havoc in future, people say. How come Imam is not bothered about all these? I don’t understand!”

I was unnerved by Santu’s warnings. When Imam came home late that night, I confronted him. Seeing him utterly drunk, I chided him for his behavior. “What would your parents say if they see you in this condition? Can’t you have some dignity at least?” I snapped at him. And in response, my drunken husband hissed into my ears, “Of course, I need this lesson on dignity from you! I mean, why not? After all, you have learned it first-hand, by offering your body to thousands of men. You are the epitome of virtue! Now you want to amend me. Wonderful!”

I instantly walked away from him. After that night, I started living in a separate bedroom. I slept with my two children in a room adjacent to that master bedroom. Imam’s lack of interest in me had worked as a blessing as well; after all, sex is nothing but torture when there is no love between two people. At least, Imam was kind enough to spare me that torture.

A few days after my encounter with Imam, I went to see my older brother-in-law. He had already cut all his business ties with Imam, because he didn’t want to be involved in any kind of illegal business deals. I always respected him for his honesty and always went to him whenever I needed any advice. I didn’t tell my in-laws why I went to see their older son. But I knew that they wouldn’t object to any of my decisions. My mother-in-law never asked any questions, and my father-in-law never doubted my judgment. I asked my older brother to help me raise my son properly. I requested him to make arrangements to send Jogi to a boarding school in Darjeeling. A few weeks later, my older brother-in-law paid us a visit and informed my in-laws that Jogi was to leave the house. He told them that a boarding school would be a better place for the young boy. My father-in-law instantly agreed, for he also knew that Imam was a lost cause.

One day, when Imam was leaving for his office, Jogi stopped him. “Dad, do you know where I am going tomorrow?” He asked him.

“No.”

“Karseyong.”

“Really? Why?”

“I’m going to a boarding school. Didn’t you know? Uncle is taking me there tomorrow.”

Imam went to his parents and charged them, “Did you know that Armaan is going away to a boarding school?”

“Yes, didn’t you?” my father-in-law said. “Then again, how would you know? Or, why would you care? All you care about is your money. Anyway, make sure you go to the airport to see him off tomorrow. Give him a chance to remember you with respect. A child must have some respect for the father.”

“But Shefa! Did she agree on this? Why didn’t she tell me?” Imam was still persistent.

“She’s the one who wanted it. And, Imam, it’s really unfortunate that you still haven’t learned to understand her.”

Utterly shocked, Imam came back to his room. I was making his bed when he stepped in. He looked pale. Was he feeling sick? Why didn’t he go to work? I asked him. Imam kept his eyes fixed on me but said nothing. I asked him to take rest and went to get some tea for him.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything? Don’t I deserve to know?” He asked, when I brought him his tea.

“Of course, you do, but you are so busy! When do you have time for these unnecessary family details?” I said curtly.

“I know, and I am sorry. Why didn’t you remind me of my duties to my family?” Imam got excited and held my hand tightly. “Let go of my hand, Imam,” I said in a firm voice, “This is a hand of vice, remember? It’s a sin for you to touch me....”

“But how could you forget me? Do you think I don’t love any of you?”

“Don’t be so heart-broken. It is for his benefit that we are sending him there. Your father also wanted this, and I am okay with this decision. Now, compose yourself and take some rest. I have to go to pack Jogi’s luggage.”

“Promise to come back to me as soon as you can. Promise!” Imam pleaded.

Was he really back to his senses? Had he come back to me, after neglecting me for all these years? I could not believe it! Something had happened somewhere in Imam’s life, and he was changing!

Jogi was quite excited. He kissed us and boarded the plane with his uncle. I wore a smile on my face for my son even though my heart was bleeding inside me. Before boarding the plane, Imam’s older brother had taken Imam aside and had advised him to be a responsible man. “Make sure you build up a good relationship with your daughter,” he told Imam, “You are a lucky father of two beautiful kids, and remember, the bond between a father and a daughter is the most beautiful one.”

Imam and I stood there like two grief-stricken statues, as our son waved at us and left for his new life ahead. Nothing made sense to me anymore as we headed home. Imam was saying something, but I couldn’t pay attention. All I could hear was my Jogi’s voice, calling out for me, “Ma! Mom! Ma!”

At home, my mother-in-law tried to console me, telling me of her pains of separation from her youngest son, Aman, who had immigrated to the USA. “At least your son will visit you in six months,” she said, “But think about me. My little boy has settled in a country so far away and married a white girl. Will he ever come back home? Will I ever see him? I don’t think so. But look at you! You have a son, who will visit you, and you have a daughter whom you have to raise now. And then you have us.”

The woman’s affectionate words finally worked. I got hold of my emotions and asked if my father-in-law had his dinner. “How can he eat when you are suffering like this?” My mother-in-law said. I composed myself and ran to the old man, who was waiting for to be attended by me.

After President Ziaur Rahman’s assassination, Imam literally disconnected himself from the outer world. He stopped going to office and stayed home all day, reading books. Sometimes he would take Kunda out to play, and sometimes he would ask me to join him for an evening walk. He took me to the Parliament Building one day, but I refused to take a stroll around that cursed place. Nothing good ever happened there; no democratic parliament sat there to voice people’s opinion. It had totally failed to fulfill Banga-Bandhu’s dream. What a strong and affectionate man he was! I felt a sudden surge of emotion for that legendary man. Time passed slowly and I learned to adjust. My brother-in-law Aman had come back from the USA. My brother Santu had already immigrated to England. My parents divided their time equally between London and Dhaka so that none of their children felt neglected by them. As for me, I devoted my time to raising my children properly. I am a mother, and a unique one in my own right. I am a warrior mother. I had fought for the freedom of my country. I was not anything less than those who had died for the country; in fact, I believe my fight was more challenging and dangerous than theirs. The martyrs had given up their lives just once, while I had to give up my dignity a thousand times. People may slight my sacrifice and my husband may offend me with his remarks, but I am not bothered by such insults. I feel pity for those who fail to understand me; nothing frightens me anymore, for I know who I am: I am a glorious warrior and I will exit the world as such.

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

Translated in English by Fayeza Hasnat.