Olive Valley (Monga Caravan)

বাংলা গল্পের পাশাপাশি ইংরেজী গল্পগুলোও তুলে দিচ্ছি সচল বন্ধুদের জন্য। ভালো-খারাপ-ভুল-সঠিক লাগাটা আসবে আপনাদের পক্ষ থেকে। আমাকে জানালে পরবর্তীতে লক্ষ্য রাখা যাবে।

ধন্যবাদ।

Olive Valley

An unusual kind of roundtable discussion is taking place these days in Dhaka. The paper-tigers of government and non-government sectors and civil society cannot digest food without attending these 'barkshops' that are generally high on media's priority lists. Served with fresh coffee and mineral water bottles, such round- or oval-tables are host to discussions on good governance, poverty alleviation, millennium goals, fight against AIDS, women empowerment and the works. It's all very well on the surface except that such lip-service has produced a huge amount of horses' eggs in the last more than three decades in Bangladesh. The grey line between metropolis and satellite has broadened, the haves have swallowed the dreams of the have-nots and those seated across these round-tables have made fortunes in-between sips of scalding coffee.

So for a change let's call upon discussants that never did nor would ever get a chance to be invited to any table conference: a bereaved father whose son, Asad, died on Jan 19, 1969, during protests against the West Pakistani rulers. Another, whose communist son, Siraj Shikdar, was killed by Bangladeshi rulers a few years after Independence on Jan 2, 1975. Sitting next to him is Col Taher's father. Col Taher was tried by the country's military junta on Jul 21, 1976. Next is a man whose son Noor Hossaini's body was found with a slogan written on his chest "Long Live Democracy, Down with Autocracy". That was on Dec 10, 1987, the time of another military junta. The last on the panel is an aboriginal old man who recently lost his son, Chalesh Richil, on Mar 18, 2007.

These five fathers represent those countless families who have lost their children to various regimes; culled like diseased birds. As environmental concerns gather momentum, modern-day rulers can no longer afford to hunt freely to satisfy their id, ego and super ego. The following discussion is true to form and in no way exaggerated. First, let's give the floor to Asad's father:

"My son was killed while protesting against West Pakistani rulers; rulers who in the name of federation suppressed our rights from the moment the British left this region. When we gained Pakistan in 1947 we believed our dog days to be over. It was a false dream. East Pakistan was again turned into a colony; the only thing that changed was the face of our colonizer.
Both displayed similar characteristics. Our fate didn't chnage, so we had to fight back and raise our voice against the West Pakistani military junta. My son was amongst those courageous young Bengalis who came out on the streets. I don't mourn his death because whenever I look at the flag of my country I know that he shed his blood to give radiance to our freedom and identity.I am proud to have fathered a son like Asad."
At this point Shiraj Shikdar's father takes the floor.

"When we achieved our dream delta named Bangladesh in 1971 after a bloody freedom fight, we believed it to be the end of our history of subjucation. But as ill-luck would have it, social inequality didn't die out. A group of emerging money monsters took over the space left by those we drove away to West Pakistan. My son Shiraj joined an underground resistance movement against these unipolar neo-bourgeois; he wanted to see equal distribution of wealth in society. We all started out with full faith on the new leadership of our burgeoning nation. But day by day our hearts got broken and our dreams got shattered. Perhaps democracy, too, is nothing but utopia, tolerating no opposition, crushing every voice of dissent. My son Shiraj was killed in broad daylight. I have shed no tears for him because he sacrificed his life for the deserving, for the have-nots and for those who could not fight back. I have no reason to shed tears at his heroic death."

Taher's father nods his head in familiarity. He, too, fathered a hero.

"My son, Col Taher was a freedom fighter of 1971, yet his dream of freedom, too, was not honored. Like before, those at the periphery remained at the periphery, at times even pushed further away. Being a true freedom fighter he led the path to people's revolution. A top to bottom dreamer, he knew what was not right, he even knew what he wanted but it could be that he didn't know how to get there. Summoning civilians and soldiers, he delivered his dream. Surely there can be nothing wrong in that. But his dream was taken to be a revolution and he became victim of a tragic trial. Obviously threatened by his dreams the very military junta that was the anchor of his faith carried out his trial. My son was too naïve to know that power mongers are cream-eaters by nature. He was sentenced to death; not an ordinary one but the death of a dream revolution. I don't regret it because my son has proved to me that dreams have the power to defeat death."

Noor Hossain's father, a very simple man, didn't know till the end that his son was born to be a great man. The realization came when he saw his son's death photograph. Written on his chest was a slogan for democracy. It was then that he tried to think hard as to what this much used and abused word 'democracy' really meant: is it food, three times a day, or doctor, in case of illness, simply shelter from sun and rain, or simply protection from the harassment of political mafias, police and army. He was driven over by a lorry of the junta, but the slogan against autocracy written on his chest could not be crushed.

"My son went to a protest rally. I tried in vain to stop him because I knew that a king comes as a king goes but the son of a poor man like me never returns. Politics is game for rich and big; not our piece of cake. So I had begged him not to risk his life, but when I saw his death triggering the downfall of a dictator, my small hut felt like a palace of glory. The dictator is still alive: never say the fallen mighty are not given space to manipulate justice. But when I see ordinary people paying tribute and placing wreaths at the Noor Hossain Square, my chest worn thin by poverty swells up and I proudly pronounce that I am the father of Noor Hossain the patriot."

Chalesh Richit's father is an aboriginal son of the soil who still believes that the forest where he was born belongs to his god who has given the ownership of that land to the sons of soil. He is unaware of the colonial masters staking their claim on the land of god. In the garb of rapid urbanization, the state has engulfed their rainforest and red valley, marginalizing the natives and ignoring with impunity the blood-rights of ancient dwellers. The state went so far as to attempt money-making by encaging the sons of soil in a zoo named eco-park. Touted as a forward-looking environment-friendly approach towards preservation, this attempt of a modern state, indeed, was nothing but abuse of the right to privacy of a dying race. Chalesh led the movement against the desecration of his people's honor. He tried to explain that ancient dwellers cannot be subjugated as tourist attraction. Some far eastern or western back-packer on holiday to satisfy his thirst for tranquility would be the last nail on their coffin. Their land cannot be a retreat for those who wish some time off from the maddening crowd and find the natives to be of as much interest for their postcards as the safari park itself, with its exotic greenery, red landscape, birds and animals.

It was neither 1944 nor Auswitz, yet Chalesh was abducted to a concentration camp. He saw a modern state beat him to death. Using all their muscle and cruelty the powerful agents of the state blindfolded and tied up his hands and legs tied up the way hunters lay claim to a tiger. They put salt into the wounds made by their sharp knives, enjoyed throwing cold and hot water at him, perhaps using an edged olive branch to blind a tiger.

"My son disappeared and then flew towards the sky to dazzle like a star. On starry nights I sit alone on a small hill to watch Chalesh twinkle from above. That makes me the happiest father on earth."

It's a relief to know that all these five bereaved fathers are content in the glory of their heroes. We were on the verge of concluding this roundtable discussion on a positive note when suddenly an old man stormed into the room wailing and crying for justice from God:
"Recently, my son, a simple and harmless boy, went to a voter registration centre to be part of the historic democratization of Bangladesh. My village was in festivities for being included in this process. In the middle of our joy someone ran into my house to tell me that my son has been killed and his body is lying in the police station. I was given three different versions of his death and then the officer in charge scolded me for fathering a miscreant. I cried and cried and told him that that my son was innocent, a law abiding man, he expected to be a voter, dreamt of getting a national identity card and sometime in future hoped to be able to choose his leader. He had a clean track record, that of a poor young man struggling to collect food for his family. A dead body cannot speak out but even truth didn't stand up for him. If only for truth we could have had the right to give him a crimson burial. All I got was a lift for his dead body in an olive jeep: 'so kind of you sir. You gave me the dead body. God bless you sir!'"

(end)