Bullets of `71: A Freedom Fighter's Story details Dr. Nuran Nabi's experience growing up in rural Bangladesh and living through the tumultuous episodes of the Bangladesh liberation movement and the liberation war. This is the true story of how a frail young man developed into a politically conscious student activist before transforming into a heroic freedom fighter in the Bangladesh Liberation War.

Throughout Dr. Nabi's narrative, the untold stories of the Bangladesh Liberation War unfold. The sacrifices and heroic actions captured through Dr. Nabi's words define more than his accomplishments, they define his entire generation. The Bangladesh Liberation War was a people's war. Men and women, young and old, students, farmers, bureaucrats, laborers, political activists, and defected Bengali soldiers of the Pakistani military, all joined the liberation war. Bullets of `71 is their story.

The Bangladesh liberation war was bloody. Three million people were killed, thousands of women were raped, and ten million people were forced to become refugees. However, this story transcends the events of the war. It explores the political backdrop amongst China, the United States, the Soviet Union, and India. Dr. Nabi effectively illustrates how the selfish decisions of a few world leaders led to millions of crimes perpetrated against humanity.

But among all the pages in this book none are more candid and horrific than those that cover the atrocities committed by the Pakistani military. Although the Bangladesh genocide unfolded during the nine months of the liberation war, Dr. Nabi thoughtfully separates these stories to remind us of why he and his fellow freedom fighters fought.

Bullets of `71: A Freedom Fighter's Story is the most authentic account of the events that transpired in 1971 Bangladesh. It is a captivating story that captures the elements of the universal struggle for freedom.

Bullets of '71

A Freedom Fighter's StoryBy Nuran Nabi Mush Nabi

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Dr. Nuran Nabi
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-4378-4

Chapter One

GROWING UP

Joy around! Joy forever!

Regaining consciousness, I found myself in my mother's lap. I opened my eyes trying to make sense of what had happened. A worried crowd looking down at me and chanting prayers had surrounded me. All I could remember was that I was shivering with a burning fever and severe headache before I collapsed.

The incident took place at the residence of my eldest aunt. We went there to attend the wedding of her daughter. It was the rainy season. The rainwater flooded the banks of the nearby river, swallowing the whole village.

The accumulated water in the open space in front of the house was about two to three feet deep. The water, which came through the paddy fields, was so transparent under the sunny azure sky that you could see everything, even the occasional fish darting off from one side to the other.

Everyone in the house was busy with the wedding. We children took this opportunity to sneak out and play in the water. However, after so many hours of fun, it was clear that my rambunctious activity in the water caused my high fever. As a result, I was sick throughout the night. My mother scolded me for being an added headache to the already hectic wedding preparations. This episode marked the beginning of the 1950s for me. I was about five or six at that time.

The grand wedding was over without me. My mother was embarrassed by the stress I caused, but my aunt consoled her and told her that there was nothing to feel guilty about. Falling sick was natural and we were all susceptible to illness at anytime.

The next day, my aunt bade us farewell with kisses and hugs, as we set out for home by boat. The rainwater had not let up over the last few days. Floods had ravaged the whole area.

Just one week ago, our journey to my aunt's house was time consuming, as our boat had to hug each and every bend of the river. But by the time we departed, the boundaries between land and water had blended. Our boatmen could now save time by sailing over the short footpath that was recently ingested by the river. There were two boatmen with us who were sailing our boat.

My father sat in the front of the boat. From there, he enjoyed exchanging greetings with the passing travelers and villagers. My mother and I were inside the covered shelter of the boat. I heard the world outside and longed to come out and sit by my father's side. But, my mother would not let me out from under the canopy. She was afraid that if I was exposed to the open air that I might get sick again.

Her fear was not without reason. Her first child, my eldest brother Nazrul died of such a fever at the age of six. My parents were still deeply affected by his death. At one point, I started crying to come out of the covered shelter. My father said that as my fever had gone away, there was no danger from the open air; I could come out. And so, I leapt out and sat on my father's lap.

It was an afternoon in the month of Aashar (mid-June to mid-July). The sun was falling. The houses in the area were built on raised land, in order to protect against floods. These houses now resembled islands, as the roads and fields surrounding them had melted into the water. The people here were in desperate need of a boat just to travel from house to house. Nonetheless, life went on normally.

In the front courtyard of every house, I could see the bull and oxen driven milling of paddy from stalks. The animals yoked were forced to move in circles on the heaps of wet paddy stalks, but they never missed a chance to bite away a healthy mouthful of paddy plants. As punishment, the farm worker immediately thrashed a bamboo cane on their wide backs.

After passing a number of villages, we came to a point in our journey where we had to take a direct route across a wide waterway to get to our village. The long pole used by the chief boatman to push the boat forward was now useless. He had no choice, but to raise the sail. The once small lake, east of our village, now appeared larger than the widest ocean. The villages on the north and south sides were hardly visible. Each corner of the area; from Falda in the south, to Bornigram in the north, to Comilla and Belua in the east, and to Fulbari and Khamarpara in the west, was now a vast expanse of water. There was water everywhere. I had never seen so much water. It seemed as if the sky and water met at the horizon like two old friends frolicking to embrace.

The evening slowly crept in. The reddish glow of the setting sun danced on the rippling surface of the water. It was as if nature had cast a mystical spell over my body.

It was time for evening prayer. The sound of conch shells made before the evening prayer by the Hindus of Falda Village mixed with the Azaan of the Maghreb prayer by the Muslims of the western villages. An eternal bliss settled on the water, sky, and air. My father began his Maghreb prayer.

At this point in our journey, the treetops of our village had become visible, but there still was no sight of any houses. As it got darker and the night befell, fear skulked into my heart.

The head boatman kindled a kerosene lamp, which radiated a dim reddish glow. Images of Kana Bhoot, the fabled one-eyed ghost as described by my elder brother, were haunting my mind. This was the place where Kana Bhoot lived. Kana Bhoot took control of the minds of boatmen who traveled by night. And under its spell, boatmen would ply their boats throughout the night, only to find themselves back at the point from which they started.

I thought that I would ask my father about the story, but before I could open my mouth, my mother ushered me back under the canopy. She had already made my bed. It was getting cold so I slipped under the cotton quilt and drifted into sleep with the lullaby of the boatman's song. Exhausted, I wouldn't remember falling asleep.

The next morning, as I awoke, I found that the floodwater around our house had swelled up even more. The residential part of our small village circled a big pond. The farmland around the village was mostly for rice and jute, but was now buried under knee-deep waters. Amidst the gaps of the rice fields, villagers set up fishing nets to catch fish.

Fishing nets often trapped the abundant Koi fish. Hot rice with fried Koi fish was a delightful meal at both noon and in the evening. The Koi became thick, fatty, and tasty after getting plenty of nourishment thriving in the floodwaters.

We also often used fishing hooks to catch fish. It was always great fun. Pabda fish was particularly foolish. It used to swallow the bait almost immediately. However, the same was not so with Puti fish. This clever fish would take its time sniffing before it ever took the bait, constantly teasing you. It was so annoying how this fish tested one's patience.

Fishing pleasures came to an end within a few days. The Jamuna River was only ten miles west of our village. The floodwaters from the Jamuna rushed towards our village and inundated the entire area. Our house now stood just inches above water level. The water had already entered some other homes in the village. The affected people came to our house for shelter. The rice and jute were already submerged. My father told me that this was the most devastating flood of his lifetime.

We were now engulfed in the water. The sky was bright and blue. The...