When, on March 25, the Pakistani military attacked Dhaka University, Pilkhana, Rajarbagh Police Line and other places, they attacked our house on Dhanmondi's road number 32, as well. They arrested father that night for declaring Independence. As planned, when the Pakistani occupation forces attacked the unarmed Bengalis around 11pm, the declaration of independence was transmitted all around the country on the East Pakistan Rifles' (EPR, now Bangladesh Rifels) wireless system. Telegrams were also sent to all districts and thanas. People were assigned for this particular task from before, as part of a pre-planned programme.

Around 11pm, Rehana, my maternal cousin Jelly and I were taken to another house, in fear that the Pakistani forces would attack our home. Our home was surrounded by detectives; helicopters were hovering above with their search-lights on our house. When our car left the driveway, they shed their search-lights on our car too. Around 1am, they attacked our house and killed Khokon outside. They arrested father. Before January 8, 1972 we received no news about whether he was alive or dead or where he was taken.

The next day when they attacked our home again, Maa took shelter at our neighbour's house with Russel. The curfew started on the night of the 25th continued through March 26, but it was relaxed around 3-4pm on March 27. That's when we went from house to house looking for shelter as the Occupation forces kept control of our home.

For two months, we changed our location 19 times with no certainty whether we were going to eat or not. We would be in one place today, but move to another tomorrow. We spent days after days like this, with hardly a place to sleep.

I faced this crisis when I was pregnant, just when I wanted to eat a lot of things. But where would I get the food? We kept spending our days like this, with Maa unable to leave me in such condition. In the meantime, Kamal had left to join the liberation war.

Around this time, we were arrested from a house in Maghbazar and taken to a small house on Dhanmondi's road number 18.

They gave us only a blanket and a chair for the family. There was no food and there was nothing to cook food with. When they arrested us we hadn't even had our lunch and we had to stay like that through the day and into the night. Anyhow, victims would surely know how it feels to be imprisoned.

While spending our days like this, I got slight labour pains four weeks before the baby was due. They sent me to the hospital and the pains remained for another week. As I was writhing in pain, Maa could not be there next to me. When Maa wanted to come to the hospital, a government representative made it clear: "What will you do by going to the hospital? There are doctors and nurses at the hospital and they will look after her. Are you a nurse or a doctor? You are neither. You can't go."

Maa broke down in tears when she heard this and said, "I am a mother. I want to stay with my daughter. My daughter is suffering; I want to give her strength, I want to give her my prayers; I want to give her confidence."

But these tears carried no value for the Pakistani Occupation army. They were perhaps happy that they were making Maa suffer so much while I lay there in pain and with every pang of pain I was crying out mother's name. I was in a lot of pain for a week. Then Joy came. I thanked Allah a thousand times that the Almighty gave me a healthy baby. But can I ever forget the pain of not having my mother next to me?

In 1981, when I was elected as the Awami League President in absentia, Joy was nine and a half and my daughter was eight years old. Leaving them with Rehana I took a stand next to the people, with the Awami League divided in two or three factions. Bangladesh was under military rule. I tried to rebuild the party and simultaneously carried on the struggle for democracy. Joy and Putul grew up without the love and warmth of motherhood. When they needed their mother the most, they did not get their mother next to them. Even when they were brought back to Dhaka and enrolled into school in 1983, I was either imprisoned or under house arrest. Their education kept suffering.

When I was imprisoned in 1985, father's friend Aziz Sattar Uncle took Joy and Putul to Nainital and enrolled them in schools there. They lived in hostels thereafter and came back and lived in the small two-bedroom apartment at Mohakhali's Atomic Energy quarters. I would stay so busy even then that I could not spend any time with them. They studied at a missionary school at a modest cost and didn't even receive good food. Even though I'm their mother, I robbed them of their mother's warmth for the sake of the country and the people. I deeply love the people of my country. I can't stay away from them. But, I carried my children and the pull of their warmth and love compels me to spend time with them, too. Who doesn't like to spend time with their children and their grandchildren? I don't look at the people and my children in different lights. I have perhaps given 300 out of 365 days in a year to the people. But, even then, I am grateful to Allah for giving my children a good education and raising them to become good human beings. That is my greatest attainment.

I lost my parents and brothers on 15 August, 1975. My sister Rehana and I had to spend time overseas. When I have suffered so much for the sake of my two children, I was not allowed to stand next to them when they needed me the most. Why did they make my daughter suffer so much? Meanwhile, there are all these games being played with the democratic rights of the country's people. How much more should Bangladeshis suffer? They aren't even letting me stand next to them.

In 2007, I stand here as a citizen of a free country. My daughter is pregnant and she will give birth within a few days. Doctors have said that her baby is due on the ninth of this month. I thought I would go a few days early. She drives for an hour to get to work and she worked until June 24. She thought if she earns more money, it will be easier to receive a longer maternity leave. So she had to drive to work carrying this child inside her. At least I could have cooked for her; taken a little care of her. She was to cook after coming back from work, look after her children and do everything else. You cannot get maids in the United States, they cost too much and my daughter cannot afford them. I thought I would go to Putul in June. I even booked a ticket. I was about to start. But there were three layers of security with hundreds of police. They even instructed the airport authorities not to allow me to fly off. They have filed two false cases. When I went to visit Joy's sick wife and tried to return, they wouldn't let me return. Now they will not let me leave.

I am a mother, after all. My daughter is very depressed. When she feels some pain, she calls me and asks, "Maa, when will you come here?" What answer should I give her? I cannot directly tell her that I am living a 'detained' life, no one's even allowed to visit me.

The current government will not let me go.

She will have to go to the hospital within another 3 or 4 days. When she will call for her Maa, she will not find me next to her. The pain that I felt in 1971, will my daughter suffer the same pain? Aren't we living in a free country? Putul, your mother could not come to you. Can you forgive you mother for this failure, please?

I want to know what is my crime that I cannot be next to my daughter. Are we still living in the same 1971? (Translated from Bangla)

The above text was sent to the press yesterday by the writer, who is President of AL and former PM.