Call of duty

Inam Ahmed and Julfikar Ali Manik
How journalists rose to the occasion to cover Dec 16

A photographer missed the final snap of General Niazi laying down his revolver in surrendering to the allied forces as he ran out of films; a reporter had only one chance to ask a question to Gen Niazi; a news editor did not know how to get his team members together to bring out the newspaper.

And yet another photographer, who had taken at least 300 rolls during the nine months of war, could not take the best shots in his life, as his assistant lay dying in a hospital with a bullet wound.

That's how the journalists covered the finale when the Pakistan army surrendered to the allied forces on December 16, 1971. That's how the first newspaper of an independent Bangladesh came into being. That's how the frustrations and elation of the newspersons translated into a newspaper.

The Dhaka war theatre proved too uncertain for them and they covered the most dramatic event in the history of the nation without being assigned. Still, they did it because they were all professionals to the core.

On that chilly winter afternoon, the journalists were the least prepared for the curtain to drop on a nine-month brutal war that saw a nation torn to bitten with the massacre of 3 million. Still they could feel the anticipation in the air -- that freedom is just round the corner, and that the people can once again breathe freely in a free country.

"Gen, what's your comment?"

"Comment? You need it? Nothing," that's what Hedayet Hossain Morshed got from Lt Gen AKA Niazi, the man who waged the most ferocious genocide in history in the then East Pakistan that was later to become Bangladesh after much of blood and fire.

It was perhaps the last and only answer that came from a droopy-faced Niazi after he put down his rank badge.

And Aftab's 120mm double-reflex lens Yashika camera went on clicking from the moment the Indian army had arrived in front of Hotel Intercontinental, now Dhaka Sheraton. Only, his rolls finished just after taking the last picture -- Niazi putting his signature on the instrument of surrender.

Away in Bangshal, the news editor of Dainik Pakistan, later to turn into Dainik Bangla, Fauzul Karim Tara, waited anxiously inside home as chaos and confusion marked by staccato gunshots echoed around the locality on that winter afternoon. For him, the first working day in independent Bangladesh began actually a day later, for his newspaper office did not open on December 16.

But then on December 17 proved to be the most glorious day of his life as Tara turned the key on the iron vault. He reached out and with all the care fished out the 'mast' -- 'Dainik Bangladesh' written above a crossed-out 'Dainik Pakistan' headpiece -- that he had prepared months before the grand day came. His hands trembled, his heart thumped, for he had been waiting for this day to come through the thick of the nightmare.

But the risks and uncertainties of the day did not deter Morshed from coming out to the streets on December 16 morning.

"We knew victory is at the door," Morshed recalls the day almost dim in the memories of many. "And we had prior information from sources that the Pakistan army is going to surrender today. At around 11 in the morning, a friend named Ferdous Azmi and I decided to go out."

Ferdous had a white Fiat car. They made a Bangladesh flag -- green and red with a golden Bangladesh map in the middle -- and hit the road.

"I saw people grouping around the corners. But no cars on the empty asphalt roads. A strange barrenness, rather a sadness enveloped the city. People looked at our car in confusion and consternation."

Around the same time, Aftab took out his Italian Vespa and sputtered around the city and then headed for the cantonment.

"I heard on the BBC, Shwadhin Bangla Betar and Akashbani on December 15 night the Indian ultimatum to Pakistan army to surrender by next day. On December 16 morning, Akashbani said General Jacob is coming to Dhaka around 12 o'clock and the Pakistan army would surrender. I thought something must happen in the cantonment," Aftab recollected. "But as I reached near the place where today's Sonargaon Hotel is, I saw a convoy of cars crawling towards Shahbagh."

Aftab pulled his Vespa by the railroad that used to run through there and let the convoy pass, and then tailed it to Hotel Intercontinental.

When Morshed reached Race Course, later renamed Suhrawardy Udyan, because he vaguely caught some conversations between the Pakistan army and Indian troops on a powerful FM radio and got the hint that the Race Course might be the place for the curtain to drop.

Somewhere near the Race Course, he saw some people aimlessly moving around. Confused, Morshed went away to see more of the city and then returned to the Race Course where some people were trying to set an iron table on the ground.

"I probably saw some Indian troops. But no one could actually say whether the surrender ceremony was going to be held there," said Morshed.

So, he went away to see more of the city.

About the same time, Aftab was standing on the bonnet of the jeep of an Indian brigadier at the corner of Intercontinental to snap the cheering crowd. The people were embracing the Indian troops.

Suddenly, the Paksitan army started firing from nowhere. There were raw panic and confusion. The Indians were firing too.

"We jumped onto the ground and lied low," Aftab describes the moment. "Everything was in confusion. I took some snaps, but could not care to focus. As the shots stopped, I found the brigadier dead in his jeep, bodies of Pakistani soldiers and revellers littered the street."

As order was returning to the scene, Aftab saw choppers flying overhead, he knew it's time to head for the Race Course again.

"I saw Aftab in the Race Course," Morshed chips in. "I just said hi and edged towards a place already circled by troops."

The choppers hovered above the ground and more troops slid down to the ground by rope.

"And then I saw the troops walking fast in our direction -- Niazi, Haider, Aurora and others. I started taking shots," Aftab continues.

The heroes and villains are still held in suspended animation. Niazi, head down, taking long strides beside Aurora. A defiant Haider looking ahead with a puffed up chest.

A contingent of Indian soldiers stood still. Two of them stepped forward and stood beside Niazi to walk him down the row for a guard of honour.

"The two soldiers started walking, but Niazi did not. He stood still, like a statue. A nice shot for a photographer," Aftab's eyes looked dreamy.

"Finally, Aurora put his hand on Niazi's shoulder, his long-time friend, his foe for the past nine months. The soldiers sat down," says Morshed. "As a reporter, my instincts bristled. I devoured every moment. I drank every fraction of the scenes," Morshed's voice grew thick.

The instrument of surrender was signed. And Aftab's camera clicked once again.

"The light was really bad. The winter sun was fading and I was so tensed that hardly could I focus or set the aperture right," says Aftab.

It was time to lay down the arms. But Aftab's camera won't click anymore. He has run out of film.

"For a few seconds, I could not believe my bad luck," said Aftab. "I was bewildered and panicked. I rushed out of the park and jumped on my scooter. I headed for the stadium, hoping to get a film before it is too late. And I finally got it at a cigarette shop near the stadium. But when I returned, everything was over. I could not take the final shot."

Around the same time, Rashid Talukder who worked for Sangbad as photographer came out on his blue Vespa and Roliflex 120 camera as it was talked all around that Pakistan is going to fall any moment.

"I was loaded with all the rolls I would need to cover the day," said Rashid. "As I reached Fakirapul, I saw some Pakistani soldiers fleeing towards Razarbagh police line, firing blank shots to protect themselves from the wrath the Bangalees."

He saw some bodies littered on the road near The Bangladesh Observer office.

"People were looting the central bank and the governor's house now called Bangabhaban," he recalls.

"At Tikatuli, I saw an Indian tank. The Indian troops asked me to show the way to the airport. It was around noon. I escorted them all the way to Tejgaon and then headed back to Shaheed Minar where some freedom fighters had gathered."

He was taking snaps. And then news came that the Pakistan army is in the Race Course to surrender.

"As I was about to go, one of my neighbours came panting and told me that my studio assistant, Shahjahan, has been shot by a stray bullet from Pakistan army near Fakirapul. Someone said my eight-month old daughter who was in Shahjahan's cradle has also been shot."

In a panic, Rashid scooted off to home to find a bleeding Shahjahan.

"My daughter was unhurt. But Shahjahan was in a critical condition with a bullet wound in the neck. I took him to Dhaka Medical College Hospital at about 4:30pm."

Rashid knew he is missing the most glorious moment for Bangladesh. But he could not leave Shahjahan, the little boy of 13 lying in a shock, life slowly bleeding out of him.

In the hospital, Rashid came to know that the surrender ceremony was over. With a heavy heart he came out and headed for home.

"I know my life as a photographer remained unfulfilled because I could not cover the best event in my life. It is like committing suicide," Rashid's voice grew thick.

That night Shahjahan died. Rashid later renamed his studio 'Studio Shahjahan' that still stands at Purana Paltan.

But Morshed's luck was better, much better he would say today. As soon as the ceremony was over, he grabbed the chance of asking Niazi: "Gen, what's your comment?"

It was already getting dark. Thirty-four years back, there was less dust in the air and the closing lights looked rather bluish, not the yellow hue of today.

In that blue late afternoon, Tara wondered what has been going around as intermittent gunshots reverberated in the narrow alleyways of Bangshal. He knew a nation has been born. But he still was not sure whether it was safe to go out. The night came with an eerie feeling.

"I thought of my colleagues. I wondered if I would get them together to bring out the paper," Tara said. "It was an impossible time. Nothing was sure, everything surreal. I knew it was not possible to bring out the paper that night and that I have to wait until the next day."

On December 17, only Ittefaq was published, just a one-pager, without any photograph. Aftab who worked for Ittefaq cannot remember how the paper came out on the 17th. He says he submitted his photograph to the office on the 18th. The 19th issue of the Ittefaq carried his snap of the surrender ceremony.

But other papers started office from December 17.

Aftab's office, Ittefaq, had been torched soon after the Pakistan army cracked down on March 25 night. He did not know if he has the job, whether it meant anything in a devastated office with his news editor Sirajuddin Hossain killed by the Razakars and Al-Badrs who collaborated with the Pakistanis.

Still he knew he has to go to office and submit his pictures.

In his small studio at Shahjahanpur, he developed the pictures and then went to office in the afternoon.

Morshed went to Dainik Pakistan office in the evening of December 16 but found nobody to work. There was a Beluch guard who opened the gate; he went to his desk and wrote the report. The next day, he went to office again around 11 in the morning with his report.

"There were already some journalists and employees in the office," recalls Morshed.

"Everybody was cheering and embracing each other. We could not hold back tears," recalls Tara.

"But then it was time for work. None of us were assigned to cover the event, none to write it, none to edit. But we knew it was our duty," Tara goes on. "I opened the safe and brought out in trembling hands the head piece that I had asked our artist Kalam Mahmud to prepare about two months back."

"I dropped the report on the news editor's table and then went out," says Morshed. "I had a huge job ahead. I had to look for my freedom fighter friends, friends who went missing, comrades."