::: Star Weekend Magazine :::

Writing the Wrong

Gasping at Victory

SHARBARI AHMED

The problems of victory are more agreeable than the problems of defeat, but they are no less difficult.”
– Winston Churchill

Believe me, I am loathed to quote Churchill, as he was a flagrant colonialist, but he speaks truth, and his words seem to pertain directly to Bangladesh at times. So, having been asked to ruminate on victory this is all I could come up with: the essence of victory, the quotidian kind, not the, we stormed the beach with one gun and kept five thousand Germans at bay kind, is about conquering your own pathetic fears. THAT is what victory is. Its heart lies in the small battles, the daily struggle to merely live in a way that won't compromise what and who you are every day. Fear tends to compromise everything, have you noticed?

Photo: Zahedul i khan

Sometimes it feels like the moment one steps out of their house, one is faced with challenges galore, usually in the form of cantankerous (or myopic) drivers who insist on cutting you off on the I-95 and then making a vulgar gesture at you when you honk at them. Triumph would have lain in not honking in the first place, I guess, but sometimes I allow my ego to declare victory over me. It is appalling how many people succumb to their egos and, thus, LOSE. So this is the paradox: when one decides not to react, they have somehow won something or gained the higher ground. Then, of course, there are those moments when one has to move. If people had not taken action in '71, we would still be second-class citizens of Pakistan, and that is the truth. Lord knows where I would have been. My family and I had to flee the Pakistani Army as they were gunning for my father. I was a baby and when we landed in Karachi they led him off the plane. How different my life would have been had he not returned from being questioned and the Pakistanis who had taken him in had the same, rather fluid ideas about interrogation the Bush administration did.

Today was one of those paradoxical days for me, when my conscience and my instinct came to the fore and I had to take action and then just stop reacting as the fall out reached its tendrils out and threatened to choke me. Was I victorious? Absolutely! Because I was true to myself. Was it a painful victory? Of course. The other side of victory is, naturally, defeat and someone always has to lose. Well, in this case, I was a loser as well. It was one of those things. Gosh! I hate that word, loser. But, there it is. Victory inevitably involves tremendous sacrifice and I am learning that in spades. Sometimes the price that is paid for triumph is felt across generations.

It is amazing how people's perceptions colour what is considered triumph and what is not. As I was researching December 16th, I found an article succinctly chronicling the chain of events and discussing some Pakistani General named Niazi who surrendered to his Bangladeshi counterpart. It was an informative article and started off innocuously enough. I quote one Shawkat Ali in Al Jazeera dated 2006: “Bangladesh gained independence after 9 months of a long and bloody struggle. India also commemorates victory over Pakistan on the same day in 1971 on Vijay Diwas...”

This seems simple, the author's objective appears clear, and then, boom!

“I as a Muslim, born in Britain whose parents are from Bangladesh do not celebrate this day nor regard it as a day of victory. How can there be victory and celebration when one Muslim country is divided and separated into 2 parts?

Nationalism divides Muslims and keeps us weak while unity and regulation of society based upon Islam unites and strengthens us.

InshAllah Pakistan will be re-unified again soon and millions of us East Pakistani Muslims make dua and work for unity again based upon the teachings of Islam and nothing else.

Below is a poem which I wrote to mark this sad anniversary which I hope will InshAllah be the last.

I am East Pakistan

Created in 1947

Torn from mother India

And divided from my brother

West Pakistan....”

I did not see that one coming! I actually read it twice, just to be sure. I know there are people who lament the division of the Pakistans, but I tend to dismiss them as severely misguided, like supporters of Sarah Palin or the LA Lakers. If I think about them too much, it distresses me. Just knowing they are out there, thinking their thoughts and sharing them with all and sundry, and gasp! Possibly converting people to their side gives me indigestion. Though, losing a few people to Kobe Bryant's undeniable talent is not the end of the world, but the Tea Party and Palin? It's apocalyptic.

The above ode to glorious Pakistan goes on in a similar vein, expounding on the pain of little East Pakistan being torn asunder from her benevolent Siamese twin. I wanted to say to Mr Ali, you know there are Siamese twins that are parasitic mister! That suck the very essence out of you. Mr Ali must be very young--or mentally ill. The thing is, to him and his ilk, the separation is a real tragedy. Imagine that. There are people out there who think Bangladesh should still be called East PAKISTAN!!!! I am trying not to judge, though it seems insupportable to me. Perhaps a better word would be illogical. I tried not to get outraged by the poem's sentiments. The fact is if one chose to be offended one could say that its words disavow the terrible sacrifice made by those who fought to preserve their freedom and homes, and indeed, express that it was all for naught.

When I calmed down, it made me think: it would have been interesting to see what would have happened had Bangladeshis been allowed to vote on the matter in 1947. I am suddenly not so sure things would have turned out very differently. The politicians in power at the time seemed to hold great sway over a confused, impassioned and vulnerable people. Who knows what would have happened?

I look at the direction the nation is going now and I feel that we have lost that which made us so gloriously different from those who tried to oppress us: our imagination. The fact that we used to be Bengali first, Muslim, gasp! Second was what held us apart. We are the storytellers, the filmmakers, the singers, the dancers, the painters, the poets, the actors, the philosophers that even the British had to grudgingly admire, and though some argue that all art is divine and bears God's signature, we did not allow our art to be defined by our religion. It was about CULTURE, not dogmatism.

If Mr Ali was in front of me that is what I would tell him. Victory was Bangladesh's for that reason. She was, if nothing else, completely true to herself! Will she continue to be so? That remains to be seen.