Myriam Chandna is a Professional Writing and English major at Carnegie Mellon University. She is an avid reader, writer, and dreamer – with a strong bias towards the last of those exertions.

Here, she narrates a part of her ancestors’ history. The Pakistani civil war in 1971 ended in declaring East Pakistan as an independent nation- Bangladesh. Myriam recalls the political upheaval of that specific era as narrated by her grandmother who gives history a touch of human suffering, standing on what had been lost as a Pakistani.  An exceptional story about an exceptional woman- Alya Naqi Ahmed Chandna- may God rest her soul. 

 

 

 

 

 ““I Must Survive…” – Alya Naqi Ahmed Chandna”, by Myriam Chandna

 

 

“Tip, tip, tip…”

The monsoon played a soothing tune, lightly beating against the window sill. The cool breeze wafted through the slightly ajar window, bringing in with it subtle drops of water. As the moonlight tiptoed through the window, her old wrinkled face swathed its luminous glow. I rested my head on her soft lap.

“I wish you had gotten the opportunity to see him. He would have set an excellent example for you to look up to,” She said quietly.

Not surprised at her suddenly bringing up the topic, I sat up straight, facing her.

Her dull, gray eyes were not focused on me. They were staring straight ahead, out the window, as if searching for someone who had given her a time, and not arrived.

I knew who “He” was, however, I chose to stay silent. “He” was always a part of her conversations. Sometimes, within a sentence or two. At others, he was the hero of her anecdotes. But whenever “He” came into the picture, a sense of nostalgia pervaded the air around her.

“He used to say I was the most beautiful woman in the world,” She said proudly, though in a tone full of wretchedness.

 

Her gray eyes were not faded anymore. They had a certain sparkle in them. Here thin lips wore a gentle smile. She looked intently into the barren plain beyond the window. The downpour intensified.

“He said it that morning as well. I remember I wore the pastel blue sari he brought me from Calcutta. He told me he bought it for me because it resembled the color of my eyes,” She explained, as she drifted off into a world unknown to me. Nevertheless, I followed her, traveling with her into passageways of the past.

 

 

 

 

1971, East Pakistan

 

            The birth of East Pakistan was the result of an earnest effort by Mohammed Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan, as he refused to barter away the future of a large chunk of Muslim population. The partition of the subcontinent of Hindustan into two countries, India and Pakistan, in 1947 left an exceptional mark in the history of the region. While India comprised of one contiguous territory, Pakistan was a unique entity never seen before. It was one country, but divided into two parts, East Pakistan and West Pakistan. Though separated by 1000 miles of Indian territory, these two wings were joined by the common thread of religion – Islam. The following decades saw neither the sincerity, nor the purpose; neither the brilliance nor the vision of Mohammed Ali Jinnah. They composed of mere infidels, strutting out to establish a system of government where corruption, nepotism and self-interest became institutionalized, setting the stage for the destruction of one of the largest Islamic states in the world. However, this obliteration building up behind the rigid doors of bureaucratic and political chambers was unseen to naked eye of the common man, in 1971, as it was to Alya Naqi Ahmed Chandna, my now 68 year old grandmother.

             Life was glorified by its simplicity. Lack of materialism and excessive needs marked the persona of the ordinary man. People, generally, were content with what they possessed and largely undemanding. Cars and televisions were considered a luxury.

“The first time he brought the television home, he told me to switch it on,” she recalled. “It took me a while to find the correct button,” she added with a chuckle. What my grandmother, living a life of contended bliss, could not see coming was the havoc wreaked by the self-serving rulers of Pakistan, who instead of consolidating the gift of Jinnah, sowed the seeds of a further division of Pakistan into two separate countries- Pakistan and Bangladesh. The Bengalis waged a systematic and brutal campaign of terror, aided and abetted by India, and carried East Pakistan into Bangladesh. And like many other women, Alya Chandna became a victim to this strategic violence.

             Truly handsome and highly educated, as she describes him, he was a quintessential gentleman in the true mould of an Army officer. “He looked just like an Englishman I tell you,” she said with a sense of admiration. “Far ahead of his times, immensely broadminded and farsighted. His intuitive vision was hardly witnessed amongst the commoners at the time,” she continued. “When I married him, I used to cover myself in a burqa (veil) as a part of my maiden tradition. One day after the wedding, he took it off my body and threw it away. I was shocked, and about to die of shame. Allah, I had never even seen him before the day we got married. But you know something, the minute I set my eyes on him, I fell in love with him,” she continued pensively, as her eyes filled with tears. “Those were his words child: “You are my equal, not my slave. From this moment, you walk with me, not behind me. And you are beautiful, so let everyone look at you and burn their heart out. You are mine.”” Her gaze softened, as it penetrated into the barren landscape beyond her eyes.

            The years leading up to 1971 were blessed with much happiness, if not much material wealth. She nurtured five children, of them three daughters and two sons, the youngest aged 5 at the time. They resided in the scenic Hill Tracts of Chittagong, the largest port city of  East Pakistan. She claimed that 1971 showed her the most prosperous year of her 19 years of marriage. She and her family lived lavishly by existing Pakistani standards, her children were growing up and attending some of the most prestigious schools in the country.

“Our home was beautiful, it was situated in the most picture-perfect locality. The grass was lush green, and he always made sure that he watered the mint and rose he planted himself. He simply adored their heavenly aroma. Our backyard was filled with lemon, mango and coconut trees,” she reminisced, with a gentle smile passing her lips.

Dwelling in the comfort of her peaceful home and family life, at that time, she was not aware of the approaching political storm in the country that would destroy the tranquility of her world forever.

            Regardless of the picturesque beauty of her world, the adverse political forces within and outside the country were painting an ugly sketch of the future. The East Pakistanis began to feel that the ruling West Pakistani elite treated them as inferiors. To an extent, this was true, due to the fact that the economic disparity between the East and West wings of Pakistan was too great to be missed even by the most novice of political observer. However, what really ticked off the East Pakistanis was the “superior” attitude of the West Pakistanis, which over a period of time became contagious amongst the West Pakistani public. As my grandmother described, “the Bengalis were no handsome people. An average East Pakistani was shorter and darker than an average West Pakistani, thus the Bengalis were usually the subject of mockery amongst their Western counterparts. This unfair discrimination against them triggered their hatred for us even more.” Also, senior positions in government were held by administrators and bureaucrats from West Pakistan. Some disgruntled politicians, instead of bridging the gap, resorted to divisive politics.

            “I once went to purchase items from the herbal store in the neighborhood, and actually overheard two Bengalis conversing with one another. One of them said, “I wonder whether independence from the British was a good thing after all. We just exchanged one master for another.” I did not know what he was talking about, until…” She fell silent.

And thus, the fire simmered under unsuspecting, uninvolved people like my grandmother, whose entire world revolved around her beloved husband and children, and whose sole concern was what they were all going to eat when they return from school and office.

“But na, not that I was an uneducated simpleton. I did not go till 12th standard like you, but for my time, I achieved the maximum I could, 9^th standard that was. Because that was the highest class we girls were committed to. My Urdu was not discreditable like yours at your present age, girl. I used to write a weekly column on miscellaneous topics for Jam-e-Jahan Numa, the daily Urdu newspaper. Yes, English, I learned from him,” she said. She continued to explain how she would also take part in volunteer work for people affected by natural calamities, such as cyclones and floods, which visited the East wing frequently.

            On 25^th March 1971, the populist Bengali leader Shaikh Mujib-ur-Rehman was arrested on charges of inciting a rebellion against the state of Pakistan. The Army ruled the country and was predominantly West Pakistani. This incident precipitated and gave rise to the bloody Pakistani Civil War. What had been seething for the past quarter century, seeped into the lives of several innocent families, one of them being my grandmother’s. As the army onslaught gained momentum, so did the rebellion. The entire population of East Pakistan rose against the rule of West Pakistan. Being the minority, they were not able to fight a disciplined and powerful army, thus, they turned their wrath on any “non-Bengali.” “Hundreds of thousands of innocent men, women and children were butchered by the marauding mob of those wild Bengalis, who saw in anyone, a West Pakistani enemy,” my grandmother said in a bitter tone. Her white brows furrowed, and tears began to stream down her creased face.

“He was not even in the Army by that time. He had gotten an early retirement and was living a simple, civilian life, working as an Administrator in Khulna Paper Mill. But those savages did not care. He thought of them as brothers. How many times did Zakir-Ul-Amin come over and have dinner at our place? But no! Those heartless, thankless animals did not care, they did not care”, she continued.

   

 

27^th March 1971, East Pakistan

 

             “It was past 4 in the evening. I waited for him under the shade of the mulberry tree in our garden. The sun went down and I was expecting to wait further for his arrival in the starry night. However, the stars never appeared. The sky was concealed with heavy clouds. I was scared. Really scared. I went inside to check on the children. They were all asleep, except for your father. He sat in his bedroom, as usual, playing with his wooden toy soldiers. It took me a while to put him to sleep. Then, I continued to wait, and wait, and wait…” She took a deep sigh. The tears continued to flow from her eyes as she lived her past once again. The rainfall outside became harder and more vigorous.

             “The new day dawned on me. I had fallen asleep on the porch waiting for him. I was awakened by the frenzied voices I heard in the neighborhood. Ear piercing screams and cries of pain filled my ears. One sentence I could clearly make out was, “Pakistan Murdabad!” (The destruction of Pakistan begins.) One by one, each of my little children came up to me, asking quizzically why their father did not come to wake them up or take them to school. I was speechless as I rushed them inside the house and locked the door behind us. A stone smashed one of the glass windows. We yelled with fright. I heard artillery blasting everything and saw from the window trees uprooted and the wet earth scorched by the intensity of the firepower. A second later, two shells landed by the window and the blast shattered them.

            Dazed at the sight before me, I locked my terrified children in the tiny store room, when I heard a loud knock on the door. I began to panic. What if it was my husband? I sprinted towards the door, but as I felt the aggressive calls coming nearer, I stopped in my tracks. Was I about to open the door to sanctuary or hell? As I was about to retreat, I heard a quick, hushed voice. “Alya bibi, Alya bibi! (Sister Alya) Open the door! It’s me, Abdul Kalam. I have news for you regarding Chandna bhai! Open the door!” I rushed to the door and Abdul Kalam scurried in. What he told me next stole the ground from under my feet.” Her eyes, glistening with the tears held within them, gushed them out rapidly.

“They captured him as he was returning from office. They told him that he was an enemy combatant, and thus would be treated like one. Abdul Kalam worked with your grandfather at the paper mill, and had witnessed this incident. Because he was a Bengali, he had managed to escape their grasp. I felt as if a lit matchstick had been set to my life, and was going to burn down with it my world forever. I begged Abdul Kalam for help. “I am a mere civil clerk bibi, I am ashamed but I am helpless. All that is in my hands is that I will inform you about your husband’s condition every now and then. I will try my best though, to bring him back to you,” he told me feebly. Abdul Kalam was my window to the world outside the safety of my home at that time, and to my husband. I waited every single day, every single moment, for him to return. However in vain. Hours turned into days, and days into months, but there was no sign of him. Abdul Kalam would secretly come and go, usually without providing any substantial information. Being inside for several days, I could always sense the chaotic atmosphere outside my home. There was a period, where Abdul Kalam totally disappeared. That alarmed me even more, as it created a barrier to my understanding of the situation. Without food, water, or electricity, and with five petrified children, I waited, waited, waited… A month had gone by, and no sign of him. Or anybody for that matter.

            We were slaves to starvation, when I finally decided to venture out of my house. I locked the children up in the store room once again, and set out to…I don’t know why I set out. Maybe because I had to. My children were starving, there was nothing to eat anymore. It took me not more than a few minutes to realize that I was in “ghost-town”. There was nobody. The streets were littered with rotting bodies and fat dogs. Blood caked the sidewalks. Flies buzzed everywhere and inhabited everything. I felt sick in the pit of my stomach. A little far down the road, I heard a faint cry. I stumbled across several dead bodies, and came upon a car on fire. Believe me, even as the flames rushed skywards, I recognized the car, in which I, my husband, and children went on drives together. It was mine. I stood there dumbstruck, unaware of three stragglers from the rebel army who were approaching me. I still remember,” she paused to reconcile her thoughts. “They were short, but well built. One of them gently touched my shoulder. They talked to me very politely, and asked me who I was. I, though incoherent with shock and grief at the moment, managed to convey to them that I was looking for my husband, who was missing for the past one month, and for some food for my children who were starved locked in a tiny room in her house. The three stragglers asked me to take them to my children, and also promised to help locate my husband. Overcome with relief, and desperately wanting to trust someone who could wake me up and end the nightmare, I hurriedly let them to my home. And that my child, was the worst mistake I could afford to make at that time.

            Once inside the house, the stragglers seized up my children. I cried resentfully to them out of dread and the shock of betrayal. My three girls were held up against the sofa chair, and the two boys were locked up in separate bathrooms. I was told that in order to free my husband and to save his life, I must collect all valuables in the house, such as gold ornaments and cash and hand them over to the stragglers. Also, my older son, your father, should go with them and enlist in the rebel army and fight against the “murderous” Pakistan army. My hands shaking, I quickly gathered all the valuables I owned and handed them over to one of the stragglers standing next to my sobbing daughters. After handing over the valuables, I pleaded them to tell me where my husband was. All they did, was laugh. Their malicious laughter filled the once peaceful air of my home. I wept and wept, they laughed and laughed. One straggler pulled out your father from one of the bathrooms, and dragging him, started marching towards the door. Another straggler gripped one of my daughters. I yelped in anger, “What are you doing? Where are you taking my children?” There was a laugh packed with malevolence. “Your son is going to be one of us. And the girl is for our commander!” came the reply. I thought I was about to faint, when the door was suddenly pushed open. Abdul Kalam and a group of rowdy looking men charged in and began to attack the stragglers. He told me to run with my daughters and he would bring my sons.  Totally disoriented with the bloody sight I saw in front of my eyes, in my own home, I ran out with my daughters, screaming to my elder son to follow with his brother. As I scampered across the empty streets, in the pitch black night, I prayed to God that my eyes would open and the nightmare would get over. But it didn’t. A few moments later, I heard Abdul Kalam shouting my name. I managed to look back, tears blurring my vision. He was running towards me with my two sons, one in his arms and one running alongside him.

            Abdul Kalam managed to sneak us into his house. And there, he walked me through my downfall. After detaining your grandfather, the rebel army forces had made him a prisoner, and kept him in a small windowless room for seven days. Every day, he was taken out for interrogation and they even held a mock trial, in which they sentenced him to death by firing squad,” she wept bitterly. Lightning struck and the mild rainfall exacerbated into a rainstorm. 

“On the 4^th of April 1971, the officers representing the rebel forced asked him to write out a confession that condemned the Pakistan Army as an army of rapists and murderers. His resistance angered them, and he was taken under armed guard to the banks of the Karnaphuli River, that ran from the hill tracks of Burma to the Bay of Bengal. He was never seen again. Abdul also told me with deep sorrow that those men captured were either shot, drowned, or locked up in custody of East Bengali rebels.

But his sorrow was nothing compared to the anguish that burned inside of me. I could not imagine my life without your grandfather. I was shattered, and my body fell numb. Abdul Kalam told if I wanted to save the lives of my children and myself, I would have to escape to West Pakistan as soon as possible. But how could I? What if he was alive? What if they let him go? What if he looked for me and my children after we had fled to the West? How could I leave him here?

             No matter how high my inclination, I was dreadfully short of time to answer my own questions. I looked at my children, huddled together in the corner of the room. I had to. I could not afford to cause them harm or lose them forever, like I lost him. Early before dawn, we set out on our journey to West Pakistan. Abdul Kalam’s wife had dressed me and my children up according to the Bengali style of dressing, so that we were able to mingle amongst the Bengalis and not get caught for being a Pakistani. Living in the area for quite some time, I and my children were quite fluent with the language. Our voyage was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausting. Every moment was a moment terror and anxiety. What if our train was captured by those people? What would I do if they took my children away? The trains were monitored strictly by the Bengalis. I kept the five of them as close to me as possible during the journey, which lasted one year. Yes, one whole year. Not like now my dear,  you book a flight, take a plane and go anywhere in the world within a few days. We had to travel through India to reach the West wing.  Despite the chaos and horror spreading across the nation we managed to reside in India for a couple of months. I understand all the hatred that has churned up between us and the Indians over the decades. Despite this, I will always be grateful to the Indians for the kindness they bestowed us with, and the shelter they gave us to protect me and my children. We did encounter some difficulties leaving India; however, our well wishers in that land were greater than the detractors. A needle constantly jabbed at my heart during all this time. Where was he? He had promised to be by my side for the rest of our lives. Why did he break his promise?

After one whole year of living in agony and feeling the angst of injustice bite at my heart, we managed to reach Pakistan. Penniless, and unable to locate any family members or friends, I found a true friend in one of the women who had traveled with me from India. She was an Islamic Studies teacher, who had traveled to India to meet her relatives who she had left behind during partition, on that side of the border. We moved in with her till we relocated our relatives.

There was a new country now. They called it Bangladesh. The land of the infidels, I would call it. The land of animals I would call it. The riots and bedlam had subsided. And so had my life. Each night I would fall asleep putting my children to sleep. But I would fall asleep praying, that when I opened my eyes, I would find my husband next to me. That I would discover that it had all been a terrible nightmare that I had my lovely home and my husband and children smiling back at me. That nothing had changed. But it was not to be. Each morning I woke up to realize, that my life itself was the same nightmare I had slept with, and was to continue. I would look at my children and weep, and when my eyes could weep no more, moan piteously for him,” She wiped her rolling tears off her cheeks, but they continued to roll down. She wiped them once again with the back of her wrinkled hands. The rainstorm receded into mild downpour, and then a gentle muzzle.

             “I knew I had to survive, for the sake of my children. So that their future is not determined by a mob of ruthless terrorists. So that they don’t encounter the ugly face of unfairness and deceit. They have to have an education, of not only their world but also that of the outer world, so they have the broader vision I did not possess. They have to be politically educated and informed as well, so that they don’t become subject to such political injustice and dirty play. Oh there was so much I wanted to do for them! And you see, if I did not build up my strength, my children would have been suffering today. Time and place may have changed, but the situation is still the same. Conditions may have improved but attitudes have not. Thousands of innocent people still pay with their lives on each side of the border, to satisfy the blood thirsty and selfish politicians. Just consider the bloodbath every now and then over the Kashmir conflict. Corrupt is our nation, and corruption is our identity. Nothing has changed child, nothing at all. Circumstances have improved neither nationally nor internationally. Bloodshed still persists. And it’s always the innocent giving up their families their happiness, and their lives. However due to the prospects and resources available today, we have a choice. At least the new generation is able to decide their own fate through their knowledge and the will to make a difference.

Your grandfather and I always had a dream. We wanted our children to be so educated, and firm on their own two feet that they would know exactly what’s right and what’s wrong, and what choices to make, so that they would not face the risk of falling prey to mischievous planning or prejudice. Everything is as he wanted today. The only missing link in the chain is him- himself.

            I decided, that misery was not the path I was to take, and this was not the way my story was to end. I still had a long way to go. I must be strong. I must persevere. I must survive. I must survive; I must survive. I would say the words over and over to myself. As day turned to night and the moon began to woo the lonely snow-covered peak of the Everest, I always thought to myself, some day, some day, I would tell my story,” she ended with a deep sigh, drawing in her breath and exhaling it strongly.

As we both stared out the window, the sun rose slowly above the horizon, illuminating the sky and the barren ground with its powerful rays.