A BROKEN STORY

By, Nafisa Akhter

1971 in Lahore, Pakistan.

It was a very cold evening during March when I came home after a good game of cricket
with my mates. As I entered home, I saw Ma (mum), she looked very pale. Usually, she
would be waiting for me to come and would force me to eat her homemade sweets which
I was always fussy about. I greeted her and came closer. Later I realized that she was
crying. Her cheeks were red and she looked very untidy. Her hair was tied into a messy
bun. She looked weak and tears kept dripping from her eyes in a continuous manner.
‘Ma, why are you upset?’
Her eyes overflowed with tears as she tried to answer me. Instead of standing there in
utter confusion, I decided to do my evening prayers. Later that evening Ma was no where
to be seen, neither was Papa. After prayers Papa would usually sit on his arm chair,
reading newspaper and sipping his herbal tea. However, he was no where to be seen
either. I checked his room, it was empty but the lights were left on. I turned them off and
carefully closed the door behind me as I walked out.

Worriedly I asked my older brother Asif, ‘Bhai, where is Ma and Papa?’

‘Omer my brother, there is something you should be aware of.’ He exclaimed in despair.

My brother sat beside me and patted my shoulders as he said, ‘Papa is in prison.’

I was shaken. I was able to feel my heart thump harder each second.

Without any hesitation, I further enquired, ‘Why?’

‘War has broken out between East Pakistan and West Pakistan, as you know Papa is
from East Pakistan, the Army has decided to keep him as a captive until the war ends….
And so, Ma has gone to visit Papa, she will be back by Isha (night).’ He said.
He patted my shoulders again and hugged me. Later, he went off to the mosque for
prayers. I sat there still, without moving an inch, tears filled my eyes and rolled down my
cheeks endlessly, my heart had melted like thawing snow.

I am Omer Islam, a Pakistani born Bangladeshi…and this is my story.

Earlier when India gained its’ Independence during 1940’s, India was divided into two
countries: Hindustan (India) and Pakistan. Pakistan was further divided into two, East
Pakistan (Bangladesh) and West Pakistan which lay on either sides of India.
West Pakistan was superior in relation to the power and status of the country.
Both countries shared one ruler. Pakistan discriminated the East Pakistani’s racially.
Often, the good job positions were not given to the East Pakistani’s, they were not given
admission to good universities and they had to pay higher tax unlike other Pakistani’s.
Further, Pakistan wanted to make ‘Urdu’ as their official language while the West
Pakistani’s disagreed and that had declared the bloodshed.
 The west Pakistani’s begged for their Freedom of Equality, they begged for their
Freedom of Language, they begged for their Freedom of Racial Discrimination and they
begged for their Independence.

That’s why 12th March is recognized as ‘The World Mother Language Day’.

My Father, Muhammed Aziz-ul Islam was born on 12th September, 1931 in Dhaka,
Bangladesh. My Father came to West Pakistan after the liberation (1949) for his studies
and for the find of privileged career opportunities.
There he met my Mother, Farhana Azam and got Married to her the very same year.
My Mother was only 16 when she got married. At the age of 18, she gave birth to my
older brother, Asif Islam. And then in six years time, I opened my eyes to view this
world. But I never thought that this world would seem to be so cruel and convoluted.

My Papa was an honorable officer of the Food Department in Lahore. He had a very
good job and a very good reputation in his work place. We were not poor, we lived in a
palace like house. Papa was respected by our neighborhood.

Everyone called him Aziz Saheeb, Saheeb meaning ‘Sir’ to give him value and respect.

After the incident had taken place, our lives were filled with misery. We moved out of
our palace like home to a smaller house as the neighbors mocked us when they knew
Papa was in prison. During that era, personality, money, status was what people observed
about an individual, they never wanted to know the real story behind the bad influences
that had attacked my family.

Ma worked in a small factory as a helper and earned enough to feed me and my brother.
We had limited food and money. Poverty had started to affect me and my family rapidly.
There were days, when Ma would sleep without having dinner. She pretended to be full
but her pale face told us what was behind the curtains.

We didn’t know if Papa would ever come back and even if he did, we were not sure if
he would be given his throne back. We went every Friday afternoon to visit Papa in the
secure unit. It was very hard to see him in that small cell, dressed in stripped pajamas. We
would see him crying behind those prison rods but we stood speechless every time we
visited him.

I remember how he would come to pick me after school, how he would get me all those
presents and sweets on Eid (Islamic Festival), how he would keep me warm on his chest
and make me fall asleep when I had nightmares, how he would take me to mosque and
teach me about Islam and how he would beat me when I miss-behaved, but then love me
more than anyone else on this planet. I was nothing without my Papa.
I often questioned myself, what was Papa’s crime? Was it because he was born in East
Pakistan? Papa never knew that he was never considered as a West Pakistani even after
living there for 21 years. He didn’t belong to East Pakistan according to Pakistani
customs.
 The wait for Papa to return home lasted for 9 months.
On the 16th of December, 1971 Pakistan surrendered to East Pakistan. The month of
Mayhem was over. Thus, East Pakistan gained its Independence and freedom and is now
called ‘Bangladesh’.

I woke up early that morning, got dressed and hurried to the mosque.
I prayed, ‘Ya Allah – the Almighty, I will get to see Papa after all these days of
unhappiness today. I thank you for everything. Please bless me and my family and never
let us get parted again. Have your mercy on us. Amen.’

I went home jumping happily until the Day of Judgment had arrived at the doorsteps of
my house. There were people crowded outside my house reciting Quranic (Islamic)
verses. On the doorsteps, lay my father’s dead body.

Earlier that morning, Papa was shot dead by the Pakistani Army. The heartless soldiers
killed my Papa only for his nationality.
I cried on my Papa’s chest. Ma was speechless and stood like an idol.
‘Ma jaan, how did this happen?’ I enquired.
She didn’t reply. She starred at me and said nothing. She then burst into tears and hugged
me, some ladies came hurriedly and took her inside the house.

Asif bhai patted my shoulders.

‘God is testing our patience, we have no choice but except this reality…Papa won’t
come back, let’s pray for his soul’ cried Asif.
And with that, he held my hand in his and cried for peace and justice that questioned our
hearts.

Like us, there are many more ‘Broken Stories’. People believe that one day their broken
story will have a happy end. But very few fates have the ‘Happily ever after’ conclusion.
This was our destiny and we gladly accepted it respecting God and his assistance.

Papa was innocent and his murderer will plead remorse one day. Papa holds a deep
place in our hearts, he was a real warrior. He sacrificed himself for the Freedom of his
country.

We salute him.

Papa got buried in Gunjanwala-Lahore, later that evening.

‘‫ل َوِإّنـا ِإَلْيِه َراِجعوَن‬
ِّ ‫ – ّنا‬May his soul rest in peace’ exclaimed everyone.