For every child his/her parents are the ideals of life. Being a daughter of a Retired Army officer I was always inclined to tales of bravery, which emerged during, combats faced by my father; especially when I would hear incomplete stories from his colleagues. My father is hesitant to talk about the time he spent behind bars in India, but he would share it once in a blue moon. In 1971 he was a prisoner of war for two years. According to a general/public view, that war was more of a “political game” where the authorities got to play with the lives of the innocents.
One morning of November 1971, my father who was a Lieutenant then, was ordered to leave for East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). After a short good bye to dear ones he left to catch a train destined for Karachi. He stayed a night there at his friend’s house and caught a flight to Dhaka; it would’ve been a short trip if India had not been a no-fly zone. Upon reaching their destination, my father was given a patrolling duty. Since he had no idea about the routes of the region, a Subedar who knew Dhaka well accompanied him. There was some shootout during their patrol but it was not aimed so they managed to escape.
The mix messaging by the authorities only increased the severity of the situation. The priority was to evacuate the families of Pakistani Army men from the city. Many were sent back home on choppers, however the majority was captivated. My father once recalled the incident in which while running during a bombardment, my father witnessed the gruesome sight of a colleague’s head blown away while his body was still running.
Eventually, the day arrived when around 93000 Army personnel and families were put behind the bars. The prisoners, kept hungry for almost seven days, were taken to the camps made in India via trains. The way the camps were structured (mostly stable/barns) depicted as if it was pre-planned and the Indians knew the head count of the prisoners.
The soldiers, after months, were given a few cents on a monthly basis for shaving and buying something from the meager stock available. My father offered all he got to the families in lock up. The prisoners had a single uniform, which was washed and followed by a long stay to let it dry. They were forced to consume a half cooked and foul smelling pulse named ‘Arhar’ every single day for two years, so that eventually the inmates preferred to stay hungry or eat live insects/animals. Even imprisoned children had to drink contaminated milk. The only relief the families got was from the soldiers’ camp nearby, who would spare everything they could to help them.
On one occasion a Sikh soldier was being brutal with a Pakistani lady, my father enraged to witness it stretched his arm out of the bars and strangled that soldier’s neck till he suffocated. Consequently, my father had to stand in the sun for days with big nails driven into his knees. His knees were later stitched up by one of his colleagues, a doctor, who availed a thread pulled out from his worn out pants and a needle, and of course no anesthetics were available.
My father’s refusal to obey most of their orders led to him being badly beaten very often mostly by the butts of guns. He even planned to escape from the hellish prison, but one his impatient fellows pleaded him to allow him to go first. The Mukti Bahini group (The Bangladeshi group supported by Indian Army) knew that it was my father’s plan, however; mistakenly my father’s colleague was killed. Those ferocious men were enraged and again it was my father who got beaten.
The families of the imprisoned ones in Pakistan were all deeply aggrieved and anxious, as they had no news of their loved ones. One of my father’s uncles, whose son was also imprisoned worked in BBC radio, he used his contacts to inquire about his son. The only information he could gather was that his son and his friends were still alive, it wasn’t much but still it rejuvenated the hope in the destitute families. After almost a year the prisoners were permitted to write two words to their families who were elated to know that their relatives were alive.
Two years later, in November, the prisoners were finally exchanged between the two countries, and their suffering in the foreign land came to an end. My father’s beard had grown very long and his clothes were filthy. Family members back home could barely recognize their beloved children; such toil has the pain taken on their features. Yet still, the nation rejoiced, for it had now come to an end, at least physically so…
The ones who had been lost were mourned. And although many returned back alive, they were permanently damaged, both physically and mentally, one of them was my father. After hearing all this from my father, I realized how painful it is to forget those days of plain torture, with lights switched on all the night and heart piercing is the memory of live humans torn into two by tying them to flexible branches of two opposite trees and then cutting the ropes to see the organs fly.
Those who laugh or remain silent at barbarism are indeed pitiable. And shame on those who think that Army personnel, especially of senior ranks like my father, merely enjoy the years spent in Army. The current political scenario has affected the position of our Forces although they are among the ones being targeted by the terrorists. My message to all is to remember that comfort does not always come with fortune. We are unaware of what sacrifices these individuals made to attain what they have today. And yes, I am proud of my father and of all others who are willing to sacrifice everything for their country, including their families and their own lives. Long live Pakistan Army!
