The cultural identity that we developed over thousands of years, which coexisted with our religious identities peacefully, were pitted against each other-they still are. In these gatherings, equal amount of vulgarities was present-still are-that kept the mass glued to them. If they were indeed purely religious, one would have very little to complain about, but too many of these gatherings quickly became anti-progressive, anti-women, anti-social, extreme fundamentalist sermons that had very little to do with religion. That empty space was then quickly filled up by faith-based gatherings, many of them with an extremist bent. Popular mass cultural activities like jatra were injected with vulgar dances-and then shut down altogether in the name of indecencies. The gorgeous arts on the rickshaws were seen no more. But the space for our cultural activities was squeezed into fading out from the lives of common people-intentionally and meticulously. Our cultural identity was one of the main proponents driving the Bengalis to strive for independence. Religious fundamentalism got state approval. But after 1975, the very fabric of a secular Bengali life was purposely dismantled, and then interwoven with fundamentalism. Progressive, tolerant, personally deeply religious but socially, politically secular-that is what Bengalis were. ![]() They had achieved it, but it was to be bought with their blood-and the blood of three million people.Įven after facing the brutalities of 1971, Bengalis remained steadfast in their unwavering resolve to remain progressive and secular. His dead body was found lying in a brick field in Rayerbazar, with thousands of other intellectuals of Bangladesh-men and women who were the greatest minds of the land, best in their fields, all dedicated to the dream of a progressive, democratic, free country for their people. When she saw him next, he was dead, his body battered, bruised and mutilated. That was the last time my mother would see him alive. As soon as he left the house, they wrapped a piece of cloth over his eyes. They wouldn't specify where they were taking him. They came up and entered our home and asked my father to come with them. At that moment, a microbus covered in mud entered the premises of our house. He knew it was only a matter of time that Bangladesh would be free-a dream he had dedicated his entire life to. On the eve of our victory day, on December 15, 1971, at around 4:30 pm, my father Dr Abdul Alim Choudhury was sitting on the balcony of our house with my mother, watching the Indian MiG fighters bomb the few Pakistani strongholds still remaining in Dhaka.
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