After many ups and downs in life I finally attained the privilege of studying at the University. Yes, now I am a student of Chittagong University. I am the only Pahari (hill) student in my class. The rest belong to the majority Bengali community. It was easy for them to reach their present position, not so for me. I came here witnessing fear, cruelty, despair and the downfall of humanity. Many of my childhood friends could not make it beyond their school years. Their lives were torn apart by the uncertainties of life as they were victims of political unrest. Some were lost forever.
It is 28 years since the country gained independence. But ever since I gained consciousness, I had never thought that I was born in an independent country, or that I was a citizen of one. If it was independent, then why were we forced to leave our country and deprived of all our belongings and forced to seek shelter in another? Why did we have to become refugees time after time? At first, we had to take refuge in India after the riots of 1981. I was too young to recall much. Then again we had to go in 1986 amidst a state of riot and war.
Our village in the Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT) was located on the border. I was then at primary school. The first term exams were on. In the middle of the exams the news came suddenly that violent riots and looting had broken out in the Panchari area. Houses had been burnt to ashes. People were fleeing. The situation in Khagrachari town too was bad. The army were raiding the houses and arresting the Paharis. The situation has been getting tense over the last few days. In a few places the Bengali settlers had been instigated to attack the Paharis. The army gave them support and the Bangladesh rifles were used to help them. The Shanti bahini had conducted a counter-attack. No sooner had the news reached every village, just after sunset, one could see in the distance the curling tongues of fire and the accompanying sound of firing. Thus by the end of the day everyone in the vicinity was fleeing helter-skelter. Cries, fear, desperation - all seemed to fill the air. Taking the minimum of things everyone fled the village in the darkness of night. No sooner had we crossed the border, we heard the deafening sound of gunfire saw tongues of flame burst around and behind us. Our houses were razed to the ground. After walking all night we arrived at the Border Security Forces (BSF) camp by morning. Men, women and children of all ages were gathering together in the camp seeking shelter. The people from our neighbouring villages had all fled their homes bringing nothing but themselves. At first the BSF was not willing to give shelter and wanted to forcefully send us all back to our homeland. But then all women and children started to cry and plead. They were without food since last night. The day was getting on. The long walk had tired out old people and children. They were stretched out in the open field. It was the first of May 1986. At 2 pm news were arriving that hundred of people were crossing the border at various points from other areas as well. They too were seeking shelter. As a result, the Indian government out of humanitarian concern had to provide shelter to the thousands of people. In the evening everyone was given some chira and gur (flat rice and molasses). Then for the time being we were taken to a school building at Shilachari for refugee. But it was not enough for so many people so they had to set up temporary shelters in the school field.
Registration as refugees began the next day. They were being given shelter in various places like Karbook, Takumbari, Pancharampara. The refugees were being given rations. At first I felt uncomfortable and wanted to cry out. Every woman and man had to stand in a line in order to get anything. Even in this environment babies were being born, sick people were dying. In this way, days, weeks, months went by. After about 3 to 4 months, when the construction of the refugee camp was finished, we had to leave the school centre for the main camp. We were sent to the Bagantila refugee camp. Rows of shelters were built from long thin bamboo poles. One shelter was meant for 13 to 14 families. There was about one square feet for one person. One had to lie on straw mats strewn on the damp and wet floors. A fearful coexistence with snakes and worms! Our family consisted of three sisters, two younger brothers, mother, father and the young boy. This was the condition in which we had to stay. We had no information of what the situation was back home. In the meantime, 1986 slipped by into 1987. In the whole year I had almost no connection with studies. The struggle for survival was primary. Even 1987 was slipping away. Our New Year Biju, witnessed this plight of humanity.
In the middle of the year, everyone in the camp took the initiative to open a school keeping in mind the future of their children. Those who were teachers would teach voluntarily. We did not know when the uncertainty of our refugee existence would come to an end. The host government, out of humanitarian consideration, provided us books and writing materials and paid the teachers 100 rupees each month. The year went by in this way. There was no indication of the situation improving in the hills. Many who had relatives to depend on back in the homeland, started to return. Some went on to join the Shanti bahini. But they were few in numbers and all of them were boys. Women in Pahari families shared almost the same position and stature as women of other races or nations. Thus a woman could not cross the border even if she wanted to. When a Christian missionary arrived to inspect the camps looking for children to adopt and keep in his mission so that they may be educated, my father also wanted him to take me. But the mission took only boys. Thus I stayed on at the camp.
Our parents became very worried about our futures. Thinking that we would probably have better education and future in a stable situation, they had thought that they would not return to our homeland. If one returned from being a refugee, the government was giving back the jobs. But return was not possible. There was pressure. It was often seen that even if one returned they would probably have to flee again. Thus only my elder sisters went back to study from my uncle's place.
Some were coming, some going. But how they managed to cross the border, God only knew! Refugees were often helpless. Rations were often not enough. There was no way one could earn by going outside the camp, because every week head counts would be made of each family member. If one were absent then their names would be struck off from ration and all services. If someone sought employment, then it would have to be the most degrading one of selling their own cheap labour. Some used to work the whole day for one or 2 kilos of rice.
Winter brought its own fierceness to the refugee camps. The scarcity of winter wear was added to the perpetual scarcity of food. I witnessed or rather had to witness the sight of several people huddled over a skimpy fire for the whole night. They did not have adequate protection from the winter. Of course the host government had given each family a blanket each. But was it possible to keep everyone warm with one piece of blanket? In the camps almost everyday someone or the other used to be punished, some for robbing rations and for selling their own bodies. Values were being eroded all around.
The years 1988, 1989 and 1990 rolled by. The uncertainty of returning home grew stronger within us. Some people who got fed up with the intolerable situation fled back home. In 1991, I graduated to the eighth grade at the camp school. Now I became the headache of my parents. Our schooling was not recognised by any educational authorities. No certificate could be given. Thus eventually I too had to flee camp leaving my parents behind. I left with an old couple. The fear, with which we fled from our homeland in 1986, accompanied us on our return flight. On top of it all I felt alone without my parents. I was feeling almost helpless while leaving my brothers behind and all this for the sake of education? My father used to say one who had no education, had no future. Educational qualification was the means for attaining freedom. At first I was hesitant, but then my father's words persuaded me to leave with the old couple.
Ah, the familiar Feni River that marked the border between India and Bangladesh. I was seeing it after five years! Some hired people as well as my father came with us up to the border. They left us there. The tears welled up inside me. I kept wondering why I had to continue my studies and wished I had not returned. On the other side the couples' son was waiting for them. We did not have to face much difficulty on the Bangladesh side. Some hired Bengalis were there as well. They helped us to reach a kyang in safety. The next day we registered ourselves at the nearby army camp as returnees. This was compulsory. Our things were checked thoroughly. After that we were off to Matiranga by car and from Matiranga to Khagrachari. My destination was my maternal uncle's house. My uncle was informed as soon as we reached Matiranga. I could see the marks of army occupation all around. My uncle came to pick me up. I had not seen my uncle for so long! Looking at him I was at once reminded of the family I had left behind in the refugee camp. I could contain my tears no longer. I broke down crying. My uncle took me back to Khagrachari. There, I got admitted into school. A new life started for me.
Two years went by in class eight and nine. In 1993, I came across my camp school friend Joshi. She too had fled camp and returned in the hope of getting an education. But she had to return to the refugee camp again. The relatives she was staying with could not afford the expense of giving her education as well as shelter. She said, "Your relatives are nice. You are lucky. Please study a little bit for us." The next day she returned to the refugee camp in despair. There she buried all her dreams and got married. I also got to know that Jonardon, the best student at the camp school had also come and returned in the same way. Apart from feeling sorry for them and sympathising with their plight there was nothing I could do.
In 1994, my parents returned with the first batch of refugees. The majority in this group was in government service. Then one by one, different members of our extended family returned and we were reunited once again. After a lot of speculation, the JSS entered into an agreement with the Bangladesh Government. In 1998 everyone returned to their homeland, their motherland. But there were some that had been lost forever. That is why when in 1998 when all our refugee relatives returned Dipon was not among them. Dipon was my cousin. He was two years younger than I. At the age of 15, this young boy could take no more of life's harshness and pain. Defeated, he had swallowed a bottle of pesticides and taken his life.
In 1998, my father and I had gone to Tabalchori to witness the return of the rest of our family. We were seeing them after seven years! I felt myself strangely hurting, as if a heavy stone was choking my throat. My eyes hurt as I saw the weathered and beaten people. Refugees meant destitution written large, financially, physically and most of all mentally. I stared with astonishment at girls and boys of my own age or even younger who had entered a strange lifestyle. Most young girls and boys had gotten married and had children. I glimpsed an old school friend, Samar and went up to him. "How are you Samar?" I greeted. "How have you been doing?" He replied spontaneously but letting out a sigh of despair, "What can I do? I am trying to help others. I don't share your luck." I learnt that he too had got married and was a father of a child. It made me think of what may have happened if I had not returned in '91, if I had no relatives on whom I could fall back on. If my relatives were like those of the other families who could not afford to give an education, then I too would have ended up like them. I could almost see myself mirrored in their image: tattered and torn in clothes and appearances, returning with a child in my lap. And then...
We had survived that life, but to what extent? Even today, almost every moment we live in fear and uncertainty. Imprisoned in our own surroundings. The world is still not equal for everybody. No one had the right to wreck these lives forever. When will the world be equal for everybody?
Book Notice:
1.Radhika Coomaraswamy, Preliminary Report of the Special Rapporteur on Violence against Women, November 1994.
This preliminary report of Radhika Coomaraswamy delves into the issues of gender violence in the context of armed conflict and displacement. It not only talks about the kind of abuses refugee women or internally displaced women face, but also talks about legal resources available to them.
2. Roberta Cohen, Refugee and Internally Displaced Women: A Development Perspective, The Brookings Institution / Refugee Policy Group Project on Internal Displacement, November 1995.
Since women comprise the majority of displaced people, this report looks at the programme failures that arise from their inadequate participation in planning and implementation of programmes targeting internally displaced people. Cohen addresses the need to include women in relief and development programmes and to close the theoretical gap between relief and development. She looks at the needs for new policy orientations, better statistics on women, and better access for women to assistance, health care, employment opportunities and education, and greater participation and mobilization of women. The report calls for a merging of the gender-sensitive theories and guidelines for development with the programmes and planning methods of relief work. with internally displaced people.
3. Willem van Schendel, Wolfgang Mey, Aditya Kumar Dewan, The Chittagong Hill Tracts, Living in a Borderland, White Lotus Co., Ltd., 2000.
The Chittagong Hill Tracts: Living in a Borderland examines the borderland between Burma, India and Bangladesh, inhabited by twelve distinct ethnic groups with strong cultural and linguistic links with South-east Asia. The three authors assembled more than 400 mostly unpublished photographs, many in color, from over 50 private collections. The book introduces the reader to the cultural variety and modern transformations of this virtually unknown region bridging South-east Asia and South Asia. At the same time it explores how, from the 1860s to the late twentieth century, photographers have portrayed the Chittagong Hill Tracts and their inhabitants. Images of nature and destruction, different religion of the hills, bodies, and lifestyles. The Chittagong Hill Tracts is a comprehensive work on this region of Asia.