An Indigenous Hero of the Liberation War

I speak of an indigenous freedom fighter, a hero.

The road cuts through deep forest. As our car sped along this route, it was the hour when elephants use the road. Yes, we reached Diglakona Mission during elephant crossing time on an elephant crossing road. There was quite a good chance that even if we couldn't manage a close-up high-five, we might at least exchange distant greetings with our elephant uncles. But the opportunity never materialized. They didn't show up.

Diglakona is a Garo-inhabited village. Literally a village encircled by hills. Regrettably, by the time we arrived, dusk had fallen. The road that leads here through Sribardi and returns via the Kamalpur border would undoubtedly look magnificent in daylight. I was left with the desire to return and spend a couple of days here, exploring in the light of day. Though racing along on this side while watching rows of evening lights across the barbed-wire border on the other side created its own wonderful sensation.

When we reached the mission, we found masa (a kind of prayer service) in progress. Super Dada said, "Come, let's take a walk around the area." Super Dada, Sajib, and I gradually merged into the silence of the hilly village darkness as we wandered. Absorbing the earthy scent of the dirt path, the mountain fragrance in the air, and the incessant gentle calls of the kingdom of insects, we reached a hut perched on a hillock at the foot of a great mountain.

Inside the hut was a lady from the indigenous Garo community. This petite indigenous woman of very warm nature was named Milan Marak (Dang). She wore faded clothes, and the marks of poverty were clearly visible in the house. Yet there was a smile on her face, simplicity in her conversation. As she talked with us, she seemed to radiate a kind of enchantment. In her eyes and face was a kind of fearless conviction, proud self-confidence. When reminiscing about the past, her voice and gaze seemed to hold mountain-high contentment.

Her husband, freedom fighter hero Ebendra Sangma (Mankhin), had died of cancer some time ago. He had fought in Sector 11. For the "crime" of protesting the assassination of the Father of the Nation, Bangabandhu, he had to serve nearly 14 years in prison. This family's sole source of income is the monthly 20,000 taka freedom fighter's allowance. Gratitude and thanks to our Honorable Prime Minister for bearing this weighty responsibility of supporting countless such families. This lady had lost two children one after another. Their only son is trying to find some employment.

Whenever I meet a heroic freedom fighter or a member of their family, my father's face floats before my eyes. My father too is a heroic freedom fighter. Though my father never accepted a freedom fighter certificate. Why he didn't—I've written about that elsewhere. My father's philosophy in this matter was somewhat different.

After finishing our conversation with the freedom fighter's wife, we returned to the mission. Father Dominic Sarkar, Father Khokon, and the Sisters welcomed us with tremendous warmth. Right beside this mission's dining room flows a mountain stream. Sitting with the Father and Sisters, sipping coffee, I was enjoying the babbling sound of the flowing water. Father Dominic's heartfelt hospitality, the Sisters' warm reception, and our soul-stirring conversation made for an intensely warm evening in the wild, primitive mountain atmosphere.

One thing the freedom fighter's wife said has stuck in my mind. I had asked her, "Don't you feel afraid living in these hills and forests?"

Her answer was: "Afraid of what? This is my village, my home. What should I fear?"

We all want to live with this faith and courage.

This Garo lady's husband was a heroic freedom fighter. This country is his.
My father is a heroic freedom fighter. This country is mine.
Your father is a heroic freedom fighter. This country is yours.

We and our ancestors have grown up and lived in the light and air of this country. This country belongs to Hindus, this country belongs to Muslims, this country belongs to Buddhists, this country belongs to Christians, this country belongs to indigenous peoples. Yes, this country is all our ancestral property; we are sons of this soil. This is a country of communal harmony. Rioters have never had a place here in the past, nor will they today. Those who have difficulty understanding this simple truth—time itself will give them the appropriate answer.