Today bloodshed, tears August 15! On this day in 1975, the sky cried and the wind blew. Not in the rain, not in the storm — this was the feeling of mourning the loss of a father. Nature cried that day because people could not cry. The arrogant companion of the killer did not let them cry. But a sigh came from every house in the frightening Bengal. Even after forty-six years, the whole nation is in the throes of losing its father in the last hearing of nature. The memory of Bangabandhu is immortal in the heart of every Bengali who believes in freedom. The message of mourning for the father has spread in the streets of the country.
Shakespeare said, ‘In this world, some are born great, some are born with signs of greatness, and some acquire greatness through their own efforts.’ These three characteristics apply to Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. Take, for example, the Cuban president, the revolutionary Fidel Castro. He said, ‘I have not seen the Himalayas, I have seen Sheikh Mujib.’ British journalist David Frost (in a 1982 interview) asked Bangabandhu, ‘Where is your strength?’ Bangabandhu replied, ‘I love my people.’ What’s the point? Bangabandhu’s answer, ‘I love my people very much.’ This is Bangabandhu. Bangabandhu is a man of immense confidence in the inherent strength of the people, unconditional love for the people, a rare example of compassion.
Bangabandhu was the brightest exception to the long rule of the subcontinent’s politics, which was dominated by the descendants of the Nawab dynasty, the barristers of Bilat and the aristocracy of Gajdantminar. The revolution that toppled the monarchy in seventeenth-century England can be considered an important step in parliamentary democracy. But like many other revolutions, it was an incompletely fragmented event. Cromwell wanted to lead the state to the affluent merchant class, the Lilburn townspeople to the lower or middle class, Winstonley to the landless masses. Therefore, in the history of democracy, the simultaneous participation of people from all communities like the war of independence of Bangabandhu-led Bangladesh cannot be compared to any revolution. When Gandhiji called for non-violent non-cooperation, members of radical groups like the HRA led militant movements, and leaders like Bhagat Singh were martyred. Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose formed the Armed Forces in Hong Kong. But there was no crisis of policy or leadership among the Bengali nation in 1971 only because of the presence of a charismatic leader like Sheikh Mujib.
There is no chance to see Bengalis, Bangladesh, and Bangabandhu separately. The geographical presence of the state called Bangladesh is the result of the lifelong pursuit of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujib. In fact, the state existence of Bangladesh was never established before 1971. Sirajuddaula was called the last independent Nawab of Bengal. But he could not include the people in his political activities. It is said that every man in the desert of Palashi would throw bricks one by one. Then it would not have been possible for Lord Clive’s occupying forces winning. That is why Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the father of the nation, has been established on the map of the world based on the political consciousness of the people of Bangladesh. Bangladesh and Mujib cannot be separated. Mujib is the golden stick that awakened the sleeping nation called Bengalis. So killing Bangabandhu is a despicable attempt to put that nation to sleep.
That night of August 15, 1975, what a horror! House No. 6, Road No. 32, Dhanmondi is one of the pilgrimage places of Bengali independence. Where he was asleep at night, tired of watching the next day’s program. Suddenly, a group of misguided young soldiers surrounded the building with tanks. One by one, members of a family dedicated to the independence of Bangladesh were killed. In the morning, during the Sadeq, the sound of the holy call to prayer was shattered, and the killers fired machine guns. Scattered on every floor of the house scattered human blood, brain, body parts! The glass of the window, the roof walls of the house, the blood is red! The walls of the house are covered with bullets, the furniture is floating in the sea of blood, the whole house is like a river of blood, a stream of blood is coming down the stairs from the second floor! Whose blood is that? The hero of the freedom struggle, Father of the Nation Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman is lying frozen on the stairs, his chest and lower abdomen are pierced by the bullet of the killer! His check lungi and white Punjabi are stained with blood!
August 15, 1975, is a day to lose. August 15 is a black mark in the history of world politics. The burden of the heaviest corpse in history falls on the shoulders of the map. This day is really our day of crying. On this day the birds of Bengal will sing the song of losing everything, the flute will play a compassionate melody on its flute, the rain of tears will fall in the sky, the sad melody of pain will play in the murmur of the wind! In just 55 years of his life, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the undisputed leader of the people of Bengal, has bound the people of his homeland with a bond of deep love that will never be broken. That is why people still remember Bangabandhu. Just as the poet Sufia Kamal said, ‘The sky-wind, sea-mountains, and rivers of this Bengal / Bangabandhu is calling to you if you come back / Harry still leaves your seat in the human heart / People still remember you, mother-father-sister-brother.’
On that black night, every member of the three proud families was killed. There is so much murder, so much bloodshed, so many corpses, it is not known whether there is such a precedent of hellishness in the history of the world. People were stunned and stunned by the suddenness and horror of the incident. The frightened child Russell hid his face in the chest of the people of the house and said in a muffled voice, ‘Will they kill me too?’ On the ground. Did the children of the killers cry at that last moment to see the untimely death of the slain Russell? In what rage did they become so mad that their hands never trembled at the killing of innocent children? It is necessary to think today whether such demonic insanity and such genocide, the killing of women and children are possible even in the distorted image of the devil if humanity, sense of humanity, mental balance is not completely lost. Russell’s death still leads us to a strange sense of guilt!
Judas betrayed his Lord Jesus Christ; Brutus killed his best friend Julius Caesar; John Wilkin Booth took the life of Abraham Lincoln; Lee Harvey Oswald shot and killed John F. Kennedy; The orthodox Hindu Nathuram Godse assassinated Mahatma Gandhi; Mir Jafar’s betrayal led to the defeat and death of Sirajuddaula, the last independent Nawab of Bengal; But the assassins of Bangabandhu are responsible for many murders. The curious child who did not want to say goodbye to the eternal thirst of life as a child, the newlyweds, the newlyweds, the henna-painted, four-handed, blood-soaked bullet, wanted to know why the primordial was expanding. What is our crime? These innocent, apolitical young and old were killed to seize power. Such horrific, brutal political assassinations in the history of the century or even earlier remind us of the heartbreaking events of Karbala.
The assassins killed Begum Fazilatunnesa Mujib, sons Sheikh Kamal, Sheikh Jamal, Sheikh Russell, Sheikh Kamal’s wife Sultana Kamal, Jamal’s wife Rosie Jamal, Bangabandhu’s brother Sheikh Nasser, SB officer Siddiqur Rahman, Colonel Jamil, army member Syed Mahbubul Haque, almost the same. The assassins attacked the house of Bangabandhu’s nephew Juba League leader Sheikh Fazlul Haque Moni, his pregnant wife Arju Moni, Bangabandhu’s brother-in-law Abdur Rob Serniat and his daughter Baby, son Arif Serniabat, Bara Brother’s son Sajib Serniabat and a relative Bentu Khan. This is like another Karbala! The bullet of the killer pierced Bangabandhu, the time-honored man, along with his family. The whole Bengali, independent Bangladesh was pierced. The most disgusting and heinous history of the world has been written. This memory is extremely painful. Every year, when that sad day came to the fore, the inside of the Bengali’s chest twisted. The story is woven into the yard of memory. In remembrance-respect, tears-love of that infallible leader, the head is repeatedly bowed.