This Land I Paid my Soul to Keep
A Victory Day Tribute to the Heroes of Bangladesh
Democracy is as fragile as smoke. Its pursuit and preservation often follow a road of bodies and blood, not a pretty picture, but a deeply human one.
On December 16, 1971, East Pakistan (now the country of Bangladesh) gained independence from West Pakistan after a long, hard-fought war. Bangladesh was considered the underdog, yet it persevered in victory against a stronger, better-armed opponent.
I wrote this poem as a tribute to one of the freedom fighters. For privacy reasons, I will not name him here, but he is and was a fearless and tireless supporter of Bangladesh. During the war, he served as a student organizer.
I am humbled by his bravery. He once casually told me of the time he was arrested and thrown into prison. He did not know if he would survive. Every night he sat watching the moon thinking it was the last time he would ever see the world.
He had been given the opportunity to renounce his support of Bengali democracy, yet he refused and held fast to his beliefs and desires for freedom.
At the last moment, he was released.
But the fact remains: he was willing to die for his beliefs. He had the choice to back down, and he refused even to the point of death.
When I think of integrity and bravery, I think of this man.
I chose to write this tribute in the form of an epic poem, not as the book-length classical epic, but in the tradition of long narrative storytelling. I adopted this voice because a story of such historical struggle and hard-won victory deserves language equal to its power.
This Land I Paid My Soul to Keep
-A Victory Day Tribute to the Heroes of Bangladesh
Prologue
March 25, 1971
…. From today Bangladesh is independent.
I call upon the people…resist the army of occupation to the last.
Your fight must go on until the last soldier…
is expelled from the soil of Bangladesh and final victory is achieved.
–Sheikh Mujibur Rahman
Present Day Bangladesh,
Let me tell you of days gone past.
Of pain, of hope, of joy and fear.
Such sweet gifts,
Lost, then ours at last.
My bones demand I tell this story,
Oh, the land I paid my soul to keep.
Joy Bangla!
These eyes have seen the present glory,
Though I pass to night
In darkened sleep.
Dhaka, East Pakistan 1971
“Whereas in the conduct of a ruthless and savage war
the Pakistani authorities committed and
are still continuously committing numerous
acts of genocide and unprecedented tortures,
amongst others on the civilian and
unarmed people of Bangladesh”
–Sheikh Mujibur Rahman
Of Human Desires
We wait,
Breath drawn.
Crouched in danger,
Watching.
For terrors lurking at the gates.
The streets are dark,
Every man a stranger,
Pak soldiers prowling,
Striped tigers of hate.
We watch,
Like farmers praying for the monsoon rain,
First sign, small cloud,
May the rain finally come,
Our freedom’s longing,
Our heart keeping beat a refrain,
A loud chorus,
Urgent calling,
Like the beating of a drum
Young we were,
So young, so brave,
Pray freedom’s fruits come in season,
From bitter dark blooms,
Sprung from graves,
Redolent with blood, death and treason.
This Ancient Land of my Fathers
We cry, we grieve, again and again,
Bangladesh, our home, fertile land,
We weep,
And our poor mothers,
Our poor mothers,
Cry with us,
Helpless in the sound of our pain,
Dealt by heavy and foreign hand.
On our fields,
The Indus dawn of creation,
Hindu, Jain, Sikh, Buddhist birth.
Sweet motherland,
My home, my nation,
My father’s blood and bones hold the earth.
If I had double my years to tell my stories,
An endless library to fill with my troubled lines.
I’d not speak of conquered territories,
We are a testament of riches,
Of ancient and beautiful times.
The Wounded Land
Oh, a thousand years and a thousand more,
Travesty and pointless plunder
Such mighty leviathans,
They jar the ground.
Mughals, Sultans, Kings,
Prepare for war,
Endless waves of armies,
And alien crowns.
More join.
New usurpers,
Kings sailing swift from the sea.
Quick to hunt, to grab, to kill, to maim,
For gold, for land, for spices, for tea.
Alien,
In strange ships,
Fresh steel in hand,
Fierce to seize, plunder our wealth.
New Empires march on in India’s green land,
Tea merchants,
Bargains in dark and stealth
Strange bedfellows
They come in the night,
Tea,
Who knew that tea would cause our end?
Trojans—
East India, Mughals unite,
And we are collateral,
Theirs to spend.
Ma-go
“Here is a mantra, a short one, that I give to you.
You may imprint it on your hearts and
let every breath of yours give expression to it.
The mantra is ‘Do or Die.’
We shall either free India or die in the attempt;
we shall not live to see the perpetuation of our slavery.”
-Gandhi
A New Rebirth
Still we go on,
Brave patriots, captured, thrown in prison,
Burning behind bars, we write in dark cells.
Freedom our dream, hope, vision,
For Gandhi’s rally,
For justice,
Live or die,
A story to tell.
All that we had was the power of our pen,
Brave writers?
Hmm, who could stop to count the cost.
A pen’s sacred prayer, sealed with an amen,
We scribe the darkness when all seems lost.
We win, with malice.
Limping, defeated, left behind,
Land divided, in a map drawn in pain.
Foolish.
Born of treaties cold and politics blind,
A coming chorus of torture,
Its resounding refrain.
The Declaration
“Whereas the people of Bangladesh
by their heroism, bravery and revolutionary fervour
have established effective control over the territories of Bangladesh,
We the elected representatives of the people of Bangladesh
… declare and constitute Bangladesh to be
sovereign People’s Republic and thereby
confirm the declaration of independence.”
–Sheikh Mujibur Rahman
The Struggle
Listen.
Let me tell of Bangladesh’s bravery,
Like tigers we bite, we claw.
Desperate, like devils come for our very soul,
Cast off in this remote slavery,
We dangle, a prize given, sealed and sold.
We Fight
One man stands strong,
Soon joined by another,
Book, pen and paper, small weapons on fire.
In shadowed times we stand as brothers,
War the catalyst,
No thinking,
We anticipate the pyre.
With trembling hands we assemble our guns,
Students,
16, 17, 18, just children,
Students,
Should be holding a book.
Cold death comes early before battle begins,
Yet we march on,
Not a backwards look.
We strike,
Strike again,
Don’t stop to count the cost,
“For Freedom, For Country”
Small battle cry.
Rape, famine, torture,
Our generations lost,
We go to battle,
Knowing we soon die.
So resolute, so strong, so brave,
Just children,
So terribly young.
Bones, some go to the grave,
Yet,
On we march, for country, for mother tongue.
Ancient story,
Weak against the strong.
Like Titumir facing the giant
We fight the fight,
We face the wrong
And our call of Joy Bangla,
It belongs to us, the defiant
To a Joyful Future
-Towee,
Tell this story,
As a gift, as your right.
Write it down,
Remember your heart.
A story of Bangladesh,
From dark to light
From cradle of man, a democracy’s start
-Uncle,
I’m here beside you.
Rest your head,
My hand held near.
Promise,
In all that I say and all I do,
In words repeated,
Powerful, ring clear.
These words are ours,
Both yours and mine,
Story of Bangladesh,
Burned to gold,
I remember every word, every line,
And will tell our story,
Wherever bravery is told.
–GoRhyme