1971

My life as I know it begins in 1971. Nothing before this matters.

My older sister and I are outside, tying together crowns of jasmine flowers. She is already wearing one, woven through her thick black braid, and is now helping me finish off my own. I always mess up tying them together, and I need her help.

She finishes it for me and places on top of my head. "To wear at your wedding," she explains, as two rickshaws cycle past our road.

"I can't get married, Aparna," I protest. "It's time for dinner, after all. I'm a free woman yet!"

She laughs and chases me inside. Our crowns fly off, but there are still flowers strewn in our disheveled hair. Our mother gives us a disapproving glare and sends us to the sink in the family dining room to wash our hands. We scrub soap suds over each other and giggle some more, before sitting down to eat.

Mother talks about her day, telling us about the unruly boys she had to send home from school today. Aparna tells Mother to lighten up; to give the boys a break for once. She is a school principal at work, but she is a mother to us. The idea of her being so stern only makes us laugh.

Father laughs too, but doesn't speak much. He has always been just a bit quiet. He leans over with a gentle smile a plucks a blossom from my hair.

Aparna is passing me a plate of rice when it happens; the sirens go off. We are fools and we freeze, rooted to the family dinner table. I drop the plate of rice in shock, but no one scolds me. There is a flash of light, and there must be sound, but I can't hear anything, and suddenly the ground beneath me quakes. I think that I scream, but I can't be sure. There is pain and then darkness.

I open my eyes and I am in a hospital bed. My mother is leaning over me, her right eye bandaged.

"Ma." I try to say, but I can't hear anything. Everything hurts, down to the sinews, and when my mother opens her mouth to speak, I hear nothing. I want to cry, but my eyes feel as though they have no tears.

Her mouth moves but I hear nothing. Nurses are now leaning over me and changing bandages on my arms and though I know I hiss in pain, I hear only the same throbbing silence.

I am deaf, I realize.

Soon I am well enough to leave the hospital. I meet my family at my grandmother's house in Dhaka. Our own house, I assume, has been destroyed. Years later, I will wonder why the Pakistan army bothered with my little house. Right now, however, there is only this moment. My father is overjoyed to see me, and my mother babbles soundlessly, tears in her eyes. I smile shyly and then look around, wondering where Aparna is. I say her name a few times and pause. My grandmother begins to sob as she hands me a sweet from Alauddin's, my favorite confectionary.

I bite into the sweet and cup my hand under my mouth as it crumbles yellow over my new outfit. Father is speaking now, though he knows I cannot hear him. He is nervous and pulls at his neck before hugging me. I swallow.

I understand without having to hear the words: Aparna has died.

Years later, I will hear the details of the matter; that she was hit by shrapnel, that she was injured fatally and died on the spot. For now, however, I know enough; it is more than I can bear.

Everything is quiet. A hush has fallen over the world, and I enjoy these moments. Silence is lonely, however, and so I begin to watch over the many younger cousins who have ended up at my grandmother's house. I don't know them all by name (there are twenty three of them in total), but I know them by their faces and by their demeanor. Some of them are rowdy and some are sweet, but I can't connect to any of them. I speak at them and they talk at me quite a bit, but for the most part, I hear nothing but a muffled roar. Still, they listen to me when I tell them to do things, and it helps keep things peaceful in our home.

I am the only one who is not bothered by their yelling and screaming.

Sometimes, when they are especially cheery, they write me notes, but I never take the time to respond. The older cousins don't bother trying; they watch me recede, bit by bit, and I see pity in their eyes.

One of my cousins, Sharna, is a year older than me, and I see her giggle on the telephone at night. I wonder what it would be like to talk on the telephone again; to act my age. I wonder who she could be speaking with, what she could be talking about.

I wonder what I would talk about, if I had friends I could hear.

There are moments here and there when I hear bits of conversation; shards of the world I used to inhabit. It thrills me, but it also frightens me. I can't imagine living in that world, the hearing world, without Aparna.

There will come a time when I will remember very little about Aparna. For now, I remember her voice, dark and lovely, just like her. She used to sing me to sleep with her sweet Bengali lullabies, and I'm afraid that if I can hear again, I'll forget even that, corrupted by the world full of so many meaningless sounds.

Mother drags me out of bed early one morning. "Ei, We have company coming, so you'll need to help in the kitchen," she says.

I can only barely make out her words, but I begin to cry.

I hear her.

Mother turns around, shocked. "Ashima?" she asks, and I nod, recognizing my name. She cries too, but hers are tears of joy.

She taps at my ears and we discover that my hearing has returned in my right ear, but it remains poor in the left. It is a compromise of sorts, I suppose. I don't want to hear all the sounds around me, but I do. It is sudden and unexpected, and I try to curl back in bed.

The world is loud.

Mother pulls me back out. "No, Ashima. Aparna wouldn't like you to be like this."

It is the first time, but not the last time, that I hear this phrasing used against me. It makes me angry. How does she know what Aparna would have wanted? Aparna is dead. Aparna died next to me, when I lost my hearing. It was the last thing we ever did together.

"Get up, Ashima," she orders, and pulls me up. I frown, but comply.

In the kitchen, there is whistling and humming and the sounds of pots clanging. It is muffled, but real. I wonder if I ever saw this day coming. Wistfully, I think about calling a friend, catching up.

"Why are we cooking?" I ask my mother quietly, referring to the guests she mentioned. My grandmother looks up sharply at me, but makes no comment. I am relieved at her silence.

Mother begins rinsing the rice. "A young man is coming to see your cousin, Sharna. They might be getting married, so we want to make a good impression."

I nod and begin dicing onions. I think back to my cousin and her telephone, and it makes me smile.

News spreads throughout the household about my recovery, and soon I am greeted with the happy screams of children. I wince, but take it in and smile at them. They tell me about their day and what they would like to eat, and if I would like to see the pictures they drew. I am not able to understand all the sounds I hear. I am overwhelmed with the noise of them, and Mother ushers them away from me.

"They love you very much," she says, once they have left. I nod, I know. I shred mint leaves with determination.

The boy, Sharna's darling, comes over for dinner more than just once. In fact, he becomes something of a familiar face. He teaches at Dhaka University, and he brings us exciting news about the political situation we're in. I listen and I learn.

"Soon, our people will be free from the Pakistani oppression," he states one night. "They use our resources and bleed us dry; when was the last time we saw the fruits of our own labor? The money from the jute, sugar, and tea plantations? Socialism will lift us high into freedom." His eyes are skyward, and I am tempted to paint a picture of him.

Sharna laughs. "Such an idealist. I never thought I'd have dinner with a socialist!" The rest of the table giggles as we gingerly finger our food. Socialism has become more popular as our options are stripped away from us, but it is still looked upon with some skepticism in our family.

My father smiles kindly, however. "I don't care if it's idealism; I would like a country to call my own."

The giggling stops, and for a moment, we are thoughtful. The occupation has gone on for years. None of us have lived long enough to remember living as free people. Before we were under Pakistani occupation, we were ruled under India, and before that, we were British subjects. A land for our people? Was it possible?

I feel like it would be a shame to live in a land of our own without Aparna by my side.

My mother hesitates. "I have family in Pakistan," she says. "I grew up there. But after the cyclone, when they didn't send any emergency help... well, what can I say? They take our crops and give nothing back."

Sharna's friend nods fervishly. "The worst part is that they say we are all a part of Pakistan, but they don't count our votes when we manage to elect a Bengali man into the office of Prime Minister. Trust me, there will be a war if they refuse to recognize the results of the election."

Sharna sips some water before speaking. "I was listening to the radio today. If there really is a war, they say that India will join, on our side. Maybe we have something to look forward to after all?"

The boy finishes his dinner and then leaves, rushing home. Something is happening in Dhaka tonight, but we hear only whispers of it, only rumors. We drink tea and gossip in our bedrooms peacefully, as we do every night.

This night, however, our peace is cut short. There is screaming outside in the servants' quarters. We try to see out the windows, but our vision is disturbed by the bright headlights of many soldier's cars parked in front of our house.

Sharna grabs me by the hand and hides me in her closet. "Stay here," she whispers. "I'll go get the children."

I feel like a child, being told to hide. Still, I heed her words.

I hide in the dark and try desperately to hear something, anything. Mostly, I hear my heart jumping erratically. I crane my one working ear, and then twitch when I hear the front door being broken down. Against my cousin's orders, I run from the closet and down the staircase, just in time to see my father being handcuffed. I pant for air.

"... crimes against the state of Pakistan..." I hear one of the soldiers mumble. My father smiles up at me, reassuringly. I wonder how he thought to notice me, in the middle of all the commotion. One of my baby cousins is crying in the corner, and my mother is standing beside him, pale. She gives me a warning glance.

The soldier sees me too. "Don't look so glum, sweetheart. He'll be back," he assures me with a grin. He is handsome, I realize, in his pale, stiff uniform. It is the only thing that registers. Years later, I will wonder why he lied to me.

Another soldier comes out of our kitchen, holding our radio in his large hands. "You can't keep this," he says gruffly, before smashing it against the floor, simultaneously knocking over a vase of jasmine flowers. It shatters, and the little petals and pieces of glass glitter against the water that was once in the vase.

Patting the other soldier on the back, he gestures that they should go.

I shake my head. I don't care about the vase or even the radio right then. "D-dad," I choke out. He moves his mouth, but if he makes any sound, it goes unheard by me. I blame my bad ear for this, one of many things the Army will take from me. He is shoved out the door and into a car that is waiting outside. We watch in silence as he drives away from us.

Mother falls to her knees and sobs as the children look on. In between her sobs, she chants God's names. I think she goes through all 99 before she loses the energy and quiets down.

Sharna picks up the pieces of the radio and takes it back to the bedroom, intent on fixing it in order to hear news on what is happening.

I bring a broom to dust the petals and shards into a corner, and the children help me. They find every last piece of the vase, so that none of us will have to feel the pain of stepping on glass later.

Father does not come back that night, and he will not come back the next morning. My father's body, I will learn, is tied to a car and dragged through the streets of Dhaka. It is a horrible, unchangeable fact.

Another fact is that around thirty five thousand civilians die the same night. The Pakistan army targets the teachers, students, philosophers, and politicians; systematically wiping out the Bengali intelligentsia from right under our noses. They even shoot girls in their dormitory beds. They don't, however, stop there. They shoot on sight, killing anyone and everyone on the streets. When we go outside the next day, we see the roadsides piled high with corpses.

I would give anything to be deaf. I would give anything to not know the extent of human cruelty.

My father's only crime is a dream; a dream to live under the rule of law.

He is executed for his dreams, like a dog.

All the Bengalis in the Pakistan Army choose to mutiny, for obvious reasons. Pakistan takes over the radio stations, issues false reports, and refuses to assess the damage they caused us. Instead of recognizing that we elected a Bengali man into their highest office, they arrest him on charges of treason.

In many ways, the war is more real to us now, and it is a relief, after so many years of dancing around the subject. We slowly adjust to life under occupation, avoiding the checkpoints and soldiers, trying to live as normally as possible under miserable conditions. The city of Dhaka, known for its energy, is strangely quiet. There is no more open speech making, no more marching, no more protests. Whatever thoughts we have, we don't voice them outside our homes.

But the Resistance grows stronger, even as the Pakistan Army tries to crush it.

Though Pakistan took over our radio stations, an underground station pops up, Radio Free Bengal, and it claims to be associated with the movement. We hear a radio address from Major Zia of the Liberation Army. He declares our independence and appeals to other nations, that they might voice dissent against the genocide.

Very few nations heed his call.

Though our army isn't worth speaking of, girls and boys, hardly of army age, steal whatever weapons they can find in order to join in. We don't know how long the Freedom Fighters will last, but they are our only hope.

Normal things, like school and romance, become afterthoughts. Lives are dominated, in every way, by war; a new dictator to replace the old. Our friends start disappearing, joining different underground organizations, most of them never to return. It is a tragedy to see the youth both so energized and so wasted. Occasionally I wonder that such passion couldn't be put into diplomacy, but I know that Pakistan will not talk when they can kill instead.

Those of us who don't fight become subversive citizens, helping run guns for our friends and being careful with ourselves during searches and seizures. There is a new word on our minds, not yet on our tongues- freedom.

We are counting the days. To pass the time, we garden. Sometimes we plant flowers, but we also plant guns, deep under the earth, where they will not be found by the Army.

When the members of the resistance visit, they are amused by my slight stature and teach me how to hold a gun. "So sweet!" they exclaim, and take a photo of me posing with their weapons. They offer to teach me how to shoot, but I am too afraid, satisfied with my picture instead.

These are the small amusements of a girl in wartime.

Still, I live in terror. The Pakistan army has become desperate, and there are more random killings, more kidnappings. We hear rumors of mass graves and entire villages being fire-bombed. My mother is frantic with worry. She can't decide where to send us so that we may be safe. If there is a peaceful place left in Bangladesh, my mother does not know of it, and so we stay in Dhaka for the time being.

At times, she suggests that we smuggle our way into India. It is Sharna, now, who patriotically refuses for us. "We cannot leave," she explains. "Besides, there is no peaceful place left on this Earth, if we're being honest."

Of course, being young women, we do not have it the hardest. It is the men of fighting age who are offed the most, often for simply looking at someone the wrong way.

Sharna's fiance is almost killed in the street one day, but he is let go because the soldier takes pity on him; says he looks like his younger cousin or something. The same soldier shoots five other men standing around him.

He is the lucky one, but he is also stupid. He joins the resistance without even saying goodbye, but we know his heart and we forgive him. Life is a game for us; every day, a gamble. We take our risks and they pay off. The risks we take are foolish, and it's obvious that we are human.

It is on one such day that we decide to go play Bridge, a card game, at our neighbors house. They have two girls our age, and it is somehow quite freeing for us to break the law for something so petty as being able to play like children. There is the tittering and the hushing, the trick-taking and the counting. There is something devilishly wonderful about breaking curfew.

And then, there is something else. There is the honking of a car horn in the driveway.

"We've been caught!" Sharna hisses, and grabs my hand. Suddenly, all the fun is gone, replaced by a cold, hard, fear. We run down to the bedrooms, until we are so far away that we nearly miss the pounding on the door. We race into one of the girls' rooms to look for hiding spots.

I jump into a laundry hamper, and Sharna squeezes under a low rising bed, her movement causing the mosquito net to sway.

"Whatever you do, don't breathe," Sharna hisses, and we both do our best to relax; to calm our racing hearts. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The ends of a white sheet tickle against my nose, and pressed up against my eyes is a bright blue shirt.

I hear footsteps outside the door, and then the sound of the door creaking open. Beads of sweat form over my forehead.

Don't breathe.

"All clear here, Sir," a man says gruffly, speaking in Urdu.

Another man walks in. "Are you sure?" he asks.

I feel my heart trying to explode right out of me. I'm sure that my face has now turned as blue as the shirt I am hiding under, and I wonder if I will simply die of holding my breath. Sweat drips down my neck, and I grimace.

The first man chuckles. "You could hear a pin drop in here. Come on, let's go."

They leave. Sharna lets out a sigh of relief, but neither of us move until we hear the cars drive away, fading into the sounds of the night. When we are sure they are gone, we can't stop giggling. It is as though our hearts bubble out of us, after taking part in the most thrilling game of hide and seek we will ever play.

When we get back home, we are given the lecture of our lives. Mother is ill from worry, and she makes sure we suffer too. But at least we are not caught. At least we survive. We know that what we did was stupid, but now that we've done it, we must admit that it was thrilling.

And Sharna is trying to listen to the radio now. She starts shrieking with excitement and I lean my good ear towards it as well, trying in vain to hear what she's so excited about.

"India has joined on our side!" She screams, before hugging me. "It's over."

It is not quite over until December. The flowers are in full bloom and Sharna threads them through her hair, gloating about her accurate prediction. We buy a shiny new radio this winter and listen to the news. The treaties have been signed, and we're officially free. I do not know it then, but Time Magazine will call these events The Bloody Birth of Bangladesh. Years from now, that issue will have a special place on my coffee table, even when everyone else has forgotten the struggles and sacrifices of occupied life.

Our younger cousins are making cards to commemorate the occasion, using cheap paper and oil pastels. The youngest keeps tearing through the paper and starting over. They break the colors into threes so that they can all color the flag at the same time; a lush green field and a blood-red sun.

Sharna examines their efforts. "Imagine that. Years of hell, and now we have a country. How are we supposed to run a country?" she asks, amused. It is a question that will plague our politicians for years to come.

I shrug. Outside, people are celebrating. They are singing in our native language, holding up letters from our own alphabet. We are no longer second class citizens, being dictated by a foreign people; we are finally ourselves. My father's dream is realized, and yet, he is not here to see it.

My mother smiles. "I want you to go back to school. I want you to get a job."

I nod. School. A job. It seems so foreign to me now.

It's an odd feeling. War has become a part of my identity. I realize that I will never again have to worry about getting shot, owning contraband, or sneaking out after curfew. Who will run guns now? Who will be the rebel, now that I am free? These are the things that defined my girlhood, and I feel a little lost letting them go.

And then there is Father, and there is Aparna; I cannot bear to leave them behind. Can I live normally, knowing that they never will?

These are the spoils of war.

Years later, people will ask me where I was in 1971. When I reply that I was in Dhaka, they will quiet down and watch me closely, wondering how they did not see the signs. They will ask me, as they must, if I'm all right. I will say that I am, but I know the truth:

My life as I know it ends in 1971. Nothing after this matters.

Author Note: I hope I haven't made too many errors. Most of this is from the stories my mother told me, and some of it (dates, chronology) is with the help of Wikipedia. If you'd like to learn more on the subject, do a search for "Bangladesh Liberation War".

Foreign occupation is one of the most insidious forms of injustice. We don't always see how it changes things in the short term, but its effects (regional instability, extreme poverty, depression) are felt YEARS after the occupying nation has left. Even if you are American like me, you can see the effects of colonialism if you live near reservations and the like, and no matter what side of the issue you fall on, you know that it isn't pretty. These things never just "go away".

It isn't always possible to "undo" past injustices, but there are ways to create a better future where occupier and occupied will no longer be distinguishable. It can take centuries, but I have faith that it can be done.

I am not so presumptuous as to think that my stupid little story will have any lasting effect on your choices, but I do have one favor to ask you. Oppose occupation and colonialism, from here to the ends of the earth. It is an abomination.