Birangonas: Our dearest sisters

by Shahanaz Jahan Pushon, translated for AlalODulal.org by Tibra Ali

“Husbands? Where will we find husbands. Some of our husbands died during the war, others have left us.”

One shock followed another. Keeping my expression natural, I asked, “Children?”

“The kids have grown up, the eldest two sons have moved in with their in-laws. They never visit or ask for my news. The daughter too doesn’t come.”

“Then where do you live?”

“I don’t have a place to stay, dear sister. I live with her. (Pointing to another birangona). She, too, doesn’t have a place to stay, she lives at her paternal uncle’s.”

“Hey, want to go to Sirajgonj with us? A few of us are going there to meet with birangonas (war heroines).” Trimita proposed suddenly.

On hearing this I became excited. Birangonas! Birangonas! So many songs have been composed, so many texts written about them. I have read some of it, and sometimes, on hearing about them on the television, I have tried to form a mental picture of what they look like, what kind of women they are.

I remember when I was in ninth grade, and a student at the Cadet College, for some reason or another I had fetched from the library shelves a book on the Liberation War. I can’t recall either the title or the author’s name anymore. It was based on the real war-time experience of a retired army general. In the book he described how, after defeating and taking over a Pakistani Army camp, he rescued from a room there a number of abused women who were stark naked. Their saris had been taken away from them, as having saris gave them the opportunity to commit suicide. After that, the book contained some descriptions of the torture these women suffered, reading which made me cry for the rest of the day. It was like going through a trauma, as I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if someone took away even my right to commit suicide.

A sharp gash formed in my soul, and a mistrust in humans was born inside of me. Why and how can someone, caught up in the ecstasy of rape, fling open the thighs of a woman? Bayonet her between her legs? If they are human beings, what am I? Or if I am human, what are they? Do we belong to the same group? For a whole week I silently brooded over these questions.

A long time has passed since then. Out of fear I didn’t open books on the Liberation War anymore. I can’t bear descriptions of human barbarity. No longer did I read the stories of birangonas. I consoled myself by saying that after Liberation many freedom fighters, like that general, must have liberated all the enemy camps in December of 1971 and set the girls free. And the government, having honoured them with the title of ‘birangonas’, must have set up rehabilitation centres for them. In particular, the fact that these days one often hears poetry about birangonas being recited in emotional tones on various television channels on Victory Day made me think that these women must have gained the love and respect of the people. If not, why would there be so many poems written about them? Besides, upon listening to the extensive discussions of the birangonas by the so-called intellectuals gave the impression that these women have become ‘stars’ of this country. The political parties, even if for the selfish reasons to improve their own images, must have been fighting each other to give the birangonas plush apartments and other benefits and thus increase their own standing with the people. To say nothing about the media and the social welfare organizations, I imagined.

“Are you going there just to meet with them or do you have some other purpose?” I asked Trimita.

“No, not just to meet with them but also because of that play that we put together every year to raise funds.”

“Oh, you mean the Vagina Monologues?”

I suddenly remembered Trimita, Tasaffy and a few others squander their time every year by putting together a show about ending violence against women. The money that they raise every year from this, they donate to some grass-root women’s organization. I too once took part in this play.

“Yes, earlier this year we decided that we shall give the collection that we raise to the birangonas. There is an organization called ‘Naripokkho’ that is helping us get in touch with twenty-one birangonas. So we are going to Shirajganj to hand over the money to them.”

Hmm, I thought, what difference would a small amount, raised by insignificant people like us, make to the birangonas. They must be living in big apartments. Still what harm could such a small gift cause? And this is my chance to meet them as well.

The seven of us started at 7 AM in the morning and arrived at Sirajgonj at 10 AM. Our group consisted of me, Trimita, Shanta, Tasaffy, Tahmina, Priyota, and Orchid. For some reason our discussion during the entire journey centred around the much talked about Bangla cinema film star Ananta Jalil and his movies. There is no doubt that the man is creating waves. On the way we learned that we are going to the office of an NGO called “Sirajgonj  Mohila Uttoron Shangsta” (Organization for the advancement of the women of Sirajgonj). I surmised that the birangonas must all live there together. Perhaps the government had set it up for their accommodations and other needs.

We arrived at last to a pretty one story concrete building. I wondered how 21 birangonas could live in such a small building. We were welcomed by Shafina Lohani who is the founder and director of the NGO.

The first thing I noticed when we went in were a group of women who looked like street beggars sitting around on some plain looking furniture. A little like the domestic female servants (“buas”) that one sees in the middle class homes of the cities. I didn’t realize who they were. I wondered what these women were doing at the offices of the biarngonas?

Shanta smiled and walked towards them and at that moment it dawned on me like daylight that these women were the birangonas at the centre of our stories, and poems, and countless discussions by intellectuals and politicians and millions of people.

I quickly recovered from the shock. I felt a sharp pang of guilt (I don’t know what caused my guilt). I kept on thinking whether the few of us in such a short time can “make up” for the profound disrespect that we, as a nation, have shown to these women by reducing them to this state?

After giving them my ‘salam’ I walked towards them. Sitting down amongst them I started talking to them like old friends. I kept silent about how much I admired and adored them. But, while holding their hands and hugging them I prayed, “Allah, please convey to their hearts at least a fraction of the love I feel for them”. Human beings are able to understand love or hate instantaneously. I think they were able to intuit my feelings for them. I asked them where they lived, where their husbands and children were. They smiled at my ignorance.

“Husbands? Where will we find husbands. Some of our husbands died during the war, others have left us.”
One shock followed another. Keeping my expression natural, I asked, “Children?”

“The kids have grown up, the eldest two sons have moved in with their in-laws. They never visit or ask for my news. The daughter too doesn’t come.”

“Then where do you live?”

“I don’t have a place to stay, dear sister. I live wherever I can. (Pointing to another birangona) She, too, doesn’t have a place to stay, she lives at her paternal uncle’s.”

Another came and sat down beside me: “We don’t have a place to stay, dear sister. After it happened (after ’71 that is) everyone in the village drove me out. Now I live in a chchapra (a small shack made out of bamboos or other such cheaply available material) squatting on the government land beside the railway line.”

“How do you eat?”

“Amma sometimes calls us and gives us some money or clothes – that’s how we stay alive.”

In a short while I realized, none of these women have a place to stay. Most don’t get to see their children. After ’71, most of them supported themselves by working as maids in other people’s houses or as seamstresses. Now that they are old, they have lost their ability to work, and their only support now is ‘Amma’.

This Amma is Shafina Lohani who has been beside them since 1971. Before 1971 she was involved in student politics at Rajshahi University. During 1971 she was active in the Liberation War. Afterwards she worked in the rehabilitation centre for the birangonas and in 1980 she started getting the birangonas of Shirajganj together. Since then, she has been single handedly looking after these women. Shaifna Lohani is a simple human being who goes about her business quietly and she is virtually unknown to us. I know the names of the likes of Ananta Jalil but as an educated woman I don’t know who Shafina Lohani is. I felt ashamed at this. Quietly a deep reverence for her formed in me. And I even started dreaming a little about doing something like her in the future, and become someone with a pure soul like her.

In a little while all of us became very intimate with each other. Birangona sister Rajubala sang us a kirtan. To her delight we clapped and danced to her song. I have never received so much love and warmth in such a short time. At one point one of the sisters said “Why don’t you oil your hair, why don’t you tie back your hair?”

It’s been 10 years since the passing of my mother and that someone has asked me to rub oil into my hair! I was close to tears. I wondered how these women became so pure and holy? Their eyes, face, touch was holy, like my mother’s.

When we were about to leave the sisters became tearful, “We become attached, sisters,” they said. I have worked at many places, lived a number of years, but never have I felt like this when saying goodbye.

On our way back I felt that part of my soul has become joined with theirs, and that bond will make me return to this place.

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This article was inspired by One Billion Rising for Justice, End VAW campaign.