‘PAPA, are you crying?’ were the last words popular Awami League councillor Akramul Haque’s daughter had said to him. The family then heard the gunshots. The groan. Then more shots. The sounds, recorded on their phone, and later released to the media, reverberated across paddy fields, along the undulating Chittagong Hill Tracts, across swampy marshlands, on the waves of the Padma and Jamuna, in fancy apartments of Gulshan and Baridhara, and now in the cantonment. It reaffirmed what we all knew, and what the government has consistently denied. That it was the law enforcing agencies of our country, rather than the courts, who decide whether a citizen should live or die.
Two
months ago, Major (retired) Rashed Sinha was ‘crossfired’ in Cox’s Bazar Marine
Drive, locally known as the ‘Death Drive’, where over one-fourth of the
‘crossfires’ across the country had taken place. Later, the chief of army staff
assured all that there would be no further ‘crossfires’ [of military personnel,
in service, or retired]. But what about ordinary citizens? Despite the clear
message from the authorities, ‘crossfire’ is simply too convenient and too profitable.
As far as the government is concerned, it is here to stay.
I am no
stranger to death. I came across it in 1971. In the many disasters I’ve
covered. In the political clashes I’ve witnessed. Drik’s team of Fariha Karim,
Tanzim Wahab and Momena Jalil had researched over 600 cases of ‘crossfire’ in
2010, meticulously noting locations, time of death and mode of killing. But it
is the more recent killing of Akramul Haque that haunts me the most.
The
photograph, from Akram’s family album, of a proud dad with his doting
daughters, superimposed on the Google Earth map of the notorious ‘Marine
Drive’, encapsulates a nation’s pain like no other. It’s very different from
the other photographs in my series on crossfire deaths, photographs which the
Peruvian curator Jorge Villacorta had described as ‘nocturnal viewings in a
sleepless night’.
The
attempt of the first exhibition (Crossfire, 2010) had been to get under the
skin. To walk those cold streets. To hear the cries, see terror in the eyes. To
sit quietly with a family beside a cold corpse. Every photograph had been based
on in-depth research. On case studies. On verifiable facts. A fragment of the
story had been used to suggest the whole. A quiet metaphor for the screaming
truth.
When the
exhibition was to be opened on March 22, 2010, the government had sent riot
police to close down Drik’s gallery. India’s legendary writer and activist
Mahasweta Devi who had come over from Kolkata, and Nurul Kabir, one editor the
government has yet failed to tame, opened the show in the street. Mahasweta
symbolically removed my handcuffs to mark the opening. Later, I had interviewed
one of the policemen, asking him why they had closed down an exhibit that
showed things as harmless as an empty paddy field. The policeman was also a
father. ‘It was the word ‘crossfire’,’ he said, ‘even my three-year-old
daughter knows what that means.’ Despite the spin and the propaganda, the word
is familiar to all Bangladeshis. ‘Papa, are you crying’ touches each one of us.
In 2010
we had geo-tagged the heart rending ‘crossfire’ incidents over the years on to
a Google Earth map. The map included the case studies. Now that there are
over 4,000 cases, it is just too difficult to keep track.
‘No
person shall be deprived of life or personal liberty save in accordance with
law’ says Article 32, Part III, on fundamental rights in the Constitution of
Bangladesh. The Supreme Court judge, Nazrul Islam Chowdhury had said, ‘It will
be suicidal for the nation and the society to allow the law enforcement
agencies to decide who should be killed on criminal charges.’
The 2008
election pledge of the Awami League had struck a chord. To ‘stop extrajudicial
killing, bring the perpetrators to justice, and establish rule of law and human
rights’ was part of a campaign promise that led to a landslide victory.
The 2008
election pledge of the Awami League had struck a chord. To ‘stop extrajudicial
killing, bring the perpetrators to justice, and establish rule of law and human
rights’ was part of a campaign promise that led to a landslide victory.
Ten years
on, with ‘crossfire’ unabated, and the killings increasingly more brazen, we
decided another viewing of the show was needed. This time we ourselves chose
the streets. There were two additions to the original set of images,
representing the killings of Akramul Haque and Major (rtd) Rashed Sinha. It was
to be at Shahbag on September 4, the thirty first anniversary of Drik. Shortly
before our pre-announced event was to start, we heard that a large
pro-government group, bolstered by over a hundred policemen, had already
occupied Shahbag. We relocated instead to nearby Raju Bhaskorjo at the Dhaka
University. We couldn’t know then whether their programme had been a deliberate
act to disrupt ours. When they came over in droves to physically attack our
performers, attempting to snatch away our banner and microphone and rip up our
photographs, the intention became obvious. The spurious argument of demanding
justice for the 21st August grenade attack where judgement had already been
issued and 19 given the death sentence, had no relevance. It was simply a ruse.
No way would a protest against ‘crossfire’ be tolerated. That the attack on us
could happen in full view of the police was telling.
We stood
our ground despite being vastly outnumbered and the visible threat, but felt
the ruckus would not be a fitting venue for the last part of our programme, a
minute’s silence to honour the ‘crossfired’ dead. We moved to a quieter place,
outside Chobir Haat, to pay our respects.
Professionals
belonging to the international media posted their take on social media:
‘If you
want to see how art and activism intersect, I thoroughly recommend you watch
this live stream of Drik’s performance to highlight Crossfire (extra-judicial)
killings in Bangladesh. So brave and powerful – unforgettable.’ Rachel Spence,
Art Writer, Financial Times.
‘An
exhibition like no other. It was perhaps the best photo exhibition I have
witnessed in my life.’ Shafiqul Alam, Bureau Chief, Dhaka. AFP
Then came
the letter. It was copied to the Shahbag Thana police.
Dhaka
University is no longer the seat of resistance, or intellectual practice it
once had been. Tenure is now decided on party loyalties rather than on merit.
But would a proctor have really objected to an art event protesting against
extra-judicial killings, especially when events of significantly less
importance had been regularly allowed, and have been allowed since? It was
however, the mis-spelling of the word University (`Univesity’ in the
letterhead) that worried me. A letterhead is a sign of one’s identity. Surely
this prestigious institution, known as the ‘Oxford of the East’, could not have
been using a mis-spelt letterhead.
The
production of the letterhead would have gone through a rigorous process of
design, approval and vetting. There would have been a committee that signed off
on all official stationery. Even if all that had failed, the person signing the
letter, must have noticed. Apparently not. It was later confirmed by the
proctor’s office that the letter was indeed genuine. So much for our ‘Oxford of
the East’.
The
proctor had expressed concern about the health issue. The art event had indeed
been planned keeping distancing guidelines in mind. It was the attack against
the protest, led by Councillor of Ward 26 of Dhaka South City Corporation, Mr.
Hasibur Rahman Manik with a much larger and aggressive group, that posed the
health risk. Why the proctor sent a copy of his letter to Drik also to the
local police station, but failed to issue a similar letter to Manik, remains a
mystery.
Is the
Dhaka University with its once proud tradition of conscientious dissent, now a
supporter of ‘crossfire’? Are proctorial ears deaf to a daughter’s last words
‘Papa, are you crying?’
First
published in The New Age
