On March 26, 1971, the Pakistani government—ruled by
the West Pakistanis—launched a planned genocide on the East Pakistanis—mostly
Bengalees. The purpose of the genocide
was to suppress East Pakistan’s demand for political autonomy, which would
become unavoidable should the government have followed a democratic path of
settlement. During the next nine months
three million people were massacred—the largest number of people killed in the
shortest span of time in human history.
People from all walks of life were summarily executed—students,
teachers, professors, doctors, nurses, scientists, politicians, poets, artists,
writers, government workers, military and paramilitary personnel,
industrialists, shop keepers, rickshaw pullers. Innocent and unarmed villagers—men, women and children—were
rounded up, raped, mutilated and massacred by the West Pakistani troops. Out of this genocide the Liberation War of
1971 began and on December 16 the Pakistani occupation army surrendered before
the joint command of the Mukti Bahini (Freedom Fighters) and Indian Army. An
independent and sovereign Bangladesh was born.
Poets are called the “conscience of the people.” What about the poets in Pakistan? Then and
now? With time we have come to know
about some great poets of Pakistan who weren’t silent against the inhumanity
and brutality committed in their name. Among such poets are Faiz Ahmed Faiz,
Habib Jalib, Ahmad Salimm, Sheikh Ayaz and Ajmal Kahattak. Hats off to all of
them. Courageously, they spoke.
Here are two poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911-1984),
considered one of the foremost poets of the Indian subcontinent. He wrote in Urdu, but his poems have been
translated into several languages. The death of this great poet of social
conscience was mourned throughout the world.
Stay Away from Me
(Bangladesh I)
How
can I embellish this carnival of slaughter,
how decorate this massacre?
Whose
attention could my lamenting blood attract?
There’s
almost no blood in my rawboned body
and
what’s left
isn’t
enough to burn as oil in the lamp,
not
enough to fill a wineglass.
It
can feed no fire,
extinguish
no thirst.
There’s
a poverty of blood in my ravaged body—
a
terrible poison now runs in it.
If
you pierce my veins, each drop will foam
as venom at the cobra’s fangs.
Each
drop is the anguished longing of ages’
the
burning seal of a rage hushed up for years.
Beware
of me. My body is a river of poison.
Stay
away from me. My body is a parched log
in the desert.
If
you burn it, you won’t see the cypress or the jasmine,
but
my bones blossoming like thorns in the cactus.
If
you throw it in the forests,
instead
of morning perfumes, you’ll scatter
the
dust of my seared soul.
So
stay away from me. Because I’m
thirsting for blood.
This
is how my sorrow became visible:
its
dust, piling up for years in my heart,
finally
reached my eyes,
the
bitterness now so clear that
I
had to listen when my friends
told
me to wash my eyes with blood.
Everything
at once was tangled in blood—
each
face, each idol, red everywhere.
Blood
swept over the sun, washing away its gold.
The
moon erupted with blood, its silver extinguished.
The
sky promised a morning of blood,
and
the night wept only blood.
The
trees hardened into crimson pillars.
All
flowers filled their eyes with blood.
And
every glance was an arrow,
each
pierced image blood. This blood
--a
river crying out for martyrs—
flows
on its longing. And in sorrow, in rage, in love.
Let
it flow. Should it be dammed up,
there
will only be hatred cloaked in colors of death.
Don’t
let this happen, my friends,
bring
all my tears back instead,
a
flood to fill my dust-filled eyes,
to
wash this blood forever from my eyes.
Editor’s
Note: Both the poems are from “The Rebel’s Silhouette,” a collection of poems
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, translated by Agha Shahid Ali (Layton, Utah: Gibbs-Smith,
Publisher, 1991. Translation copyright 1991 by Agha Shahid Ali.)