Reaching 71, Remembering 71

Perhaps reaching the milestone of 70 last year was some sort of cause for celebration and very good friends came to a very enjoyable get together. I always remember to "Count my life by smiles, not tears; Count my age by friends, not years." I am blessed to have many wonderful friends in Bangladesh.

This year, turning 71 is automatically linked to the turmoil and the horrors that I witnessed in 1971. Forty five years ago I forgot about my birthday as I was in some muddy refugee camps wondering how OXFAM assistance could make them a bit more comfortable and how the children could get better food and have a chance to learn and play. It was a daunting task to say the least. At the time – end of April 1971 -the world had not yet understood the enormity of the refugee problem and even the head offices of the UN and international NGOs like OXFAM were finding it hard to accept the reports that were coming to their offices from Calcutta. In the field we were witnessing death and disease on a scale that was unimaginable. I still have nightmares about the deaths of children in the refugee camps in India. I still remember, as though it were yesterday, the wounds of men who had managed to arrive to safety after being attacked by machetes by the collaborators of the Pakistani authorities. Some of the wounds had become septic during their painful journeys.

Sometimes in my nightmares I see the body of a dead child lying in the rain, its arms and legs gnawed off by dogs, its eyes pecked out by crows. I will never forget the babies with their skin hanging loosely in folds from their tiny bones – lacking the strength even to lift their heads. The children with legs and feet swollen with oedema and malnutrition limp in the arms of their mothers. Babies going blind for want of vitamins, or covered with sores that will not heal. Seeing in the eyes of their parents the despair of ever seeing their children well again. Seeing the corpse of the child who died the night before…

It was only when cholera swept through the camps towards Calcutta that the conscience of the world was alerted, but even this killer came and went. It left behind what was there before, suffering and despair – no homes, little or no food, insufficient medical supplies, and worst of all, no hope.

It is very right to celebrate Bangladesh's remarkable development successes and progress over the years, but we must never forget the pain and suffering that was invested into the foundation of this beautiful country. I will never forget. My recurring nightmares will not allow me to do so.