Arts & Letters 15D

TSATURDAY, MARCH 26, 2016

Spoken word poetry17World Poetry Day16 Book Review &

Exhibition18INSIDESend your submissions to: anl@dhakatribune.com

nArts & Letters Desk

On this day in 1971, peo-ple of Dhaka woke up to the horror of one of the most brutal genocide

campaigns in history. The Pakistan army, well equipped with ammu-nition and tanks, engaged in an orgy of killing totally unarmed, unprepared teachers, students and officials of Dhaka University along with ordinary people living around. The DU dorms, especial-ly Jagannath Hall and Iqbal Hall (now Zahurul Haq Hall), and the teachers’ quarters were the centre of anti-Pakistan political activities. It explains why the crackdown, which later extended even to the remote village, began with the DU and the areas adjacent to it. The time from the night of March 25 to the lifting of curfew next day has found a central place in our histo-riography.

On the 45th anniversary of our Independence Day, Arts & Letters takes a look at this bit of history through the eyes of those who had survived this attack. Accounts of what had actually happened have been compiled in many books. But

Sahitya Prakash’s 1971: Bhoyaboho Obhiggata (1971: Dreadful Experi-ence) and UPL’s Historicising 1971 Genocide stand out among others. The former was edited by Rashid Haider and the latter written and edited by Imtiaz Ahmed.

Rashid’s book anthologises arti-cles, among others, by Kaliranjan Sheel, a veteran activist of Com-munist Party of Bangladesh, and Selina Hossain, one of our most respected fiction writers. While Sheel shares how he had survived the killing mission, Selina writes about what she had seen on the morning of March 26 upon visiting Iqbal Hall, one of the bastions of pro-independence student leaders.

In his article “Jagannath Hall-ei

Chhilam” (I was at Jagannath Hall that Night), Sheel gives a vivid pic-ture of that night. Having complete-ly surrounded the Jagannath Hall, the Pakistani army first launched a deadly shell and arson attack on the hall. The crushing nature of the

attack made it clear that the mis-sion was to enact a holocaust, gun-ning down every living soul staying there. Yet, miraculously, Sheel had survived although how this was possible would continue to baffle him all his life. While the mortar shell attacks were going on, the army gutted most parts of the dor-mitory. Then they barged into the rooms and indiscriminately fired bullets into the hapless students. However, some students, includ-

ing Sheel, were spared because of the darkness. But as the day broke, they hunted down all of them and asked them to carry the corpses all over the compound, and to heap them in a corner of the field.

Finally, they ordered the re-maining students to line up beside the stacks of corpses to complete their mission. But Sheel was too overworked to stand on his feet, so he fell on the ground right before the bullets could hit him. This was the breathtaking tale of how Sheel had cheated death. Yet, disturbing memories of that horrifying night might have taken their toll accord-ingly, precipitating an early death of one of the few survivors of the Jagannath Hall carnage.

In her article “Those Suffocating Days”, Selina Hossain writes, “We came to Iqbal Hall by rickshaw ... On our way we saw the Babutala slums burned to the ground, noth-ing left except charcoals and ashes. I found Iqbal Hall demolished in many places, with the staircases covered with dark stains of blood... There was dried blood on the floor of a room and its door read, “Zafar, Chittagong.” There was dried blood on the floor and the dead body was

not there. One realised that the dead body was dragged out and down the corridor, the stairs. A lot of the rooms were like that.”

Imtiaz Ahmed’s book not only provides a theoretical framework for better understanding the gen-ocide, but also gives us interviews of those who had seen their loved ones get brutally killed in front of their eyes.

Through interviews with family members of Statistics Department’s ANM Maniruzzaman and English’s Jyotirmoy Guhathakurta, among others, Imtiaz’s book provides accounts of how teachers were dragged out and shot. It also in-cludes interviews of Rajkumari Roy, wife of a martyred office assistant at Jagannath Hall; and Uma Rani, a sweeper whose martyred father was a gardener at the VC’s office.

At a time when perpetrators of this attack still deny their crimes against humanity, books like these, along with Bangla Academy’s volu-minous Ekattorer Smrity series and UPL’s Road to Freedom series, serve as our witness to the darkest night in our history that had seen men turn into demons and the demons shoot indiscriminately at our people. l

On this day in 1971

I found Iqbal Hall demolished in many places, with the staircases covered with dark stains of blood... There was dried blood on the floor of a room

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Arts & Letters16DT

SATURDAY, MARCH 26, 2016

RelevanceSyeda Samira Sadeque

I’m tryingto make you just a little lessrelevant.Scribble your name on the main page Instead of outside the marginsbecause the main page is wherethe ordinary belongs.

I’m tryingto smudge you out of my routine, Desperately adding meaningless con-versationsso you soon fall way below on that chat list - so that I have to scroll downFor so long to find your name that I might as well forget you;For so long that That the bitterness might as well become tasteless -the unnecessary bitterness,Of why do I know the time of your flight?A detail as irrelevantAs my existencein your life.

Dew-flower-dropsAbdullah Al MuktadirOnce he brought the most glorious autumn into our world.Clouds into clouds. White over white.He carried something we had never had around this city.Kaashphul drenched with the shiuli’s red.  But when he left, two of our twelve sweet monthsfollowed him towards his no-land.Clouds over clouds. White into white.His blood washed everything of our autumn days, andThrew us into a calendar of ten lament-ing months. Our tears and years no more have any Bhadra and Ashwin.Aamader brishti gulo aaj komol shishir-phul.Our rains have now evolved into some dew-flower-drops.

Dead roseRashna MunawarA rose lay on my table:crinkled, dry and dead,Hard to believe my eyesWhich had once seen it so red.With petals wet in dewdrops,It had enchanting charms,And once saw you lay

careless,Spellbound in my arms.At the blossom of love,In blooming red it shone,And fading towards the Fall,Was lifeless like a stone.A token of immortal despairFrom the seed of red it grows,Till love dies a brutal deathAnd leaves back a dead rose.

Untitled poems Urmi Masud

1.Zarathustra and Yuki looked at each other - None looked down queer as it may sound. Zarathustra made of stone, Yuki shaped in a daisy patterned frock, Their corneas, two pairs of engravings, Zarathustra’s purple patched pigeon plucked, Yuki’s were for dreaming. I wondered at their friendship,

“Will rust”, is what sings the eastern winds; Yuki means to sail the seas The stone is breaking, Zarathustra’s wings.

2.There is a sea, shallow, breathless and I have seen its empty heart and barren depths and it has given rise to tsunami of sands, falling on its knees at sandy shores, tourists laughing at its retreating dust...A sea, I have seen, inside my empty fist... There are broken nails, jagged lines,

claw like marks from benign finger tips, and pieces of hair on this wall, a bedroom, not a cage bright sunlight tsunami falls and retreats particle dust dances and hovers in freedom and I have seen this pretty bedroom and I hv seen the caged animal whimpering, my palm, empty, the sunlight flickers through my fingers

A fresh coat of paintShehzar DojaBy the sound of crashing waves,its subtle brushstrokespainting the sole canvasunder the feetof my soul’s eye,

I walked slowly,savouring eachfootstep ofthis ancient cityalone.

There,on the cornerof the Bosporus,

along the brittle horizon,of the seabed,

I witnessed two forgottenprayersemergeeither sidefrom a single lotus tileandreminisce,

forgetfulin ignorant mirth,

of thestuttering incantationsof a lonely childfrom

so far ago.

I wish I could tell myselfthen,what I truly feltbut wordssimply slipped outof rhetoricand back into thecrashing wavesof that painted sea.

2.The simple fragranceof this timeless bazaarwas all I hadtoawaken me.

At quarter to dusk,the orchestrated heartbeatsof composed peersfound themselvesrushing off

seeming hell benton ablutions.

They left me alonein the almost tangiblestillness of myabstinence.

What now?

Questions,

Simple elegantmeanderings.

Questions,Simple elegantmusings.

The muezzin’scallspreads outthinin the backdropof this ancient city.

the smell of fresh paint isalways alluring.

Demilitarized zonesAhsan Akbar

You: Impenetrable with your barracks of uniformed, armoured, marching armies-- Ready to shoot an unsuspecting trespasser A dreamer’s, not a schemer’s, attempt at... Territorial would be an understatement. Dismiss your platoon for an evening No court-martial, no show-cause; Easier - send them to the movies They may revel in the modern day antics of 21st century Marilyn or Marlon: Exchange their pre-washed hearts for a slice of violent delicacy. And I will swap my summer solstice, scramble the two hemispheres, For a night aflame: candle or bonfire... The call is yours. Not everything is negotiable, she declares, Even in completely demilitarized zones.

[from The Devil’s Thumbprint, Bengal Lights Books, 2013]

PAINTING BY SM SULTAN

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Arts & Letters 17D

TSATURDAY, MARCH 26, 2016

an obscure poemRifat Islam Esha

we want to find a placeinstilla slow forgetfulnessto move on, take a step aheadfrom what liesin the culvertof our dismay—a to-be forgotten sinew,the smears of laughter;unwritten desires and all that.

this has happened before, this hap-pens.

we have walked past this thiswe say; rage out the foamy wordsas we sift through blank pages:the story could have beenotherwise—not so faintyou know, there’s only noisein this one like the one before

we throw punctuated lines—the more wordy onesbecome the pallbearer

of justice—a body that has already died.

our protests aremerelysituation-based,but, where is this place?

our mouths dryin its search;the voyeurism and the slight-yirritationrevolt in our eyes;

and one step ahead,there is forgetfulness, for sure:

a placeout of usout of this mess

we humin deep breath—tongueslicking off ideasas if we are wounded, as if the wound is ours.

we rave,sit our thoughtstill they settle tomake a nest of more noise in a distance—inkedin grieving metaphors:cleverly spaced with silenceglaring back at us

asnothing happens.

then, when we look backat our dug-out safe spacewe saywe are:tryingover and over tonumb thisunrest in us

as days number up the pages.

NationSadaf Saaz Siddiqi

In a crowd with a blur of facesA heightened purpose in time sus-pendsA mingling of emotionsTo question the beginning and end.

Each with our purposeForm convoluted reasons to twist each shareMy thoughts hang on each dropletYours cut the monsoon air.

Each with our different theoriesShall we emulse, shall we be torn?Will this land see sparks of sunriseTo nurture a future just born?Shall we merge at last with our con-science?Shall we shadow as the masks we wear?Shall we fight as prodigal heroesTo follow convictions we swear?Or let them scatter ashes to ashesCrushed down dust to dustTo flow with flirting breezesOr burn deep with no dignity or trust.

Shall rigid principle paralyseAnd compromise betray?Till wrong is right And is believed.And given wordsAre imbibed and received.

Shall freedom be worn like a noose around my neck?Eroded driftwoodFrom a dying shipwreck.

from Sari Reams, UPL, 2013

Spoken word poetryA performance-based literature group has already made its mark on the literary scene. Now it’s time for some spoken word pieces.nSyeda Samira Sadeque

Poetry is one of our strongest cul-tural expressions. Whether in the form of small rhymes or recitations or rhythmic beats of Nazrul’s chol re chol re chol, poetry is instilled in us as a form of emotive expression from a very early stage in our life.

But that picture applies to Bang-la poetry and the English poetry scene in the country is not as vi-brant.

English poetry in Dhaka, how-ever, has seen a rise recently what with increased activities of various poetry groups and international lit-erary festivals in the city.

Last month, Ampersand, an English spoken word platform in Dhaka, organised various work-shops and spoken word events for budding poets.

One of them included a per-formance as well as a workshop with Australian spoken word artist Omar Musa.

“The visit to Bangladesh by Omar Musa was an opportunity not just to share his talent with a friendly audience in Bangladesh, but a chance to encourage similar

talent in Bangladesh,” says Greg Wilcock, Australian High Commis-sioner in Dhaka.

The Australian High Commis-sion sponsored and supported the show and workshop.

“We heard of a young group of poets coming together in Dhaka, and wanted to contribute to its

growth,” said Wilcock.  Omar, a Malaysian-Australian

spoken word artist and rapper, was the winner of Australian Poetry Slam (2008), and Indian Ocean Po-etry Slam (2009).

His novel Here Come the Dogs, written in a blend of poetry and prose, literary narrative and hip-hop verse, was published by Pen-guin Books in 2014. 

“Bangladesh has a rich and proud artistic heritage, not least in music and literature,” say Wilcock. “Omar Musa and Ampersand Spo-ken Word Group expertly demon-strated that spoken word, poetry and hip-hop are universal and powerful ways of expressing our thoughts and feelings, whether we come from Australia, Bangladesh or anywhere else.”

The show, which was held at the High Commissioner’s residence, drew a large number of people from the literary crowd of Dhaka, and also featured spoken word pieces by Ampersand members.

The show was followed by a pub-lic workshop the next day wherein participants engaged in writing and performing activities. l

WORKSHOP

To see or not to see

nArts & Letters Desk

The paintings and artworks fea-tured in Shawon Akand’s second solo art exhibition roamed be-tween two worlds: a world we are

unfamiliar with and a very familiar world that we are living.

The unfamiliar world, however, takes us amid nature where peo-ple seem to be living comfortably, dressed as they are in traditional

attires. A pale yellow colour per-vades the forest-like place. But the focus is obviously on the centre where a giant tortoise is walking by with three or four people sitting on its shell. That’s where it defamiliar-izes our experience but at the same time leaves us thinking about this construction.

The other world is very familiar to us: it’s the current world we are living and his representation of it involves a sharp critique of our cur-rent society that is becoming more and more mechanical and corpo-rate and moving further away from nature.

The exhibition, titled ‘To see or not to see’ ended on March 19 at national art gallery of Shilpakala Academy. It showcased works from various mediums including paint-ing, video art, mixed medium, digi-tal print and Sara painting.

A lot of our painters and artists were and still are intellectually oriented. So is Shawon and there is nothing new in it. But his intel-lectually works exude an openness

and blend of perspectives that does stand out.

The artist himself nicely cap-tures his position vis-a-vis differ-ing and conflicting points of view existing in a society or across soci-eties:

“People dwell in their respective worlds of ‘concepts’. That world is being built upon their knowledge or conceptual framework – which they subscribe to and live by. That’s why people differ in their thoughts. This in turn creates the difference in perception and read-

ing of the same subject/object at the same spatial-temporal reality. Everything we ‘see’ and ‘do not see’ actually depends on the canon we come to dwelling with and on our concepts perceived. As a result, when we look at/read different works, we often ‘see’ certain things and sometimes ‘do not see’ certain other things at the same time. Due to diverse ‘conceptual’ framework, the same work discarded as insig-nificant by one person can be by regarded as important by other viewer. l

Between science fiction and fantasynIkhtisad Ahmed

A discussion on science fiction was hosted by Bangla Academy last November, as part of the Dha-ka Literary Festival. Despite being in the morning, all the seats were occupied. The writers participat-ing in it were not household names in Bangladesh, yet the hour-long session saw people queue by the semi-closed door of the auditorium to listen to them. As I talked with a few of the enthusiastic audience afterwards, it came out that the reason for such intense interest is that there is a hunger for the genre.

Many of the ever-growing num-ber of writers in Bangladesh are turning to English. Genre-writing in the language, however, is dwin-dling, with science fiction almost absent. Saad Z. Hossain, one of the four writers at the panel discussion, seems to be the lone Bangladeshi writer writing in English in this gen-re. He writes in the no man’s land between science fiction and fantasy. He writes from a place of absurdity and acerbic wit, which makes defin-ing what he writes even more diffi-cult. That it is difficult to put him in a clearly defined box is his allure.

His debut novel, Escape From Baghdad, was first published in Bangladesh in 2012 as Baghdad Immortals by Bengal Publications. However, the Unnamed Press ver-sion, selected by Financial Times

as one of the best books of 2015 in the science fiction category (al-though they too referred to it as be-ing unclassifiable), is equally imag-inative, wild and quirky, and more refined and precise. It is ambitious in its flirting with and skirting of genres, forever on the verge of be-coming a creative nightmare, yet somehow remaining on the edge to be delightfully creative.

Set in the aftermath of the ill-conceived US invasion of Iraq, Dagr, a professor before the war, and Kinza are forced into oppor-tunism for survival. A US Marine, Private Hoffman, is their business partner and friend. They appropri-

ate and barter specialty items in the new economy that has been creat-ed by the war. Captain Hamid, the star torturer of the fallen Ba’athist regime, makes his appearance in the story. He promises Dagr and Kinza a share of the untold riches hidden in Mosul, and becomes a partner of convenience as they em-bark on a treasure quest.

No sooner do they leave their

safe refuge than they are asked for help. Those who, much like them, are condemned to living in Bagh-dad enlist their help to hunt the Lion of Akkad. Their vigilantism lands them in the middle of a cen-turies-old war, involving the Druze

sect and the secrets they preserve and guard. The Lion is an ancient warrior pitted against the avari-cious, manipulative Avicenna (a fictional version of Persian poly-math Ibn Sina), a fellow immortal. Constantly under attack from the US military, special elements of the former Iraqi secret service, alche-mists, witches, and fundamentalist thugs, Dagr, Kinza, Hoffman and Hamid are transformed into surviv-alist truth-seekers embroiled in this other war taking place in the hellish warzone. Their primary objective of escaping from Baghdad descends into an absurdity reminiscent of Blackadder Goes Forth. But readers can constantly feel the city of Bagh-dad breathing in the background.

Escape From Baghdad is an ec-lectic war novel without peer. The gluttonous Hoffman, who admits to being “just a cog” and “dream[s] only in American”, personifies the US. He manufactures a baseless search for weapons of mass destruction (his su-perior says he will “personally make sure there is a Nobel Peace Prize in it” for him) as a means to his own end. He escapes punishment for deal-ing in contraband, helps Dagr and Kinza, and indulges in debauchery. His exchanges with fellow military officers exemplify Saad’s sharp wit. He has a keen eye for humour and he is capable of writing lucid prose. It is dialogue-heavy, which naturally lends itself to Saad’s wit and ensures

the novel maintains a brisk pace. The wartime satire has shades of Catch-22, but the story is not about the Americans and their misdeeds.

Interactions between the char-acters stay true to the particular blend of styles, structures and dic-tion employed in the book, while setting and driving the action. He writes about the horrors of a war blamed on the Iraqis by using fan-tasy and science fiction. In doing so, he achieves the extraordinary feat of making the reader root for the pair of misfits, Dagr and Kinza. We want them to succeed so that we can discover the truth and feel satiated instead of short-changed at the end. Saad shatters the errone-ous preconceptions about the war without indulging in didacticism. He makes us see Iraqis as people – some good, some bad but all flawed like us – rather than as terrorists.

When fantasy and science are peeled away, what we are left with is a human story framed within a classic quest plot. It is an adven-ture tale, where good battles evil in a wasteland where everyone is both. Escape From Baghdad is bi-zarre, humorous and entertaining. It cannot be classified, yet it is a bold example of genre-writing. l

Ikhtisad Ahmed is a writer. His latest books are the poetry collection, Requiem, and the short story collection, Yours, Etcetera. Twitter: @ikhtisad

B O O K R E V I E W

Arts & Letters18DT

SATURDAY, MARCH 26, 2016

He writes from a place of absurdity and acerbic wit, which makes defining what he writes even more difficult. That it is difficult to put him in a clearly defined box is his allure

EXHIBITION

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A GREAT SOUL VISITING SHAHBAGH