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Military Power, Youthful Passion, Moral Resilience: A journey from 1971 to 2024
IN THE quiet spaces between history and memory, where the weight of time presses heavily, there are forces unseen but deeply felt. Military might, cold and calculating, intertwines with the raw, untainted zeal of youth, pulsing with the hope of a future unshackled. From the dust and blood of...
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Military Power, Youthful Passion, Moral Resilience: A journey from 1971 to 2024
Abdul Monaiem Kudrot Ullah 16 December, 2024, 00:00
Tens of thousands people celebrate the fall of the autocratic Awami league regime on August 5. | New Age/ Md Saurav
IN THE quiet spaces between history and memory, where the weight of time presses heavily, there are forces unseen but deeply felt. Military might, cold and calculating, intertwines with the raw, untainted zeal of youth, pulsing with the hope of a future unshackled. From the dust and blood of 1971 to the turbulent echoes of 2024, the struggle for sovereignty unfolds — a tale of leadership carved in moments of quiet rebellion, of resilience rooted in the hearts of those who dare to dream.
In my early days as a naval officer, we often found solace in the cinematic retellings of Mutiny on the Bounty. The different versions of the story — be it from 1935, 1962 or 1984 — captured the human drama aboard the HMS Bounty in 1789. The tale of Captain Bligh and Fletcher Christian mirrored not just the historical rebellion but the eternal cycle of authority and resistance. Bligh, a figure of tyranny, embodied the systemic cruelty of empires built on exploitation, while Christian, initially complicit, ultimately rebelled. This duality — the oppressor and the complicit enforcer — is one that history often repeats.
Bligh’s authoritarian streak and Christian’s subsequent mutiny were not simply individual failures but reflections of broader institutional collapse. Christian’s rebellion, though initially heroic, ended in exile, serving as a poignant reminder that rebellion without systemic change often turns into retreat rather than true emancipation. This struggle between power, resistance and moral complicity reverberates in the events of 1971 and 2024.
In 1971, Bengali military officers like Ziaur Rahman, Shafiullah, and Khaled Musharrof found themselves facing a similar dilemma. As members of the Pakistan Army, they had to decide whether to comply with an oppressive regime or defy it in the name of justice. Their decision to align with the Bengali people marked a turning point in the liberation struggle — a struggle marked by leadership under immense pressure. The decision was fraught with moral complexity, as the officers risked everything for a cause that seemed insurmountable.
In 2024, the echoes of this conflict were once again heard, as a student-led uprising against corruption and authoritarianism gripped the nation. The military, initially deployed to suppress the dissent, found itself at the crossroads of moral duty and institutional obedience. At first, the army chief seemed resolute in supporting the regime, echoing Bligh’s unwavering command. But then, a pivotal moment of conscience arrived. Just as Fletcher Christian rescued Bligh’s boat, the army chief chose restraint, refusing to fire upon the people. His statement, “Ami sob dayitto nicchi” (“I take full responsibility”), was a profound rebuke to the regime that had grown deaf to the voices of its citizens.
The parallels between the events of 1971 and the July-August 2024 uprising are striking. Both periods saw the convergence of military power, political discontent and the fervent spirit of students and people. The leadership dynamics in both eras underscore the role of moral courage in the face of institutional collapse. The 1971 Liberation War, shaped by political missteps, military actions and the unyielding will of the Bengali people, teaches us lessons on the resilience needed to confront injustice.
As we reflect on these moments, we recognise that history is never linear. It is fluid, shifting with the collective will of a people determined to break free from oppression. Whether in 1971 or 2024, the struggles of Bangladesh are shaped by the interplay of military might, youthful rebellion and the moral dilemmas of leadership — a reminder that even in times of darkness, the unseen hands of change are often the ones that reshape the future.
Prelude to crisis: unravelling of governance
THE story of resistance — whether in the distant drumbeats of 1971 or the sharp, searing cries of 2024 — is a tale of systematic exclusion, a suffocation so slow it feels like the tightening of a noose. In the years before Bangladesh’s liberation, East Pakistan was relegated to the periphery — a colony within a nation. It was stripped of its voice, dignity and dreams, bled dry by a West Pakistani elite whose arrogance reduced the vibrant heart of Bengal to a mere appendage.
Oppression bred defiance. As early as 1964, Lieutenant Commander Moazzem Hossain began organising an armed mutiny, inspiring Bengali personnel in the armed forces to rally behind the cause of independence. His actions symbolised the growing discontent within the Bengali ranks of Pakistan’s military. By the late 1960s, Maulana Abdul Hamid Khan Bhasani’s fiery rhetoric and mass mobilisation amplified the call for self-rule, while the Six-Point Program of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s Awami League transformed decades of suffering into a powerful manifesto for autonomy. These forces coalesced into a tidal wave of resistance, culminating in the liberation war of 1971.
This war was marked by early acts of defiance in places like Chittagong and Kushtia, where military and civilian resistance to Pakistan’s brutal crackdown demonstrated the resilience of the Bengali people. In Chittagong, Bengali military personnel, with the support of local fighters, disrupted Pakistani supply lines and seized key installations. Kushtia became another symbol of defiance, with pitched battles between the Mukti Bahini and Pakistani forces, showcasing the spirit of rebellion that would define the liberation struggle.
Yet history, it seems, has a cruel sense of irony. Fast forward to 2024, and the echoes of the neglect that once fuelled the independence struggle reverberated in an independent Bangladesh. The Awami League had become synonymous with the entrenchment of power. Rigged elections in 2014, 2018 and 2024 fractured democracy, turning institutions into tools of control and squandering public trust. The opposition, led by Begum Khaleda Zia’s BNP, consistently branded the government as “Oboidho Sarkar” (illegal government), deepening its legitimacy crisis. By 2024, a generation of disillusioned youth, disconnected and desperate, stood at the brink of rebellion. Their frustration echoed past struggles, driven by the same sense of betrayal and exclusion.
Escalation: repression and military dissent
REPRESSION, a tragic hallmark of resistance movements, often becomes the catalyst for their intensification. In 1971, Pakistan’s military launched Operation Searchlight, a brutal crackdown aimed at silencing dissent but inadvertently galvanising the Mukti Bahini into action. Similarly, in 2024, the Hasina regime employed censorship, surveillance and violence to suppress mounting unrest. However, these tactics only stoked the fires of rebellion. The deaths of activists like Abu Sayeed in Rangpur and Sajedul in Chattogram became powerful symbols of resistance, their sacrifices rallying a fragmented opposition into a more cohesive movement.
The leadership of student coordinators played a pivotal role, effectively mobilising protests and coordinating decentralised grassroots efforts. Their actions turned scattered anger into organised uprisings. Protests erupted in key cities like Chattogram and Rangpur, evoking the spirit of the liberation struggle. In Chattogram, student activists clashed fiercely with security forces, reclaiming streets and galvanising national attention. In Rangpur, inspired by the sacrifices of their predecessors, a new generation of rebels defied government forces with a fervour reminiscent of the battles of 1971.
This was not the first time dissent had roared with such ferocity, threatening to shake the foundations of power. In 2014, the BNP-led opposition orchestrated a nationwide rebellion of sorts, a storm of protests that ground government activities to a halt. Streets were ablaze with anger, offices shuttered and the machinery of governance faltered under the weight of mass resistance. Yet Sheikh Hasina’s government stood resolute, bolstered by a state apparatus primed to crush any semblance of defiance. The question whispered in the smoky alleys of Dhaka was chilling: What if General Iqbal Karim Bhuiyan had acted differently? A military chief with moral clarity might have changed the course of history.
But history, as it often does, repeated itself. In 2018, the flames of resistance flickered again, but once more, they were extinguished by the unyielding hand of power. General Aziz Ahmed, the man who could have tipped the scales, chose instead to toe the regime’s line. And in 2024, as the spectre of yet another sham election loomed, the nation found itself abandoned again. General Shafiuddin, his actions eerily reminiscent of the darkest days of Tikka Khan and Niazi, stood steadfastly loyal to the very machinery of oppression that had long strangled the voice of the people.
The betrayal was palpable. With every passing day, hope seeped away, not just from the streets but from the collective psyche of a nation. The military — once viewed as a potential arbiter of justice in the face of political chaos — was now a spectre of complicity, its silence deafening, its allegiance clear. To many, Hasina’s government had become the consequence of the military’s original sin — a tainted birthright that left the nation tethered to the very oppression it had fought so valiantly to escape decades ago. The people no longer looked to the barracks for salvation. They knew now, bitterly, that their battle was theirs alone.
After the grim triumph of conducting yet another voterless election, a strange and sinister reality began to unfold. The government machinery — bloated with its newfound sense of invincibility — saw itself not merely as servants of the state but as kingmakers. Bureaucrats, long accustomed to servility, now strutted about with the hubris of conquerors. But beneath this facade of power lay an unsettling truth: society had turned its back on them.
In the neighbourhoods and schools of the regime’s enforcers, a quiet rebellion simmered. Children of government employees were teased, humiliated and ostracised by their peers. Families, once proud of their connections to the military or bureaucracy, now hid those links, even in schools operated by the armed forces. The social fabric, taut and frayed, was beginning to tear. A profession once cloaked in honour had become a badge of shame.
Within the military, the discomfort was sharper, more visceral. Orders to suppress unarmed civilians hung heavy in the air, the weight of bloodshed pressing down on younger officers. For many, the echoes of 1971 grew louder with each passing day — the same pangs of conscience, the same gnawing doubts. Back then, men like Ziaur Rahman, Shafiullah and Khaled Musharraf had chosen defiance over complicity, abandoning their posts in the Pakistani military to join the fight for liberation. Their decisions had been dangerous, reckless even — but profoundly human.
Now, in 2024, those same cracks began to reappear. Quiet conversations in mess halls turned into whispered doubts about the morality of their mission. The ranks swelled with men and women questioning their roles, haunted by the faces of those they had been ordered to subjugate. The machinery of the state, once invincible in its brutality, seemed to wobble under the weight of its own sins. History, it seemed, had come full circle, offering yet another reckoning. Whether this reckoning would lead to redemption or collapse, no one yet dared to predict. But the seeds of dissent had been planted, and they were growing fast.
Legacy of defiance: unending struggle for justice
THE tale of Bangladesh is one of relentless struggle, a saga etched in the annals of history. The 1971 liberation war and the 2024 uprising, though separated by decades, share a common thread: the unwavering spirit of resistance against oppression.
The 2024 uprising marked a pivotal moment in Bangladesh’s history. The military, once a tool of repression, became an instrument of change. General Waker’s courageous decision to defy orders and side with the people was a testament to the enduring power of conscience. This act of defiance, echoing the bravery of the 1971 military officers who defected to join the Mukti Bahini, shattered the illusion of the regime’s invincibility.
However, as history has often shown, the aftermath of revolution is rarely straightforward. The collapse of the regime created a power vacuum, a fertile ground for the seeds of extremism. The nation, once united in its struggle for independence, now faced the challenge of rebuilding itself amidst a backdrop of political instability and social unrest.
The military, once again, found itself at a crossroads. It had the opportunity to shape the future of the nation, to ensure that the sacrifices of the past were not in vain. The legacy of the 1971 war, a legacy of courage, sacrifice and unwavering commitment to the cause of freedom, must continue to inspire future generations.
As Bangladesh embarks on a new chapter, it must learn from the mistakes of the past. The pursuit of justice and democracy is a relentless struggle, requiring unwavering commitment and eternal vigilance. The nation must strive to build a society based on equality, social justice and the rule of law.
The story of Bangladesh is a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit. It is a reminder that even in the darkest of times, the flame of hope can never be extinguished.
Abdul Monaiem Kudrot Ullah is a retired Captain of Bangladesh Navy.
Abdul Monaiem Kudrot Ullah 16 December, 2024, 00:00
Tens of thousands people celebrate the fall of the autocratic Awami league regime on August 5. | New Age/ Md Saurav
IN THE quiet spaces between history and memory, where the weight of time presses heavily, there are forces unseen but deeply felt. Military might, cold and calculating, intertwines with the raw, untainted zeal of youth, pulsing with the hope of a future unshackled. From the dust and blood of 1971 to the turbulent echoes of 2024, the struggle for sovereignty unfolds — a tale of leadership carved in moments of quiet rebellion, of resilience rooted in the hearts of those who dare to dream.
In my early days as a naval officer, we often found solace in the cinematic retellings of Mutiny on the Bounty. The different versions of the story — be it from 1935, 1962 or 1984 — captured the human drama aboard the HMS Bounty in 1789. The tale of Captain Bligh and Fletcher Christian mirrored not just the historical rebellion but the eternal cycle of authority and resistance. Bligh, a figure of tyranny, embodied the systemic cruelty of empires built on exploitation, while Christian, initially complicit, ultimately rebelled. This duality — the oppressor and the complicit enforcer — is one that history often repeats.
Bligh’s authoritarian streak and Christian’s subsequent mutiny were not simply individual failures but reflections of broader institutional collapse. Christian’s rebellion, though initially heroic, ended in exile, serving as a poignant reminder that rebellion without systemic change often turns into retreat rather than true emancipation. This struggle between power, resistance and moral complicity reverberates in the events of 1971 and 2024.
In 1971, Bengali military officers like Ziaur Rahman, Shafiullah, and Khaled Musharrof found themselves facing a similar dilemma. As members of the Pakistan Army, they had to decide whether to comply with an oppressive regime or defy it in the name of justice. Their decision to align with the Bengali people marked a turning point in the liberation struggle — a struggle marked by leadership under immense pressure. The decision was fraught with moral complexity, as the officers risked everything for a cause that seemed insurmountable.
In 2024, the echoes of this conflict were once again heard, as a student-led uprising against corruption and authoritarianism gripped the nation. The military, initially deployed to suppress the dissent, found itself at the crossroads of moral duty and institutional obedience. At first, the army chief seemed resolute in supporting the regime, echoing Bligh’s unwavering command. But then, a pivotal moment of conscience arrived. Just as Fletcher Christian rescued Bligh’s boat, the army chief chose restraint, refusing to fire upon the people. His statement, “Ami sob dayitto nicchi” (“I take full responsibility”), was a profound rebuke to the regime that had grown deaf to the voices of its citizens.
The parallels between the events of 1971 and the July-August 2024 uprising are striking. Both periods saw the convergence of military power, political discontent and the fervent spirit of students and people. The leadership dynamics in both eras underscore the role of moral courage in the face of institutional collapse. The 1971 Liberation War, shaped by political missteps, military actions and the unyielding will of the Bengali people, teaches us lessons on the resilience needed to confront injustice.
As we reflect on these moments, we recognise that history is never linear. It is fluid, shifting with the collective will of a people determined to break free from oppression. Whether in 1971 or 2024, the struggles of Bangladesh are shaped by the interplay of military might, youthful rebellion and the moral dilemmas of leadership — a reminder that even in times of darkness, the unseen hands of change are often the ones that reshape the future.
Prelude to crisis: unravelling of governance
THE story of resistance — whether in the distant drumbeats of 1971 or the sharp, searing cries of 2024 — is a tale of systematic exclusion, a suffocation so slow it feels like the tightening of a noose. In the years before Bangladesh’s liberation, East Pakistan was relegated to the periphery — a colony within a nation. It was stripped of its voice, dignity and dreams, bled dry by a West Pakistani elite whose arrogance reduced the vibrant heart of Bengal to a mere appendage.
Oppression bred defiance. As early as 1964, Lieutenant Commander Moazzem Hossain began organising an armed mutiny, inspiring Bengali personnel in the armed forces to rally behind the cause of independence. His actions symbolised the growing discontent within the Bengali ranks of Pakistan’s military. By the late 1960s, Maulana Abdul Hamid Khan Bhasani’s fiery rhetoric and mass mobilisation amplified the call for self-rule, while the Six-Point Program of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s Awami League transformed decades of suffering into a powerful manifesto for autonomy. These forces coalesced into a tidal wave of resistance, culminating in the liberation war of 1971.
This war was marked by early acts of defiance in places like Chittagong and Kushtia, where military and civilian resistance to Pakistan’s brutal crackdown demonstrated the resilience of the Bengali people. In Chittagong, Bengali military personnel, with the support of local fighters, disrupted Pakistani supply lines and seized key installations. Kushtia became another symbol of defiance, with pitched battles between the Mukti Bahini and Pakistani forces, showcasing the spirit of rebellion that would define the liberation struggle.
Yet history, it seems, has a cruel sense of irony. Fast forward to 2024, and the echoes of the neglect that once fuelled the independence struggle reverberated in an independent Bangladesh. The Awami League had become synonymous with the entrenchment of power. Rigged elections in 2014, 2018 and 2024 fractured democracy, turning institutions into tools of control and squandering public trust. The opposition, led by Begum Khaleda Zia’s BNP, consistently branded the government as “Oboidho Sarkar” (illegal government), deepening its legitimacy crisis. By 2024, a generation of disillusioned youth, disconnected and desperate, stood at the brink of rebellion. Their frustration echoed past struggles, driven by the same sense of betrayal and exclusion.
Escalation: repression and military dissent
REPRESSION, a tragic hallmark of resistance movements, often becomes the catalyst for their intensification. In 1971, Pakistan’s military launched Operation Searchlight, a brutal crackdown aimed at silencing dissent but inadvertently galvanising the Mukti Bahini into action. Similarly, in 2024, the Hasina regime employed censorship, surveillance and violence to suppress mounting unrest. However, these tactics only stoked the fires of rebellion. The deaths of activists like Abu Sayeed in Rangpur and Sajedul in Chattogram became powerful symbols of resistance, their sacrifices rallying a fragmented opposition into a more cohesive movement.
The leadership of student coordinators played a pivotal role, effectively mobilising protests and coordinating decentralised grassroots efforts. Their actions turned scattered anger into organised uprisings. Protests erupted in key cities like Chattogram and Rangpur, evoking the spirit of the liberation struggle. In Chattogram, student activists clashed fiercely with security forces, reclaiming streets and galvanising national attention. In Rangpur, inspired by the sacrifices of their predecessors, a new generation of rebels defied government forces with a fervour reminiscent of the battles of 1971.
This was not the first time dissent had roared with such ferocity, threatening to shake the foundations of power. In 2014, the BNP-led opposition orchestrated a nationwide rebellion of sorts, a storm of protests that ground government activities to a halt. Streets were ablaze with anger, offices shuttered and the machinery of governance faltered under the weight of mass resistance. Yet Sheikh Hasina’s government stood resolute, bolstered by a state apparatus primed to crush any semblance of defiance. The question whispered in the smoky alleys of Dhaka was chilling: What if General Iqbal Karim Bhuiyan had acted differently? A military chief with moral clarity might have changed the course of history.
But history, as it often does, repeated itself. In 2018, the flames of resistance flickered again, but once more, they were extinguished by the unyielding hand of power. General Aziz Ahmed, the man who could have tipped the scales, chose instead to toe the regime’s line. And in 2024, as the spectre of yet another sham election loomed, the nation found itself abandoned again. General Shafiuddin, his actions eerily reminiscent of the darkest days of Tikka Khan and Niazi, stood steadfastly loyal to the very machinery of oppression that had long strangled the voice of the people.
The betrayal was palpable. With every passing day, hope seeped away, not just from the streets but from the collective psyche of a nation. The military — once viewed as a potential arbiter of justice in the face of political chaos — was now a spectre of complicity, its silence deafening, its allegiance clear. To many, Hasina’s government had become the consequence of the military’s original sin — a tainted birthright that left the nation tethered to the very oppression it had fought so valiantly to escape decades ago. The people no longer looked to the barracks for salvation. They knew now, bitterly, that their battle was theirs alone.
After the grim triumph of conducting yet another voterless election, a strange and sinister reality began to unfold. The government machinery — bloated with its newfound sense of invincibility — saw itself not merely as servants of the state but as kingmakers. Bureaucrats, long accustomed to servility, now strutted about with the hubris of conquerors. But beneath this facade of power lay an unsettling truth: society had turned its back on them.
In the neighbourhoods and schools of the regime’s enforcers, a quiet rebellion simmered. Children of government employees were teased, humiliated and ostracised by their peers. Families, once proud of their connections to the military or bureaucracy, now hid those links, even in schools operated by the armed forces. The social fabric, taut and frayed, was beginning to tear. A profession once cloaked in honour had become a badge of shame.
Within the military, the discomfort was sharper, more visceral. Orders to suppress unarmed civilians hung heavy in the air, the weight of bloodshed pressing down on younger officers. For many, the echoes of 1971 grew louder with each passing day — the same pangs of conscience, the same gnawing doubts. Back then, men like Ziaur Rahman, Shafiullah and Khaled Musharraf had chosen defiance over complicity, abandoning their posts in the Pakistani military to join the fight for liberation. Their decisions had been dangerous, reckless even — but profoundly human.
Now, in 2024, those same cracks began to reappear. Quiet conversations in mess halls turned into whispered doubts about the morality of their mission. The ranks swelled with men and women questioning their roles, haunted by the faces of those they had been ordered to subjugate. The machinery of the state, once invincible in its brutality, seemed to wobble under the weight of its own sins. History, it seemed, had come full circle, offering yet another reckoning. Whether this reckoning would lead to redemption or collapse, no one yet dared to predict. But the seeds of dissent had been planted, and they were growing fast.
Legacy of defiance: unending struggle for justice
THE tale of Bangladesh is one of relentless struggle, a saga etched in the annals of history. The 1971 liberation war and the 2024 uprising, though separated by decades, share a common thread: the unwavering spirit of resistance against oppression.
The 2024 uprising marked a pivotal moment in Bangladesh’s history. The military, once a tool of repression, became an instrument of change. General Waker’s courageous decision to defy orders and side with the people was a testament to the enduring power of conscience. This act of defiance, echoing the bravery of the 1971 military officers who defected to join the Mukti Bahini, shattered the illusion of the regime’s invincibility.
However, as history has often shown, the aftermath of revolution is rarely straightforward. The collapse of the regime created a power vacuum, a fertile ground for the seeds of extremism. The nation, once united in its struggle for independence, now faced the challenge of rebuilding itself amidst a backdrop of political instability and social unrest.
The military, once again, found itself at a crossroads. It had the opportunity to shape the future of the nation, to ensure that the sacrifices of the past were not in vain. The legacy of the 1971 war, a legacy of courage, sacrifice and unwavering commitment to the cause of freedom, must continue to inspire future generations.
As Bangladesh embarks on a new chapter, it must learn from the mistakes of the past. The pursuit of justice and democracy is a relentless struggle, requiring unwavering commitment and eternal vigilance. The nation must strive to build a society based on equality, social justice and the rule of law.
The story of Bangladesh is a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit. It is a reminder that even in the darkest of times, the flame of hope can never be extinguished.
Abdul Monaiem Kudrot Ullah is a retired Captain of Bangladesh Navy.
