Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Who will read blogs?
I’m a late comer in the world of webblog. As I started writing, some of my addabaj friends questioned, “Who’ll really read”? “Who has time”? Why are you writing on serious issues?? To answer their questions, I say, I'm really writing for me, for my friends and for soul searching indpendent minds. As a curious Bangal, I browse a lot to know and see in the limitless virtual world and try to unfold my ideas in Adda.
As per my friends’ request for lighter issues, I’ll dedicate my story about my “First Love” in my next blog. You’ve to wait until Friday. Signing off until then.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Good morning, Bangladesh
MARCH 1, 1971
By: Syed Shamsul Huq
"See, I'm unarmed, but
I have the kind of arms that is
Never exhausted, which with every use
Only grows sharper and sharper - my life.
I don't have only one life,
But millions and millions of lives.
See, I do not have a flag
In my hand, but the flag I possess
Is not raised on the mast of some braggart
My flag is my mother's face.
I don't have only one mother,
But millions and millions of mothers..."
Courtesy of: Kothon
Good morning, Bangladesh!!! We wake up on March 26th to celebrate our freedom fight in 1971. Look at Bangladesh Holocaust 1971, a pictorial history of our freedom fight. You can read on-line in Acrobat format Muntassir Mamoon’s The Vanquished Generals and The Liberation War of Bangladesh, 2000, Translated from Bengali by Kushal Ibrahim, Dhaka, Somoy Prokashan.
This day I revisit my memoir with all of us in the home. I take out Dhaka 1971, a pictorial book from the bookshelf and look at the books as I tell them about March 1971 and afterwards. Read the rest of my article in Bangla:
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Why It's So Hazy?
That past begets.
Struck with grief
In the clouds
The horror of
...Some keep awake
With doors open
For the new
Moon of tomorrow
(Translated by Syed Mujibul Huq)
What R U Doing today to honor the sacrifice of the freedom fighters that gave you a map, a flag and a Bangladeshi identity?
Friday, March 18, 2005
Open Letter to My Friend
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Name of a Road...
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
That's the closing statement of my history teacher in almost every class when I was in the school. History appeared to us to be very colorful, adventurous and painful in our young minds the way he presented history to us. We always loved to go back and travel to the past with our history teacher. The whole class used to be very quiet and attentive. The last thing he used to say is: "The biggest lessson of history is that no one takes lesson from it". It always comes back in my mind when I look back at our history in Bangladesh.
It's true whether we accept it, admit it, or deny it, history is very ruthless and unforgiven. In our lifetime, we've seen so many times history repeated itself. The strongest regime collapsed and tumbled down to its feet when the masses woke up. Look at 1969, look at 1971 and look afterwards. Nothing stopped the mass uprising. In the back alleyes of history, attempts were taken to obsess and seduce the collective consiousness through money, poetry, and terror. All those attemtps ended at the garbage can of history. We survived and won. All the powerful buildings collapsed, obsessive poetries evaporated. Epiphytes in the political arena may temporarily survive but can not take the root in our collective consciouness. In my lonely mind, I get inspired as I listen:
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Two Great Poets
Kazi Nazrul Islam
The Rebel (Bidrohi)
Say: High is my head...
I shall uproot this miserable earth effortlessly and with ease,
And create a new universe of joy and peace.
Weary of struggles, I, the great rebel,
Shall rest in quiet only when I find
The sky and the air free of the piteous groans of the oppressed.
Only when the battle fields are cleared of jingling bloody sabres
Shall I, weary of struggles, rest in quiet,
I the great rebel.
I am the rebel eternal,
I raise my head beyond this world,
High, ever erect and alone...”
(Translated by Kabir Chowdhury)
Still I Rise
“Out of the huts of history's shame
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.