A few months ago, an Austrian writer, a literary colleague, asked me whether I had written a poem that reflects on language. She was editing an anthology devoted to such work. I replied in the affirmative and sent her one.
Some time later, she wrote again to say that the book was nearing publication and invited me to its launch. The event proved far larger than expected—unusually so in scale and atmosphere. It was not merely a literary gathering; it carried a palpable socio-political charge.
As the evening unfolded, Pakistan entered the conversation—first obliquely, then more directly. The compère alluded to it, and a Bangladeshi participant went further, explicitly invoking Shaheed Minar, the monument commemorating the martyrs of the Bengali Language Movement. She spoke of the sacrifices made by Bengalis who, in 1952, laid down their lives resisting the state’s attempt to impose Urdu as the sole national language of Pakistan, denying Bengali, spoken by the majority, its rightful place. She also pointed, unmistakably, to the violence unleashed to suppress that struggle.
Then, in the midst of this charged atmosphere, my name was announced—along with my country of origin. I stepped forward and read my poem. It was, in itself, apolitical. Yet I do not know what state of mind I was in at that moment, or how long it lingered. What I do know is that something old and unresolved stirred again within me.
Once more, I was confronted with the long shadow of 1971—its persistence in the collective consciousness of the Pakistani nation, and its afterlife in our literature, particularly in Urdu. That history is inseparable from the earlier struggle of Bengalis for their language, a struggle that began not with borders or flags, but with the right to speak, learn, and dream in one’s mother tongue.
It was this movement, and the bloodshed on 21 February 1952 in Dhaka, that later led UNESCO to declare the date International Mother Tongue Day a global reminder that linguistic diversity is not a luxury, but a human right; that languages are not merely tools of communication, but vessels of memory, identity, and dignity.
Standing there, reading a poem concerned solely with language, I felt the weight of that history pressing quietly but insistently. Language, after all, is never innocent. It carries within it the echoes of struggle and silence, power and resistance. And sometimes, even when we do not name politics, politics finds its way to us—through memory, through history, through the mother tongue itself.
The Return of 1971: Memory That Does Not Conclude
1971 is not new to my thinking. Many times, in my academic, intellectual, and emotional life, I have confronted and struggled with it. In my teaching, I have revisited it; in some of my articles, I have referred to it; it has also entered my poetry. Yet through that event, 1971 encountered me differently. And then I remembered the words and the face of the Bangladeshi writer on that occasion, and, inevitably, I remembered Faiz:
Ham keh ṭhahre ajnabī itnī mudārāton ke baʿd
Phir baneṅge āshnā kitnī mulāqāton ke baʿd
(We who remained strangers even after so many courtesies—
After how many meetings will we finally become familiar?)
Why did Faiz’s ghazal come to mind? Because Faiz is our beloved poet, and these lines carry the hauntingly memorable air associated with, or often attributed to, the aftermath of 1971. But let us not remain under the spell of romantic yearning. We turn to our poet when he is in a clearer, more sober state of mind.
Have you written anything for the Bengalis as well? At this, he became visibly unsettled and asked, in astonishment, ‘You aren’t an Indian agent, are you?
Faiz in Interview: The Severed Arm and the Question of Experience
Some time before his death, Faiz gave an interview in Karachi to the journalist Tahir Masood, which is included in the latter’s collection of interviews: Yeh ṣūrat gar kuch ḳhvāboṅ ke, published in Pakistan and India.
One of the questions was why, even after one of our arms had been severed, literary life remained stagnant. No literature emerged that would allow us to say that the consciences of the power-hungry were dead, but that our literature was alive.
Faiz replied: “Aisā is liye nahī̃ huā ke jo bāzū kaṭā hai, adab wahā̃ paidā honā chāhiye thā. Kyū̃ke bāzū hamārā nahī̃, un kā kaṭā hai. … Maghribī Pākistān ke logon ke liye yeh bāt ke Mashriqī Pākistān mẽ kyā ho rahā hai—koī tajruba nahī̃ thā. Tajruba to Mashriqī Pākistān yā Bangāliyō̃ ke liye thā, lihāzā unhẽ baṛā adab takhlīq karnā chāhiye.”
(This did not happen because the arm that was severed was the one where literature should have emerged. Because the arm that was cut off was not ours; it was theirs….For the people of West Pakistan, what was happening in East Pakistan was not an experience. The experience belonged to East Pakistan, to the Bengalis; therefore, it was they who should have produced great literature.)
Fiction After 1971: Three Tendencies
Urdu writers have, in fact, written extensively about 1971 across genres and forms—poetry and fiction, novels and short stories. Far from diminishing, this body of literature has continued to grow over time, suggesting that 1971 remains an unresolved and haunting presence in the Urdu literary imagination.
Within fiction, responses to the events of 1971 can be broadly grouped into three tendencies. The first consists of Urdu-speaking fiction writers who were living in what was then East Pakistan. Following the creation of Pakistan, large numbers of Urdu-speaking Muslim families—primarily from Kolkata and the Indian state of Bihar—migrated to the new country. Writers emerging from this community naturally centred their narratives on their immediate surroundings and lived experiences. Yet their cultural and political affiliations remained largely oriented toward West Pakistan rather than toward the Bengali majority.
As a result, their fiction tends to foreground the suffering of the Urdu-speaking Bihari community: accounts of massacres, the collective rape of women, and violence allegedly inflicted by Bengalis, particularly members of the Mukti Bahini. By contrast, these writings only rarely engage with the discriminatory policies of West Pakistan toward East Pakistan, or with the systematic violence and military aggression carried out by the Pakistani army against the Bengali population.
The second tendency includes fiction writers from West Pakistan who happened to be in East Pakistan around 1971, as government employees, professionals, students, or temporary residents. Their narratives often bear the imprint of proximity and personal involvement, and at times even nostalgia. Yet despite this closeness to the unfolding catastrophe, their writings seldom articulate sustained protest, ethical reckoning, or resistance. Violence is more often observed, recorded, or aestheticised than critically interrogated.
The third tendency comprises Urdu writers native to West Pakistan who wrote about 1971 from a position of geographical and experiential distance. Their fictional responses are largely shaped by symbolic, allegorical, or abstract modes of expression. While such texts may allow attentive readers to infer loss, rupture, and historical trauma, they rarely function as testimony in the stronger, documentary sense that literature is sometimes capable of assuming. Silence, evasion, and metaphor frequently stand in for direct witness.
Poetry, the Ghazal, and Faiz Again
But because poetry is not fiction, it remains the dominant mode of Pakistani literary culture, with far greater social reach and public appeal, it is to poetry that we must return. Accordingly, we revisit the ghazal by Faiz already alluded to: Ham keh ṭhahre ajnabī itnī mudārāton ke baʿd.
As is well known, the ghazal as a poetic form lacks unity of thought. Unlike a nazm, its individual couplets do not necessarily cohere around a single theme. This particular ghazal, however, carries a bracketed note at the beginning, “On Returning from Dhaka”—presumably intended to align it with the events of 1971. Yet it contains no reference to East Pakistan, Bengal, or the Bengalis. At its core, it remains a romantic ghazal, open to interpretation across different contexts.
One possible objection—or redeeming point—might be that one pole of Faiz’s poetry is romance, and that at times his romantic idiom functions as an indirect expression of political commitment. This is true. But Faiz also wrote in the form of nazm, a theme-based genre that can convey a message more clearly and directly. He is said to have written a couple of poems in 1971 as well, yet these too are marked by ambiguity and abstraction. This does not mean that he avoided poems of direct political commitment. He certainly did write such poems, for instance, on Africa and Israel.
In the case of Israel, Faiz’s engagement was not merely poetic but also institutional: he served as a literary associate of Yasser Arafat and as editor of Lotus, a journal of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation. His alignment with the Palestinian cause is striking, particularly because it placed him, at least nominally, alongside ultra-right Islamist factions. The convergence, however, was superficial. Whereas these groups framed their opposition in terms of the Muslim Ummah, Faiz’s position was shaped largely by the geopolitical logic of the Soviet bloc. Significantly, he neither wrote about nor publicly addressed the atrocities committed against Kashmiris in India.
This is not to suggest that Faiz was not a humanist. His humanism, however, was selective: he could see, act, and write on issues only insofar as they fell within the limits set by Soviet-aligned political commitments. He wrote, for instance, a powerful poem on the killing of students in Iran—Hazar Karo Mere Tan Se (“Stay Away from Me”)—yet remained silent on the slaughter of Bengali students protesting for their language rights in Dhaka at the hands of the Pakistani army.
Rashed, Riaz, and the Anxiety of the Question
Alongside Faiz stands another major poet—his contemporary, his rival, and, for some, an even greater figure in both thematic range and linguistic artistry: N. M. Rashed. Unlike Faiz, Rashed was neither a self-proclaimed nor a widely recognised “ideological” poet; he is more often understood as a humanist and anticolonial writer, particularly in light of his second poetry collection, Īrān Mein Ajnabī.
Regarding 1971, Fahmida Riaz, one of Pakistan’s major women poets, recounts an incident with Rashed:
“A few days later, N. M. Rashed came to London. He was reciting his poem ‘Cover the Buttocks,’ which he had written about the killing of Punjabis (non-Bengali populations—often Punjabi- or Urdu-speaking—in East Pakistan during the 1971 crisis) in Bengal. By then, a large-scale army operation had already taken place there. I said, cautiously and almost sotto voce, ‘Have you written anything for the Bengalis as well?’ At this, he became visibly unsettled and asked, in astonishment, ‘You aren’t an Indian agent, are you?’” (Translated from Urdu)
There is little confrontation with the horrific realities of 1971 and scant confession of wrongdoing, largely echoing the posture adopted by the Pakistani state as a political institution, and by the public as well
Other Poetic Voices: Sorrow Where Reckoning Does Not Prevail
Another equally important poet is Majeed Amjad, widely admired for the social sensitivity and artistic refinement of his verses. Written with a pen steeped in sorrow, his poetic responses to 1971 are marked by restraint rather than protest. This orientation becomes especially revealing in a couplet where he goes so far as to align himself and “his people” not with the victims of violence in East Pakistan, but with General Tikka Khan—dubbed by the international media the “Butcher of Bengal” for his leading role in the systematic violence of 1971, when he served as army commander and governor.
Tū bhī aur terī naṣratõṅ ke sāth
Shahr mẽ Ṭikkā Khān bhī, ham bhī
(You too, along with your acts of help
In the city, there is Tikka Khan as well — and us too)
Nasir Kazmi, a major ghazal poet renowned for his melancholic romanticism, also wrote verses that register the trauma of history. In response to the military operation in East Pakistan, he composed the following couplet:
Dhuā̃ sā hai jo yeh ākāsh ke kināre par
Lagī hai āg kahī̃ rāt se kināre par
(There is something like smoke along the edge of the sky
Somewhere, at the edge, a fire has been burning since nightfall)
Similarly, his most famous ghazal in this context:
Woh sāḥilõṅ pe gāne wāle kyā hue
Woh kashtiyā̃ chalāne wāle kyā hue
Woh ṣubḥ āte āte rah gaʾī kahā̃
Jo qāfile the āne wāle kyā hue
Maĩ un kī rāh dekhtā hū̃ rāt bhar
Woh roshnī dikhāne wāle kyā hue
ʿImāratẽ to jal ke rākh ho gaʾī̃
ʿImāratẽ banāne wāle kyā hue
Yeh āp ham to bojh haĩ zamīn kā
Zamīn kā bojh uṭhāne wāle kyā hue
(What became of those who sang on the shores?
What became of those who steered the boats?)
(Where did that dawn disappear while on its way?
What became of the caravans that were to arrive?)
(I keep watching their path through the night
What became of those who showed the light?)
(The buildings have burned down to ashes
What became of those who built the buildings?)
(You and I are merely a burden on the earth
What became of those who bore the earth’s burden?)
Habib Jalib, widely regarded as a poet of the people, repeatedly wrote about the plight of East Pakistan and sought to warn those in power of their mistakes.
Muḥabbat goliyõṅ se bo rahe ho
Zamīn kā chehra ḳhūn se dho rahe ho
Gumāṅ tum ko hai rasta kaṭ rahā hai
Yaqīn mujh ko hai manzil kho rahe ho
(You are sowing love with bullets
You are washing the face of the land with blood
You are under the illusion that the path is being cleared
I am certain that you are losing the destination)
Amjad Islam Amjad wrote a long poem on these events, which later became popular in certain circles and whose title also serves as its refrain:
Ae zamīn-e-waṭan, ham gunahgār haĩ
(O homeland, we are sinners)
At first glance, the noun “sinners,” used to describe “us,” may appear to signal a confession of wrongdoing. It does not. The speakers are not confessing before those who suffered, but before the land itself—the divided homeland.
Thus, there is little confrontation with the horrific realities of 1971 and scant confession of wrongdoing, largely echoing the posture adopted by the Pakistani state as a political institution, and by the public as well.
An Ethic of Remembrance
In the German-speaking world, the response to the horrors inflicted upon Jewish communities has not been silence, erasure, or comforting forgetfulness. Instead, these societies have chosen the more demanding and dignified path of remembrance. Documents are preserved in archives, former sites of terror transformed into spaces of reflection, and monuments raised to speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves.
From one generation to the next, children are taught not only the historical record but the moral burden it carries. They are asked to confront the darkness their ancestors unleashed, to acknowledge it without evasion, and to assume responsibility for ensuring that it does not return. Because the past cannot be undone, they do what remains within human power: they remember, they teach, and they cultivate spaces of conscience—seeking to cleanse public memory of denial and to make room for a more just and humane future.
Taking responsibility for past atrocities is therefore not merely a matter of history. It is a reclamation of humanity, a restoration of ethical clarity, and an opening toward a different moral imagination for generations yet to come
This culture of remembrance turns memory into a living force—one that deepens empathy, sharpens vigilance, and guards against the resurgence of hatred and indifference. Through this sustained commitment, the dignity of the victims is honoured, and future generations are oriented toward a more compassionate moral horizon.
From Remembrance to Reckoning
Drawing on the ethic of remembrance practised elsewhere, it is long past time for Pakistan, as a nation, to confront its own unresolved past—most urgently, the atrocities inflicted upon Bengali citizens by its political leadership and state institutions, above all through the brutal actions of the military in what was then East Pakistan.
Before any genuine reckoning can begin, a fundamental truth must be acknowledged: we did not confess our mistakes then, and we continue to refuse to confess them now. Our intelligentsia, educational curricula, and even religious scholars have, by and large, echoed narratives supplied by the state narratives sustained by an institutional machinery still obstinately committed to its own innocence.
Nations, like individuals, cannot outrun their moral histories. Silence does not heal; denial does not cleanse. What remains unacknowledged festers and returns in distorted forms through intolerance, authoritarian reflexes, and a lingering violence of spirit.
As recently as a few days ago, a spokesman for the military establishment reaffirmed this posture by dismissively referring to Sheikh Mujibur Rahman as “a known traitor.” Such statements are not merely historical distortions; they are symptoms of a deeper moral paralysis. When denial becomes institutionalised, truth is rendered subversive, and memory itself is treated as an enemy.
To lay this past to rest requires more than rhetoric. It demands courage: the courage to name what was done, to recognise the suffering of the victims, and to accept responsibility without evasion or justification. Until this culture of denial is confronted, responsibility cannot be assumed, reconciliation cannot occur, and the past will continue to cast its long and violent shadow over the present.
Literature, Responsibility, and Moral Repair
Such reckoning is not an act of self-loathing, nor an invitation to external humiliation. It is, rather, an assertion of moral maturity. By openly acknowledging the crimes committed against Bengalis, especially the systematic violence unleashed by the army, the nation would take the first necessary step toward exorcising the blood-stained spirit of that history. Only truth has the power to quiet restless ghosts.
Literature, as the conscience of a nation, has a vital role to play in this process. Yet it can fulfil that role only when it refuses complicity with silence. Where literature evades, softens, or aestheticises cruelty, it fails its ethical calling. Where it speaks honestly, humanely, even painfully, it becomes a site of moral repair.
In this regard, Pakistan’s literary and intellectual traditions, rich though they are, have too often faltered, constrained by fear, nationalism, or selective memory. To remember is not to reopen wounds gratuitously; it is to clean them so that they may finally heal. Without acknowledgement, reconciliation remains impossible. Without reconciliation, the future remains haunted.
Taking responsibility for past atrocities is therefore not merely a matter of history. It is a reclamation of humanity, a restoration of ethical clarity, and an opening toward a different moral imagination for generations yet to come.
The moment for such reckoning is not someday. It is now.
Coda: A Poem That Shoulders the Weight
And finally, here is a poem that attempts to shoulder this moral responsibility. It is written by a poet who does not claim being political, who does not cast himself as a chronicler of grand national or international causes. Yet, almost unwittingly, he writes with unerring precision. What emerges is a poem that is at once politically lucid and forceful, and creatively compelling—suggesting that conscience in literature often speaks most powerfully when it does not announce itself in advance.
The Death of a Human Being
Sarwat Hussain
Why have your hands stopped, Majumdar?
The wheel of the sugarcane crusher has stopped.
The earth has stopped.
Half the planet has fallen into night forever.
Who will light the lantern now?
The winds pass, dropping leaves as they go.
The pages of the book of the Prophet’s birth flutter away.
Outside, a vest hangs drying on the line.
Water drips from the tank’s spout.
Who will do all these things, Majumdar?
Why have your hands stopped?
Look—dawn has arrived over Ranga Mati.
On the bamboo trees, the buds are breaking open.
Won’t you watch Hatya and Bhola appear again?
Your sons, with their wives, are pushing their boats off from the ghat.
Will you not meet them?
There, in the shade of the Krishna Chura,
your wife’s grave watches humans and clouds passing by.
Will you not recite a Fatiha?
Will you not light incense, Majumdar?
You knew my language.
I do not know yours—
yet today, at your bedside,
I repeat the words of a song:
Sing, Majumdar!
As children sing,
as the ancient Ganges sings:
“Sokāle uṭhiẏā āmi
Mone mone boli
Sārādin āmi yena
Bhālōbhābe cāli
Ādeś karen yāhā
Mor gurujane
Āmi yena sei kāj
Kari bhālō mone”
Why have you stopped—why don’t you speak, Majumdar?
You loved the banana orchards and the water, didn’t you?
We will shroud you in banana leaves.
We will make your grave in water, Majumdar.
A soldier’s boot is stronger than a paddy seedling.
No! A paddy seedling is stronger than a soldier’s boot.
This boot held my foot, Majumdar!
Here—take this cane-peeling knife.
Cut this foot off.
Separate it from me.
I fear my own foot.
I fear the laughter of a dead man.
I fear an earth that has stopped.
Why have your hands stopped, Majumdar?
(All Urdu texts cited here appear in English translation by the author.)