As of Tuesday afternoon, access to Sachalayatan.com has been blocked from Bangladesh. Right before this unofficial ban, Sachal (as the users of this site fondly call it) bloggers vehemently protested the attack on a war veteran by Jamaat e Islami activists at a “Liberation War” meeting. In one such article Faruk Wasif on Sachalatayan analyzes the incident: “These obstinate freedom fighters from the subaltern dare do what our seasonal “Sector Commanders” or the frogs of our Syphilis Society cannot.” The full article, that may have sealed the fate of Sachal in Bangladesh, has been translated below.

In the meantime New Age produced another stinging rebuke to the military controlled government for its kiddy glove approach towards Jamaat. Here is the blistering piece.

Listen to the old Freedom Fighter
by Faruk Wasif
[translated by Drishtipat.org]

The old freedom fighter, who was attacked at a “Liberation War”
meeting of the war criminals of Jamaat e Islami, this is his photo.

This is his interview, o Daily Shamokal readers.

Look closely at his face, his speech.

In the land of the 1971 liberation war, the great Sector Commanders
squeal like kittens as they demand justice. They do this only at
polite tea ceremonies at home. They cannot hold a meeting without TV
cameras and bottled mineral water. They go to the current illegal
occupiers of power and make gentle requests, “Sir, they are bad
people, sir. Please give us justice, sir.” They are the gentleman war
veterans who have reached sky-high wealth. Sitting on their perch,
they secretly hug the Jamaati war criminals and the Pakistan
supporting brother American power. In the midst of such a busy
schedule, they never have time to join the thousands of people who
went to the streets to block Saidi and Ghulam Azam’s meetings. Instead
of sending a protest rally, they send infiltrators. Whether that does
the trick or not, the media bonanza continues, the issue stays alive,
and in the afterlife they will fill the vote box.

Read the news, look at this man’s face. The man did not start shouting
at the Jamaat meeting. He felt cheated, walked out and started venting
his rage. No one called him, he was fired up on his own anger. The
journalists saw the opening and walked in, just as Jamaat workers
attacked him, and the news spread. Now we have the toasty hot news!
Now all the professional statement makers will lob their statement
bombs, where else but at newspaper offices? These people live to give
statements and get on the 9′o clock news!

But go back to the interview. If you have ever spoken to one of these
poverty-broken angry frustrated freedom fighters, you will know that
steady stare, that raised finger, that caged heat, which only a true
fighter still holds on to. His body is also a document, his language
is also a certificate. We have to read all this. My reading tells me
that this man will speak again. They are all waiting for one chance,
just one chance, to start the 1971 war again. They come to raise hell,
spread poison on the happy party, explode with the lava of their hate.
And us? All we can do is write a poem. At most!

The more you travel downwards in our classist society, the more this
hate [for war criminals], this obstinate rage. And in the upper
echelons, only honey and unity. At these high altitudes, all passions
have faded to grey from the sweet nectar of creature comforts. Fire
won’t catch here, only pleasures will flow. The sweet taste of money
and power gives them orgasms. And everyone knows, at the time of
orgasm, you forget whether under you is mother or grandmother, country
or land, 1971 or 1982. They too have forgotten everything. Even in
1971, they were whoring, cheating and enjoying—on this side and that
side of the border. Today they have split into many political parties
and are cooking up the same tricks of the trade. Have you notice, in
1971 no Awami League leader died in a Thana of Mafaswal?

So it goes. So our old freedom fighter wanders the streets. He will go
to the wrong meeting, the wrong gathering, the endless newspaper
offices. Suddenly he will fly into a rage at a tea shop and start
screaming. At home his wife and children will curse him and say “What
bloody independence war? What have you given us?” He will run out of
his house, again prick up his ears: is my mother, my country calling
me? His helpless wandering will be the juicy news for the media, he
will become a plaything for our complacent Sector Commanders. He will
be bought and sold by everybody. A few days later, after the fuss dies
down, the Islamists will come to his home. They will offer him money,
they will threaten to slit his throat. Even if he does not sell out,
he will be afraid for his family. He will lapse into silence. The
media and the gentlefolk will stop searching for him. They will go and
hunt another war veteran to sell. Business as usual.

But no matter how many times people try to sell them, they remain
unbroken. They will die, and in their place, from the subaltern, will
wake up new people— in Kansat, in Fulbari. The 27 corpses of Kansat,
the three teenage bodies of Fulbari, the villagers are still holding
on to their martyrdom. In the village, they call Fulbari “liberation
war”, they compare it to 1971. In this way, 1971 wakes up again and
again, not frozen as a dead history. The war will not end. A new
battle is ahead. Because 71 is not so cheap, so fragile.

The working class crossed the border and became refugees in 1971.
Today they roam around, inside their own country, as refugees. In 1971
there were 10 million refugees, and today there are 60/70 million
landless, living under the poverty line. They wander around all day,
ghosts among us. In 1971, that was the total population of Bangladesh!
People will organize again, along these lines of struggle. But
tragically, we might fail to recognize them. We may call them
hooligans, terrorists or Maoists. Even the dragon worshipper flees
when the dragon finally arrives.

There is no space for them in our genteel liberation war narrative.
And in their authentic liberation war, there is no companion, no
leader. But because these people still survive, even the question, the
possibility remains. We were reminded of this once again by an
unknown, dirt poor, carpenter. He is so incredibly weak—no money, no
party, no support, and yet he shook us to the core of our essence. He
raised all the questions we hide from. This power, only “they” have.
Because they have lost everything and realized, I have nothing left to
lose. That is why they can take risks. Even after war criminals beat
them, they shout “I will keep demanding justice.” They dare do what
our seasonal “Sector Commanders” or the frogs of our Syphilis Society
cannot.