Searching for remains of a Martyr

Nadeem Qadir

An artwork implying numerous dead bodies buried in mass graves during 1971.

For more than four years sleep disorder has been killing me. I would doze off at work, quite embarrassingly. But on the night of September 22, 2011, I could not keep my eyes open. That day the remains of my father, Lt. Col. Mohammad Abdul Qadir, was reburied at Qadirabad Cantonment with full state honour, 40 years after independence and four-and-half years after I traced his grave in Chittagong.

It was indeed a long journey filled with uncertainty, often hopelessness and acute mental pain. It became even worse after I traced his grave and a high-powered military committee confirmed my findings yet it took so long for the authorities to take this decision.

The immediate gift after the reburial was this post in Facebook by my younger brother Naweed:

“I have been posting news of my brother Nadeem's journey to discover my father's burial place after 40 years. Papa was picked up by the Pakistani forces in 1971. I am honoured and happy that Papa got the proper honour from the government of Bangladesh and Bangladesh army. Thank you Bhaiya. Papa is really proud to have a son like you. You have upheld both Ammu and Papa's name by creating Hasna Hena Trust (which honours best report on the Independence War affairs in Dhaka Reporters' Unity competition)."
My sister Rubina said, “Thank you so much, Bhaiya.”

Well, as I sleep better, I wanted to share a bit of it with all those who have been following this story with many questions and who gave me the support as I struggled to unearth what really had happened to my “missing” father. The Red Cross had said in a report on Col. Qadir in 1973: “Missing, believed to have been killed.”

My mother, late Hasna Hena Qadir, passed away without accepting in her soul that her beloved husband was dead until she had a proof, although for practical reasons there was no choice but to accept the official designation of a Shaheed or martyr. That love was the real cause for me to go on the fact-finding mission of many years. I know she is happy now, but it would have been nice to have her by my side and cry on each other's shoulder, like I did many a time on September 22, 2011 by holding friends.

Col. Qadir was not only my Papa, but a friend even though I was so young at that time. He would always say “you are my best friend and when you grow up, I will share many things with you.” The bed-time stories were a routine.

The expected arrival of his third child, Naweed, who was born 10 days after he had been killed on April 17, 1971, has been another of his dream. He was strangely so sure from the time my mother became pregnant that his third child would be a boy and would become my play-mate. “Hey, don't you think it will be great to have a playmate?” he would often ask me. Naweed was born on April 28, 1971 and incredibly was a duplicate of Col. Qadir. Now a father of two beautiful girls, Naweed is the replica of our father in every possibly way with the added quality of being an IT nerd, musician and a singer.

I have written earlier also that I last waved to my father from the staircase window of our Panchlaish house as he was being taken away in a jeep. I ran to seek help from the neighbours living upstairs. Even then, the smile was there on his face, which probably said, “Son, I will always love you. Take care of the family.”

We were given shelter by well-known banker late Mr. Ruhul Ameen despite risks, as the Pakistani army captain returned a second time that fateful day, lined us up and threatened to kill us or take Rubina or me away from my pregnant mother. “You cannot take them from me, kill us all if you have to,” my mother pleaded. They left soon with some cash and ornaments from the almirah.

But, I lost mental balance a few days later from the trauma. The treatment for that still goes on and I was ordered by doctors to stop driving in 1991.

The trauma will remain as long as I live, but its effects have been controlled by medicines.

My father loved trumpet and bugles. He had a good collection. On September 22, 2011, the bugles finally played the last post to say adios officially to a brave son of the soil and a loving father, whose coffin was draped with the red and green national flag for which he gave his life, and that of the army, the institution he loved and worked for.

Thanks are due to many for making this happen finally. State Minister for Liberation War Affairs Captain (retd) M Tajul Islam assured me that two small gifts to my father would materialize in March when the premier visits Qadirabad Cantonment next year. Thanks are due to many including the Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina, the state minister and Army Chief Gen. Mubeen. My colleague Nehrin Mustafa, her uncle and former Awami League leader in Chitagong Nurul Islam, who is the main witness in the killing as well as burial of Col. Qadir. I literally have no words to thank them. Thank you Almighty Allah.

The writer is a senior journalist.