Road 32, Dhanmondi

It was not dawn yet. The adhan, the call for prayers, from a faraway mosque was being called. All of a sudden, the sound of gunshots filled the air. Shots were being fired surrounding a house on Road No. 32 in the Dhanmondi area of Dhaka. The house where the president of Bangladesh, Father of the Nation Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman lived. It was a modest small-sized two-story building on one bigha plot. The head of the state lived there just like any other middle-class citizen. He always lived a simple life. The house was also the silent witness to all movements, the struggle toward achieving our independence. Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujib declared the independence of Bangladesh on March 26, 1971, from the same house. The target of this early morning attack was this house. The serene sound of the adhan was already lost under the crackling of heavy gunfire.

Generally, the security of the residence of the president lies with the Infantry Division of the Armed Forces. But just 10-12 days ago the responsibility was shifted to the officers and soldiers from the "Bengal Lancer," which was unusual. My mother, Begum Fazilatunnesa Mujib, noticed that soldiers donning black uniforms were engaged in maintaining the security of the residence. She raised a query but did not receive any satisfactory response.

My father Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman had endless love for his compatriots. He used to have blind faith in almost everyone. He could never imagine that any Bengali would raise a gun to shoot or kill him. No Bengali would ever try to kill or harm him in any way – he used to live with this conviction. Though unfortunate, what did he get for his such strong faith in his people?

Gunshots were being fired from all around. Continuously firing from a machine gun, a military vehicle stopped in front of the house at Road 32. By that time, everyone present in the house woke up due to the earsplitting noise of gunshots. My brother Sheikh Kamal hurried down to the reception area in an attempt to understand what was happening and who attacked our house. The personal assistant to my father, Mr. Mohitul Islam, was then trying to make calls to different places, but in vain. He did not get any response from anyone.

After staying there for a few minutes, Kamal came out to the veranda. He saw Maj. Nur and Capt. Huda approaching through the entrance gate. Kamal started talking to them – "Oh! You have arrived. Please look into the matter. Who attacked our house?" But before he could finish his words, the weapons in their murderous hands sprayed bullets at him. Kamal fell dead on the spot. Sad is the fact that both Maj. Nur and Kamal served together as aides-de-camp (ADCs) to Col. Osmani during our war of liberation. They knew each other very well. But what a misfortune! How could that dearly known person appear as an apparently unknown killer? And killed co-fighter Kamal with his own hands! Kamal was a freedom fighter himself. He completed his military training at Dehradun, India, and joined the liberation war to defend his country. Later the Bangladesh government appointed him as one of the ADCs to the wartime chief of the Bangladesh Armed Forces, Col. Osmani.

Maj. Syed Faruk was firing from a military tank aiming at our house. My father made the first call to Army Chief Shafiullah and informed him that the president’s residence was under attack. The latter responded: "Let me see. In the meantime, if you can, please try to move somewhere outside."

The telephone at our house started ringing then. On the other end it was the Minister for Agriculture Abdur Rob Serniabat, who was my uncle and the husband of one of my father's sisters. He informed my father that some unknown people had attacked his house. My father informed him that our house was also under attack and then called two prominent Awami League Leaders – Abdur Razzak and Tofael Ahmed. Mr. Razzak, who was in charge of the volunteer-based force Shwessashebok Bahini (Volunteer Forces) told him, "Leader, let me see what can be done." Mr. Tofael Ahmed, who was the head of another paramilitary force named "Rakkhi Bahini" also repeated similar words. Interestingly, while disconnecting the call, he said what could he do? Father then came out of the room to go downstairs. My mother helped him don his Punjabi, a traditional attire of Bengali people, which he would always wear. While heading to the stairs, he was asking about his son Kamal’s whereabouts. Still talking, he reached the stairs.

At that time, the goons who were standing in the middle platform of the staircase were on their way to the upper floor. My father recognized Huda among them. Father addressed him by the name of his father, "Aren’t you the son of Riaz? What do you want?"

Before he could complete his sentence, they fired at him. By that time, Risaldar Moslehuddin had also joined the killers.

Father fell down on the stairs, left lifeless by the bullets of the heinous killers. My mother was also approaching the stairwell. The killers had reached the upper floor by then. They blocked my mother’s way and told her to accompany them. She said: "I won’t move a single step, won’t go anywhere. Why did you kill him? You should kill me too!"

They did not spare a single moment and killed her instantly. My mother’s lifeless body fell to the floor.

My two brothers – Kamal and Jamal – were just newly married. Kamal’s wife Sultana Kamal and Jamal’s wife Rozy Jamal were in my parent’s bedroom. The killers shot and killed both of them there. Roma, our domestic help, was standing in a corner holding Russel on her lap. My 10-year-old youngest brother Russel could not understand anything. One soldier among the killers took Russel and Roma downstairs. They also gathered all others who were in the house at that time.

Our other domestic help, Abdul, was shot. They took him too. There was a mango tree in front of our house. They lined up all of them under that tree and started verifying their identity one by one. My uncle, the only brother of my father, was an injured freedom fighter and was disabled. He repeatedly requested them to spare his life. His wife was pregnant and he had small children. What would happen to them? But the killers paid no heed to his requests. After ascertaining his identity, they took him to the bathroom of the office on the ground floor and shot him dead.

Russel was holding Roma’s hand. He was crying and repeatedly saying, "I want to go to my mother!"

Roma was trying to calm him down and was trying to silence him saying, "Please don’t cry brother otherwise they will kill you."

But the innocent child kept crying for his mother. One of the goons at that moment wanted to know his identity. After learning his identity, he told Russel, "Let me take you to your mother." They dragged the little child over the bodies of his brother and father upstairs and shot him dead beside the body of his mother. The killers did not spare the life even of a 10-year-old child.

The house from which Bangabandhu once declared the independence of Bangladesh was flooded with his blood and family members' lifeless bodies. The pool of blood in which the house was drowned that day flowed down the stairs and mixed with the land – the land whose people he loved the most.

Shafayet Jamil was in charge of the 46th Brigade. The Chief of Army Staff could not reach him over the phone. CGS Khaled Mosharraf also did not fulfill his responsibilities. Deputy Chief Ziaur Rahman did not even try to take any action; rather he was intrinsically linked to the conspiracy. In an interview with the BBC, killers Rashid and Faruk talked about Ziaur Rahman being an accomplice in this heinous crime. Later the killer Mushtaque made Zia the Chief of Army Staff. The then Police Super of Dhaka SP Mahbub was also not reachable over the phone.

My second aunt’s house

Killers attacked the house of my father’s second sister at Dhanmondi under the command of Risaldar Moslehuddin. A group started ascending the stairs while loudly hurling filthy words. Freedom fighter, youth leader and the editor of the daily "Banglar Bani" Sheikh Fazlul Haque Moni emerged out of his room upon hearing the commotion and stamping of boots. The killers started cursing at him with vulgar words while aiming their weapons at him. His pregnant wife came running to shield his husband from the bullets. But the killers opened fire on both of them and tore up their bodies with bullets. Their lifeless bodies fell on the floor. Their two children, 3-year-old Taposh and 5-year-old Porosh, ran toward their parents’ dead bodies. They cried and kept repeating, "Please wake up mother, wake up father."

Did the parents hear the crying of their beloved children? They did not. Because by that time they went to the land of no return. The tears of the innocent children were mixed with the blood of their parents spilled by those inhumane killers.

My third aunt’s house

While shooting aimlessly, Maj. Sultan Shahriar Rashid Khan and Maj. MA Rashed Chowdhury climbed the stairs of the ministerial residence of my uncle, who happened to be the husband of the third sister of my father at Minto Road. They dragged all the members of the family out of their bedrooms and forced them down to the living room on the ground floor. Without any qualms, they opened fire on all of them. My aunt Amina Serniabat; my uncle, the Minister for Agriculture Abdur Rob Serniabat; their daughters Beauty, Baby and Rina, their sons Khokon and Arif; Shahana, the wife of their elder son Abul Hasanat Abdullah; grandson Shukanto, son of my uncle’s brother freedom fighter Shahid; and nephew Rentu were mercilessly killed. Their granddaughter, 8-year-old Kanta, escaped death by being trapped under a dead body. Grandson Sadek, who was only 1.5 years old, was crying lying on his mother’s dead body. Kanta somehow freed herself from under the dead body of her aunt Baby. She was stunned by the scene of the lifeless bodies of her near-and-dear ones lying all around.

Some lifeless bodies were lying still, and some were injured and groaning in excruciating pain. There was an aquarium in one corner of the room. Bullets broke its glasses and fish were scattered all over in the blood-mixed water. Just a few moments before, people who were someone’s dear mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, uncle or aunt were turned into blood-soaked dead bodies a few minutes later. Freeing herself from under a dead body, 8-year-old child Kanta was standing at the corner of the room and blankly staring at the carnage in horror.

Maj. Faruk was shooting from a military tank toward the Bangabandhu Bhaban at Road 32 from across the lake. His shots killed 11 innocent people and injured several others in a house, and in the vicinity in the Mohammadpur area. Major Dalim was in charge of capturing the radio station. From there he announced: Sheikh Mujibur Rahman had been killed. The killers did not stop at killing only. They looted our house as well. They broke the cabinet and lockers in my father’s bedroom and dressing room and looted everything of value like ornaments, watches, money, etc. Even our residence car was taken by force by Maj. Huda and Maj. Nur.

Blood-soaked clothing was scattered all over the bed. Such looting after the heinous crime of killing the Father of the Nation brings forth the darkest side of their characters. Whoever was connected to this conspiracy, did they realize how big a disaster they had brought on the fate of the people of a newly independent country?

The heart that was filled with great love for the Bengali nation was penetrated by numerous bullets shot by misled criminals, who were members of his beloved Armed Forces. My father never believed that any Bengali could try to kill or harm him in any way. A few world leaders had warned him of such a risk. However, he kept saying: "They are like my own blood. Why would they kill me?"

Breaching a trust as solid as this, the killers stained the reputation of the Bengali people.

How strange it was! At his call, one day, the people of this country took up arms and earned their freedom as well as a victory through the nine-month war of liberation, and got the status of a heroic nation across the whole world. On this day in 1975, the same nation came to be known as a treacherous one because of the barbaric act of killing the Father of the Nation and his family members. The majority of the population of this country hates the killers and conspirators and considers them traitors.

Sobhanbag

Hearing that something was terribly wrong, the military secretary to the president, Col. Jamil, headed toward the Bangabandhu residence at Dhanmondi 32 in his private vehicle. The attackers stopped his vehicle near the mosque at Sobhanbag. When he tried to move ahead, they shot him point blank and killed him. Sub-Inspector Siddiqur Rahman of the Special Branch of Police, who was on duty at our residence that day, was also shot and killed.

Belgium

Tring, tring, tring... The phone at the residence of the Bangladesh ambassador to Belgium kept ringing. I woke up immediately and wondered why the ring of the telephone was that harsh! I came out of the room and stood near the top of the stairs, and saw Ambassador Sanaul Haque standing with the telephone receiver in his hand. Looking at me, he told me that he would like to talk to Mr. Wazed, my husband. I woke him up. Mr. Humayun Rashid Chowdhury, the ambassador of Bangladesh to Germany, was on the other end of the line. He informed us that there was a coup d’état in Bangladesh. "That means none of my family members are alive" – the words automatically came out of my lips. My younger sister Rehana was standing beside me. I hugged her tight but was unsure at that time what had actually happened.

We had arrived in Germany just 15 days before. From there we came to visit Belgium. We went to the Netherlands too. Father told me, if possible, to visit the facilities through which the Dutch people reclaimed land from the sea.

I spoke to my parents just a day before. For unknown reasons while speaking to us, my mother was crying a lot. She told me that she had a lot to share with me and would tell me all once I return to Bangladesh. We felt very bad at that time and felt like rushing back to Bangladesh immediately. Father told us that he had a plan to visit Romania and Bulgaria. On his way back to Bangladesh, he would take us along.

But we could not return to Bangladesh anymore. All was lost in a matter of one day. Sanaul Haque who was a politically appointed ambassador of Bangladesh to Belgium changed his demeanor overnight and turned his back toward us. He told Ambassador Humayun Rashid Chowdhury in Germany, "The troubles that you put on my shoulders; you take them back immediately."

Just the night before, the person who had arranged a "candlelight dinner" for us and took very good care of us by looking after all our needs suddenly started considering us as "trouble." He did not even spare his car for dropping us off at the Belgium-Germany border. Fortunately, my school friend Nomi’s husband Mr. Jahangir Sadat was working at the Bangladesh mission in Brussels at that time, and he drove us there in his own car. We crossed the No Man’s Land on foot and entered German territory.

Our Ambassador to Germany Mr. Humayun Rashid Chowdhury sent his car to pick us up. His wife also sent some food for my children. We took shelter at their residence for a couple of days. Their support and care for us during that time of distress were invaluable. We would never be able to forget the contribution of the ambassador and Mrs. Chowdhury. All other officials of our mission in Germany also took good care of us. We went to Karls Rou in the embassy's car.

We were offered political asylum by many, including the then government of Germany, President Marshall Tito of Yugoslavia and Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. The Indian ambassador to Germany came and met Dr. Wazed and Ambassador Chowdhury, and arranged everything for our travel to India. Finally, we reached India from Germany.

The rest is history.