Roshni clarified, "My mom actually was the native Bengali, so her family obviously supported the independence, while my family was just neutral."
Now that I think about it, though, she has fairer skin than most girls. Her face is a bit small and round, and her eyes are raven black. So she has a mixed heritage—that makes sense.
"Whatever. You should know that I'll be out for a while. I'll make sure to have a chat with your uncle after returning."
"I almost forgot to give you this. I have cooked some meals for you guys. There's plenty. Make sure to share it."
Don't know why, but Roshni felt like a mother nagging her son.
"I'll. One more thing—can you give me the names of the employees who worked in your family's factory?"
"Oh! Uncle used to be the general manager there. You can just ask him when he returns."
Nepotism, I guess. Well, there's nothing wrong with that. Even in the 21st century, the majority of positions in private and government bureaucracy were filled through nepotism. Sometimes vacant positions were illegally sold for money. Compared to that, making your brother-in-law the general manager of your own company isn't much to criticize.
Fayez just nodded and said,
"I'm going now. May Allah bless you. (Assalamu Alaikum)"
"May Allah bless you too. (Walaikumussalam)"
Fayez, along with his crew, was heading toward the 'Tongi Textile Factory'. They were wearing civilian uniforms and hiding their guns underneath sweaters. Well, they might not need them anyway. Within an hour, they reached their destination.
Crumbling walls stood barely upright, their ashen color a mark left by explosives and fire. A thick, stingy scent of gunpowder mixed with an unknown foul smell filled the air. The factory—once a pillar of the national economy, exporting textiles overseas and earning valuable foreign currency—now looked like a street child abandoned by his parents.
"There might still be people inside. Don't need to push them out. We'll need some workers anyway," Fayez instructed while observing the factory.
Due to the advantageous position of Tongi, this factory had been a key location on the battlefield.
At the beginning of the war, people took shelter here, only to be later ruthlessly gunned down by the Pak army. Those sadistic, rapist bastards created a holocaust—setting up even rape camps—in infrastructures like this.
The Mukti Bahini later took back these factories and eventually won the war. But the suffering of the people never stopped.
Upon entering the factory, the calm expression of Fayez shattered in an instant. Several women were living in dark, unhygienic conditions, their faces marked by terror and anxiety. There was no sign of the hope or happiness of independence like among common folk; they were completely devastated.
A teenage girl, probably 14 or 15, approached Fayez and said—
"Mister, can you give me some food? I can sleep with you if you want."
Rage took over Fayez. He didn't need any more evidence. This was a rape camp where those Pak bastards brought women and even teenage girls to brutally violate them. That's why there was no hope in these women's eyes.
Even if so-called independence had come—so what? In these times, people were radically conservative. A woman who had intercourse outside marriage, even if raped, was isolated and outcast by society. Parents would disown their daughters, fearing humiliation. They were left on their own, and most of the time, forced into prostitution.
Around 300,000 (probably far more than that) women, raped by the Pak military in 1971, were among the worst sufferers.
Their families didn't accept them, society didn't accept them, and the government not only failed to help but mocked them with the humiliating title of 'female warriors.' Female warriors—for what? For being violated? If that isn't mockery, then what is?
In the end, those rapist bastards from Pakistan were saved by India. India just used them as bargaining chips for border conflicts and advantageous treaties.
And what did we do? We watched. Our leaders ignored it. Our sisters were outcast by society, forced into prostitution, and left to suffer for the rest of their lives with an unbearable burden. Some committed suicide to escape the pain.
That's the price they paid—not just for the war, but for the cruelty of a nation that refused to stand by them.
After the initial wave of anger, Fayez quickly calmed his head.
"Mashrafi, you're the one carrying food, right? Go. Distribute it to them."
He didn't say much, and was quick to obey the order.
Trying to comfort the teenage girl, Fayez attempted a gentle smile and patted her head.
"If you're hungry, then simply ask. You must never say those things to anyone other than your future husband, okay?"
While eating the food, tears began to roll down her cheeks. In the past couple of months, she had endured horrors that hardened her. But with a bit of kindness, she began to soften up.
"So, what's your name? Where are you from?" Fayez asked in a soft voice.
"I'm Mousumi, from a village near Joydebpur. When those foreigners invaded our village, we tried to flee. Unfortunate for me, I got separated and was caught by those monsters and..."
A silence fell across the factory. Bellies were full, but minds were stuck in those hellish days. What the future held for them was completely unknown.
"I was able to flee and returned home. But when I met my family again, they were different. Whispers and rumors spread around the village. Girls avoided me, and boys..."
"When I heard the camp was finally freed, I rushed here to meet Ritu. But when I got here, I found out she was no longer alive.
I don't want to stay here, but I don't think I'll ever be able to go back home again..."
Tears poured from her eyes as she tried to wipe them, only making it worse. Even amid sorrow, she chewed on her roti. Hunger waits for nothing.
The tale of Mousumi is the tale of hundreds of thousands of women in Bangladesh. Suffering, starvation, trauma, humiliation, hopelessness, and the shadow of the past—these were all they had.
They had no one to support them. No one to comfort them. The nation saw them as a liability, society didn't even see them as fellow human beings.
"I'm just a selfish bastard. There are millions suffering from a war they had nothing to do with. And here I was—a pathetic, jobless man who died worthlessly in a protest, thinking I was some kind of hero when I was just a coward. I have to do something for them. I won't let them suffer again—even if I have to fight fate itself."
Fayez folded his hands with determination.
As evening settled in, several footsteps approached the factory.