On the wings of freedom
Nameera Ahmed remembers the pains of war
The Silent and the Lost, A. Zubair, Pacific Breeze Publishers
Debut author Abu Bin Mohammad Zubair's first foray into the world of literary fiction is a showcase of some of the most ignored and in effect forgotten facts of the blood and tear-stained glory that is 1971. A tale of both choice and consequence, The Silent and the Lost stands as a new biting portrayal of the lives before, the lives during and the lives after the brutal nine-month war for hope that gave birth to Bangladesh. The Silent and the Lost begins in a sense with the end, dated 5th April 1997. The opening chapter of the first book views the haunting emptiness coupled with the dark shame of being born a war child even in the bright Californian sun. Zubair's writing itself of the initial chapters is extremely detailed, and despite the occasional overdose of adjectives the author effectively depicts a very real picture of the late nineties American-Bengali community. The delicate nuances that establish the inexplicable differences in perspective of the two generations in the book are remarkably well constructed, so much so that at moments the reader can almost smell the light fumes of spices, can hear the dramatic dialogue so many South Asian mothers are prone to and can even relate to the inexplicable state of limbo the cultural changes have put them in. Book Two is much different, darker and tinged with a constant indefinable need. Where Book One leaves but wisps of longing, Book Two brings forth a truth that is tangible, almost vivid and bleakly inescapable. With its essentially more thought provoking storyline and dramatic reality this part is a vision of the entire nine-month journey of Bangladesh's Liberation War through the youthful eyes of a passionless third person who illustrates the lives of every lost Birangona as a Nahar, Amina or Fatima, of every forgotten war hero as Rafique and Nazmul and of every muted, every denied child as Alex. Starting with Bangabandhu's historic speech of 7 March, the beginnings of Operation Searchlight and a suppressed version of some of the more rabid betrayals, A. Zubair entwines his tale with flashes of a post-Vietnam America and post-'71 support, as he weaves a poignant tale of camaraderie, bare, naked dialogue and nearly flawless characterisation. And then comes Book Three. Following the devastation in the wake of nine months of forgotten and ignored sacrifice, the author comes back to the present as he traces the remnants of the lives of the still left standing, of the courage people were too small minded to acknowledge as he concludes this epic tale of heart-breaking reality with an ending filled with more regret than remorse, and more helplessness than hope. It is almost as if in the eyes of these broken souls, the torture of 1971 with the hope of a better future, were in a number of ways better than the bleakness of the early twenty-first century that refuses to even try knowing how it all was. As a first time author, A. Zubair presents his first novel as a bit of a rough diamond, a compelling heart-rendering read which develops striking imagery in itself. The author brings vividly to life every scene he has illustrated with his words despite the occasionally stiff dialogue. One would not be overstating in claiming that The Silent and the Lost is an evocative tapestry of deep emotional scars and broken lives that brings to life characters that will linger long after the book is read. Truly a tale that touches the soul. Note the quote-worthy line: "Freedom is never free."
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel.
Comments