Mahfuz Anam
We need to remember Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s speech on March 7, 1971 simply because it is an inseparable part of our nation’s liberation struggle. The speech brought us all together, gave us direction amid confusion, inculcated a new vision, empowered us with the courage to defy and the confidence to believe in ourselves, and set free a spirit that readied us to make the supreme sacrifice. The piercing power of the words, the conquering spirit of the voice, the rhythm of the oration, and the flood of energy that swept through us all—both those who were there and those who heard it on the radio—were extraordinary.
Together, the speech suddenly turned a desperate people into a unified bastion of courage, determination and bravery, with a clear and immediate goal of plunging into the struggle to free our motherland. That day cannot be compared, that hour cannot be imagined, that moment cannot be replicated, that speech cannot be duplicated, and its result cannot be understood except in terms of the birth of Bangladesh.
Many did not instantly realise it, but as time unfolded, we felt that all the necessary instructions to earn our place under the sun were there. As we were facing totally unfamiliar situations, that speech gave us a sense of direction. And as we faced the possibility of death, the spirit of sacrifice triggered in our hearts and minds when we heard that speech gave us the courage to dive into the unknown without the least hesitation.
When we eulogise the speech, we, of course, celebrate the man, but far more importantly, we bask in the glory the speech helped us achieve. There were all sorts of stigmatised stereotypes of the Bangalees being always disunited, unable to act with precision and, most critically, lacking the courage to withstand threats, power, and danger. But the speech told our enemies that we were not afraid, that we could unite and we were ready to defy.
The psychological impact of the speech cannot perhaps be fully understood by those who were not victims of what we had suffered through the years under the colonisers. When one is faced with overwhelming odds, the strength of the mind and the courage of the heart matter far more than can otherwise be gauged. March 7, 1971 did this most effectively. For those who did not hear it themselves, it may be difficult to appreciate its value. For the Muktijoddhas (freedom fighters) who carried the speech in their hearts, and for those who heard it repeatedly through its broadcast on Swadhin Bangla Betar, its value and capacity to keep us motivated were clear, and they felt its courage-giving power when going into battle.
Those of us who were there at the Ramna Race Course on that day have our own personal memories. Reminiscing them still warms our blood and generates that special feeling of pride that automatically holds our heads high. The outpouring of millions of people who turned up to listen to Bangabandhu gave us all an incomparable strength and a unique feeling that nothing could keep us oppressed. People from all walks of life attended the meeting—farmers, workers, daily labourers, street vendors, small shopkeepers, students, political activists from all shades of opinion and political commitment, and ordinary men and women. When the hour came, Bangabandhu took us on a journey towards a future where we would be free, able to laugh, play, live, and grow in a place that would be our very own.
As we recall that speech today, we must remember that it has earned a place in the gallery of the world’s greatest speeches, included in Unesco’s Memory of the World International Register. It is an inseparable part of Bangladesh’s history. It is also an indelible part of that supreme pride that is ours as citizens of a country that came into being through the sacrifices of millions of men, women, youth and children, all being victims of unimaginable brutality that formed part of the genocide Bangalees had to endure.
In the general election of 1970, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman received the mandate from the people of Pakistan to govern the country as its prime minister. President Gen Yahya Khan acknowledged this and declared him to be the “future prime minister of Pakistan.” Tragically, a conspiracy soon began. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, who emerged with the majority of seats in West Pakistan, was too proud, too arrogant, and too self-centred to accept the reality that Sheikh Mujib would be Pakistan’s prime minister. Along with some Pakistani generals, he was determined not to allow that to happen. Bhutto invited Yahya to his home in Larkana, Sindh, where he spent several days persuading Yahya to postpone the convening of the National Assembly. On March 1, Yahya declared an indefinite postponement of the National Assembly’s first session. Thus began the final act to deprive the Bangalees of their legitimate right to power.
Bangabandhu immediately launched the non-cooperation movement and declared that he would address the nation from the Ramna Race Course on March 7. That set the stage for the historic speech.
We, the students of Dhaka University belonging to all student organisations, became fully involved in publicising the call for the non-cooperation movement and for attending the meeting. There was no other way but to organise street demonstrations, continuous rallies, processions, and street-corner meetings to appeal to the public to attend the gathering.
We obtained dozens of trucks—most of them lent to us for the occasion—on the backs of which we placed student singers with a few microphones and a tabla player, accompanied by some political activists. We drove them to busy street corners and parks. The student artistes would start singing patriotic songs and crowds would begin gathering. Once the crowd was large enough, we would interrupt the singing and start our speeches, informing people about the grand rally, stressing its importance and answering questions from the public.
Every morning, we would gather at the Teacher-Student Centre (TSC) to be assigned to different processions touring various parts of the city. By March 6, we had covered the whole city several times and had held hundreds of processions, rallies and street-corner meetings.
As on all the previous days, the group I was part of—belonging to the East Pakistan Students Union (EPSU)—gathered at the TSC on the morning of March 7 at about 9am and reached the Race Course by 10:30am. The stage was at the northern corner of the huge field (renamed Suhrawardy Udyan after independence). By the time we arrived, the crowd had already reached halfway up to the High Court ground located on the southern side of the field. We found ourselves in the middle.
We watched the crowd grow within a very short time. I remember the endless streams of processions entering the field from all sides. Thousands marched, chanting slogans with sheer passion and energy. As they settled down, they continued their slogans. After a while, they began singing in groups, and we all joined in. There was an inexplicable sense of joy and pride. We had come together to defy the “enemy” and tell the world about our struggle for freedom.
By the time Bangabandhu arrived, we were an ocean of people united in spirit, moved by courage, and dreaming of a future of dignity. As he climbed the stairs towards the stage, he saw more than a million people intensely waiting for him. Here was a 50-year-old leader standing at the peak of his popularity, about to utter words that would determine our future and ensure our place in history.
The speech he delivered is now known to the world and has a place in the hearts of all proud citizens of an independent Bangladesh. Like all history-making leaders, Bangabandhu was not flawless. He, like many of his ilk, made mistakes and took actions that were not best suited to the welfare of the people. As a nation of 55 years, we must judge him in his totality. As is the global practice, let expert historians—not the instant ones we produce whenever political winds change direction—put the final judgement on Bangabandhu. The narrative of the day should not be allowed to cloud history.
Mahfuz Anam is the editor and publisher of The Daily Star.