Dhaka University Massacre — 25–26 March 1971

I was in my room on the second floor of Iqbal Hall when the shooting began. At first I thought it was firecrackers — there had been political tension for weeks and sometimes people let off fireworks. Then I heard screaming.

I looked out the window and saw soldiers — Pakistani army, in uniform — moving through the courtyard with rifles. They were shooting at anything that moved. I saw two of my friends from the third floor try to run across the courtyard. They were shot immediately.

I hid under my bed for what felt like hours. I could hear soldiers entering rooms further down the corridor — doors being kicked open, shouting in Urdu, then shots. Sometimes there was screaming before the shot. Sometimes not.

By morning, the corridor was silent. I waited until late the next day before I moved. When I finally came out, I saw the bodies in the courtyard. I counted eleven before I stopped counting.

I left Dhaka the following week. I have never returned to that building.

I was a junior lecturer at the time, living in faculty housing near the arts faculty building. My neighbour, Professor Dev, came to my door that night in a panic. He said soldiers were coming street by street through the residential area.

I urged him to come inside and hide with my family. He refused. He said he was an old man and had nothing to fear — that surely they would not harm an unarmed professor.

I never saw him again. The next morning his door was open and his house had been ransacked. His body was found by students two days later.

I have carried the guilt of that moment for more than fifty years. I should have insisted. I should have pulled him inside.