I collected my small amount of baggage and when I went through into the arrivals hall I was very pleasantly surprised to be warmly greeted by Anna and several of the Omega people from London. I was taken for a meal, asked lots of questions, sat next to Anna who held my hand, and then at the end we went back togetherto her same bedsitter.

Two days after my arrival in London, on 16 December, the Pakistan Army in the East surrendered to the joint forces of the Indian army and the Mukti Bahini in Dacca, and the state of Bangladesh was proclaimed. The war had lasted only 14 days. I had been released from imprisonment on the fourth day, as the first major town of Bangladesh had fallen to the joint forces. While I was celebrating freedom, getting a new passport, dining at the Consulate in Calcutta, travelling across India by train, exploring Bombay and flying out in the early hours, being delayed in Cairo, and arriving in London, the inevitable fate of the Pakistan Army in the east had become increasingly clear. Despite a UN General Assembly resolution calling for a ceasefire in the second week of the war, resulting from a Soviet veto on a similar resolution in the Security Council, and strong words from the United States about India’s ‘aggression’, the wheels of history were turning inexorably.

THE Nixon Administration drew a fusillade of criticism last week for its policy on India and Pakistan. Two weeks ago, when war broke out between the two traditional enemies, a State Department spokesman issued an unusually blunt statement, placing the burden of blame on India. Soon after that, U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations George Bush branded the Indian action as “aggression”—a word that Washington subsequently but lamely explained had not been “authorized.”

Senator Edward Kennedy declared that the Administration had turned a deaf ear for eight months to “the brutal and systematic repression of East Bengal by the Pakistani army,” and now was condemning “the response of India toward an increasingly desperate situation on its eastern borders.” Senators Edmund Muskie and Hubert Humphrey echoed Kennedy’s charges.

The critics were by no means limited to ambitious politicians. In the New York Times, John P. Lewis, onetime U.S. A.I.D. director in India (1964-69) and now dean of the Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs at Princeton, wrote: “We have managed to align ourselves with the wrong side of about as big and simple a moral issue as the world has seen lately; and we have sided with a minor military dictatorship against the world’s second largest nation.” In Britain, the conservative London Daily Telegraph accused Washington of “a blundering diplomatic performance which can have few parallels.”

{….}

Because of blunders in both substance and tone, the U.S. has, 1) destroyed whatever chance it had to be neutral in the East Asian conflict; 2) tended to reinforce the Russia-India, China-Pakistan lineup; 3) seemingly placed itself morally and politically on the side of a particularly brutal regime, which, moreover, is an almost certain loser; and 4) made a shambles of its position on the subcontinent.

Time Magazine 20 December 1971

With the exception of a deeply embarrassed United States, most countries of the world, once it was clear that India had no intention of annexing East Pakistan into India, celebrated a people, very poor, certainly, but with a fiercely burning national sense of self and worth, gain their rightful place in the world. 

 JAI Bangla! Jai Bangla!” From the banks of the great Ganges and the broad Brahmaputra, from the emerald rice fields and mustard-colored hills of the countryside, from the countless squares of countless villages came the cry. “Victory to Bengal! Victory to Bengal!” They danced on the roofs of buses and marched down city streets singing their anthem Golden Bengal. They brought the green, red and gold banner of Bengal out of secret hiding places to flutter freely from buildings, while huge pictures of their imprisoned leader, Sheik Mujibur Rahman, sprang up overnight on trucks, houses and signposts. As Indian troops advanced first to Jessore, then to Comilla, then to the outskirts of the capital of Dacca, small children clambered over their trucks and Bengalis everywhere cheered and greeted the soldiers as liberators.

{….}

The first city to fall was Jessore. TIME’S William Stewart, who rode into the key railroad junction with the Indian troops, cabled: “Jessore, India’s first strategic prize, fell as easily as a mango ripened by a long Bengal summer. It shows no damage from fighting. In fact, the Pakistani 9th Division headquarters had quit Jessore days before the Indian advance, and only four battalions were left to face the onslaught.

“Nevertheless, two Pakistani battalions slipped away, while the other two were badly cut up. The Indian army was everywhere wildly cheered by the Bengalis, who shouted: ‘Jai Bangla!’ and ‘Indira Gandhi Zindabad! [Long Live Indira Gandhi!].’ In Jhingergacha, a half-deserted city of about 5,000 nearby, people gather to tell of their ordeal. The Pakistanis shot us when we didn’t understand,’ said one old man. ‘But they spoke Urdu and we speak Bengali.’ ”

{….}

In New Delhi, the mood was not so much jingoism as jubilation that India’s main goal — the establishment of a government in East Bengal that would en sure the return of the refugees — was accomplished so quickly. There was little surprise when Prime Minister Gandhi announced to both houses of Parliament early last week that India would become the first government to recognize Bangladesh. Still, members thumped their desks, cheered loudly and jumped in the aisles to express their delight. “The valiant struggle of the people of Bangladesh in the face of tremendous odds has opened a new chapter of heroism in the history of freedom movements,” Mrs. Gandhi said. “The whole world is now aware that [Bangladesh] reflects the will of an overwhelming majority of the people, which not many governments can claim to represent.”

{….}

As a Bangladesh official put it at the opening of the new nation’s first diplomatic mission in New Delhi last week: “It is a dream come true, but you must also remember that we went through a nightmare.”

Time Magazine 20 December 1971

 The new nation of Bangladesh became the 8^th most populous in the world. The new government, by April 1972 led by Sheik Mujibur Rahman, struggled with the fundamental problems of the country, including increasing corruption. In the aftermath of a famine in 1974, he banned all opposition parties and declared himself president in a one party state. Seven months later, on 15 August 1975 (ironically Indian Independence Day), he, and most of his family, were assassinated. After the 1971 war, the Military regime of Yahya Khan fell immediately and Zulfikar Ali Bhutto became Prime Minister in the Pakistan that remained. He was hanged by a different military dictator, Zia al Huq, in 1979. His daughter, Benazir, died in a bombing in 2007.  General Tikka Khan, ‘The Butcher of Bengal’, mastermind and leader of the repression in the east, became, a few years later, the head of the section which developed Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal.

 And so my adventure ended. There was still an interview on the Today programme, an interview with Radio London, several print paper interviews, the meeting with Lord Brockway, an several visits to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases. And then it was Christmas and New Year with Anna and some friends,  and then it was 1972, and my year of living dangerously had ended, and I was ready to face a new one.

I do not remember much of those two or three days in Calcutta. The British Consulate arranged for a new passport for me, and that evening, or perhaps the following evening, I was invited to a dinner at the home of a member of the Consulate staff. It was a very kind gesture, but I did feel very much out of place with my dishevelled appearance, limited-clothing and flip flops, not to mention limited conversation, among the sophisticated Calcutta intelligentsia. The white-gloved, white jacketed, impeccably mannered stewards who brought round the drinks and hors d’oeuvres, before sitting us all down to the silver service dinner, were beyond my ken. The evening was no doubt intended to make me feel at home and among friends, but as it bore no relation to any aspect of my life, ever, never mind the last few months, the evening provided me with significant culture shock.

 Because of the war, Dum Dum airport in Calcutta was closed, and the only airport that was still operational for civilian, and international flights, was in Bombay, on the other side of the country. It was agreed that I should take a train from Calcutta to Bombay and catch a flight from there to London. So on my second, or third, day back in Calcutta, shiny new passport and an airline ticket from Bombay to London in my pocket, and a second-class train ticket from Calcutta to Bombay in my hand, I boarded a train with fond farewells from my erstwhile colleagues, and set off across India. The journey was long and slow, 60 hours, but generally uneventful. I spoke and listened to people on the train about the war, about politics, about my experiences, which were, I think,  mainly taken as the exaggeration of an overindulged western hippy.  I bought food from vendors at stations along the way. I bought a small book about Guru Nanak, and one about Gandhi, and eventually got to Bombay. I had 24 hours to spend there, so I checked into a very cheap hotel.  Bombay was busy and crowded, but compared with the ordered chaos of Calcutta, seemed to be more ordered, and less chaotic.   I ate at a vegetarian restaurant that evening, close to the hotel, as the entire city was under blackout restrictions and it was difficult to see where one was going. Despite the reminder that this was still a country at war, that evening I felt that I was beginning to learn how to live in society again.

 The western part of India is on full wartime alert. All cities are completely blacked out at night, fulfilling, as it were, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s warning that it would be a “long, dark  December.” Air raid sirens wail almost continuously. During one 15-hour period in the Punjab, there were eleven airraid alerts. One all-clear was sounded by the jittery control room before the warning blast was given. The nervousness, though, was justified: two towns in the area had been bombed with a large loss of life as Pakistani air force planes zipped repeatedly across the border. Included in their attacks was the city of Amritsar, whose Golden Temple is the holiest of holies to all Sikhs. At Agra, which was bombed in the Pakistanis’ first blitz, the Taj Mahal was camouflaged with a forest of twigs and leaves and draped with burlap because its marble glowed like a white beacon in the moonlight.

Time Magazine 20 December 1971

 The following afternoon I set off for Santa Cruz airport arriving there at 4 PM ready to catch my anticipated 8 PMAir India  flight. I managed to check-in and go through immigration to the heavily curtained, dimly lit, departure lounge. But at 6 PM I learned that my plane, along with all others, was going to be delayed. They did not say why, or for how long, but it was easy to guess why.  I, together with great number of other people for my, and other flights, began to make ourselves comfortable for the night. At 0230 in the morning my flight was called, and we were hurried aboard the plane. Sometime around 0330 in the morning we took off. It was a strange and rather frightening takeoff,  as there were no lights on the runway, or indeed visible from the airport itself, and the aeroplane did not show any lights either. We hurtled through the dark along the runway,  taking off before the end and flying up very steeply up and then immediately veering South West.

 Six hours later, we landed in Cairo, but were not allowed off the plane. There was some concern that we would not be allowed to take off again, as Egypt was not a supporter of India in the conflict. There had, I learned much later, been a diplomatic incident a few days previously, when two large Soviet military transports had stopped over in Cairo, filled with war materiele for India. The planes were eventually allowed to proceed, at the cost of a great deal of goodwill between Egypt and the Soviet Union. We were kept on the plane for more than four hours before it was agreed that we could be refuelled and take off again. Which we did, arriving in London in the early evening of 14 December.

‘They are here! The Indian Army is here! They will take you away!’

I gathered my few possessions and waited downstairs. My friend had gone to the women’s section to collect my colleague and soon we were together in the Governor’s office in the gatehouse. There, sitting with the prison governor, were three Indian army officers and a fourth man who was not in uniform. Brigadier Salik was the commanding officer of the Armoured Regiment of the Ninth Infantry Division of the Second Army Corps, and had with him a major and a lieutenant. The prison governor had explained to him who we were and why we were here and as we entered the room, the Brigadier and his companions rose, shook us both by the hand, and the Brigadier said jovially,

“I bet you’re jolly glad to see us! Well, you’re free now, we just need to do some paperwork. You can come back with me to India tonight and then we can sort you out and get you back to Calcutta tomorrow.”

We learnt that he had been told of our presence when he had visited the good priests at the Mission Hospital: he had been unaware that there were any other foreigners in Jessore. The fourth man, the one not in uniform, turned out to be the liaison officer for the Mukti Bahini, the Bengali Liberation Army. Pulling out a sheet of headed notepaper with a Bangladesh flag and Bengali script at the top of the page from his briefcase, he went into the next office, with the Governor. Using a typewriter, he typed out two letters, one for my colleague, and one for myself. With a dateline “in the field”, and the date, 7th December, the letters stated that the Provisional Government of Bangladesh held no charges against us and that we were free to leave the country. While he was doing that, the Brigadier was explaining that he had come ahead into Jessore but that his armoured regiment was on the road approaching the town. The Pakistani army had withdrawn completely and he was slightly disappointed that there had as yet been no fighting in this sector of the war zone. He did note that 7 December is the date of the attack on Pearl Harbor, and that  

‘…today is the 30th anniversary. That will make it easy to remember the day you were released from prison in Jessore.’

It so proved.

The Brigadier gave some instructions to the governor of the prison and left the major to act as temporary Martial Law Administrator, together with the Mukti Bahini official as Civil Administrator, on behalf of the Provisional Government of Bangladesh. He and his two now ex-prisoners left the prison for good. Outside the gates was a small crowd, surrounding two open jeeps each flying a small regimental flag at the top of the rather long flex radio antenna. One jeep had a mounted machine gun in the back, and was fully occupied by three heavily armed Indian soldiers with a driver.  The other jeep was empty. We were escorted to the empty jeep and climbed into the back, along with the lieutenant. The Brigadier got into the front with the driver,  and the second jeep, obviously the escort, pulled in front of us and led the way out of the town. By now it was getting dark and the two jeeps, with the flags flying, set off at speed along the metalled road back towards India. This was the same road that we had been brought into Jessore in the back of a lorry from Shamilia mission, nine weeks previously.

 The journey to the Indian border was not far, about 30 km,  but it took us almost four hours to get to the large Army Corps Command base at Khrishnagore.  Our rapid speed out of Jessore was soon abated as we began to meet the Armoured regiment, coming the other way along the narrow road, with few passing places. There were armoured cars and armoured vehicles, there were trucks carrying tanks, there were heavy field artillery pieces being pulled by lorries, and there were truckloads of soldiers, and more truckloads of soldiers. The going was very slow, and the brigadier stopped on a number of occasions to talk to his troops and officers and give instructions. Knowing we were on our way to safety and freedom, the presence of a large armoured regiment  was not only reassuring, but I certainly saw it as an army on a mission of justice. It was a memorable evening and journey.

 By about 10 PM we had reached the Indian border, crossed it at Krishnagore, and made our way to the Indian Army encampment. It was a cold December evening, and while I had put on trousers and a shirt to face my freedom, the long cold journey in an open jeep, and the fact I had only flip-flop sandals on my feet meant that I was very cold. My colleague was given a tent to herself to sleep in, and I was shown to a tent where there were four Beds made up. I went straight to bed and slept through most of the night wondering before I did so whether this was real, and whether I was really out of prison and on my way to freedom. I woke before dawn, my feet still deeply chilled, so I went for a walk around the camp, ending up by a field kitchen, and a huge, warm coal-fired stove. I was offered a cup of sweet milky tea in a tin mug, and I gulped my first mouthful too quickly, burning my lip on the tin mug, and my tongue with the boiling hot tea. But it was worth it. It warmed me up, and as the sky lightened and the sun began to appear in the East I finally felt the exhilaration that it was all real, I was back in India, I was among friends, and soon I would be going back to London.

‘They have gone! The Army is gone! The prison is open!’

I dressed quickly, as my cell mate ‘packed’ his meagre possessions.

‘I am going home,’ he said.

I walked with him to the gate, where the warders and officers, all dressed in civilian clothes, stood by the wide open double gates, smoking and shaking hands with the prisoners as they left through the gates. I bid Mohamed a fond farewell, wishing him success in getting home, and telling him to avoid embezzlement in the future. He suggested, very sensibly, that I stay where I am,

 ‘…so the Indian Army can find you easily,’

and then he went out into the no-man’s land that was the town of Jessore that day. I hope he made it back to his home and family. 

The prison governor and my friendly officer both seconded Mohamed’s advice, to stay within the prison until such time it was clear who was in charge.  I went to the women’s quarters and called my companion to the (still) locked gate, and she agreed that we would be better off staying where we were for the moment. With large (though rapidly decreasing) numbers of excited prisoners running around the prison, I suggested that she remain within the women’s quarters, and I would keep her updated on any news.

 The day was a strange one. The prison itself grew eerily quiet and empty. Outside, in the streets, there was some evidence of celebration, distant choral shouts of ‘Jai Bangla’, and occasional sporadic gunfire, whether in earnest or celebration, I do not know. For the most part, after an early tour of the rapidly emptying prison, I remained in my cell. I was too excited/apprehensive/anticipatory to read or do very much except pace the cell, look out the window to the invisibly changed outside world, and make occasional forays to the gate, to see if there was any news, and pass on any news to my colleague through the locked gate.

 Members of the gaol staff were present but dressed in civilian clothes. One of the guards, a chubby man who was generally very jolly, but today was grey with worry, moved into the prison with his entire family. He had brought them here because he and his family were not Bengalis, they were from Bihar, in India, and he had come as a small child at partition. As a Muslim, who believed in Pakistan, he was very fearful of Bengali nationalism, and of his own family’s safety. And had therefore brought his family to the comparatively safe domains of the prison where some degree of authority still existed.

After that, all was quiet, and there was a collective bating of breath, no-one yet sure what would happen next. Would the Indian Army arrive? Undoubtedly, but when? What would the Pakistan forces do? Would they initiate a scorched earth policy? Would they kill all the prisoners? Would they destroy Jessore?  Would they dig in, and turn Jessore into a battlefield? Would we be in the middle of that battlefield?

For the next 24 hours there were no answers. By the afternoon of 6 December, rumours spread around the prison.

‘The army is leaving!’

Others said this was a false rumour to flush out Mukti Buhini collaborators, and the army would kill anyone who celebrated the news of withdrawal.  I went to bed that night apprehensive, but also exhilarated: something would happen soon. The quiet night was disturbed by an ongoing series of unexplained explosions coming from the Military cantonment.

 The general atmosphere in the gaol changed as well. There seemed to be a greater tension in the air, and perhaps some anticipation. Within the jail there were mixed views and feelings. For the large number of detained prisoners, the idea that the Mukti Bahini would soon liberate Jessore, and therefore them, was exciting and positive.  For the staff at the jail the feelings were more mixed: while they personally might welcome liberation forces, it was less clear how the liberation forces would receive them.  For a few members of staff the future was very uncertain.  These were the Biharis, Muslims who came from India at the time of partition during the great disturbances that that involved. As non-Bengalis, committed to the idea of Pakistan, the rise of a nationalist Bengali nation was not an attractive prospect.

 By the end of November Indian fighter planes were flying over Jessore, too fast and high to be a target for anyone, though war had not yet been officially declared.  On the morning of 3 December we learned that India and Pakistan were now officially at war and it was clear that, unlike in earlier wars, there would be an Eastern front to this one.  Later that morning a trio of Indian Mig-21 fighter planes flew low over Jessore and the military cantonment, circling twice before flying off at a great speed.  This caused considerable excitement in the prison, particularly among the prisoners. Later that afternoon the sound of aircraft once more filled the air. I went to stand on the roof of the spiral stair to see what was happening. Two large, lumbering, Vulcan bombers were flying through the air towards the military cantonment.  Flying considerably faster, in protective circles around the bombers, were three Mig-21s. Only seconds later, the bombers’ payload landed in the cantonment in a series of crumping explosions. A short time after the last bomb explosion there was a much louder explosion and towards the horizon large plumes of smoke began to rise. The war had reached Jessore. The level of tension in the prison rose. There was a sense of bated breath. Would there be more bombing? Ground fighting?   

 The following day three Mig-21s returned, without the bombers, I assume on a reconnaissance mission.  I was standing on the roof of the stairwell, barechested in my lungi, shading my eyes as I watched them fly by.  One of the fighters broke off from its position and swung down towards the prison. I was convinced that it was the sight of my long-haired, almost naked pale body, that attracted the pilot’s attention.  He certainly seemed to fly almost directly towards me. The plane flew close enough for me to see the Sikh pilot, complete with turban, radio headphones and microphone, turning and staring out the window at me. I would claim later that it was the downdraught from the fighter, but the reality was pure fear of this howling high-tech machine bearing down on me with a fierce, bearded and turbaned pilot staring intently  at me, that made me leap from the roof, into the stairs below me, as the plane flew over me, barely 20metres above my head, and leaving, indeed, a strong downdraft of wind. I climbed up again, hearing the muffled ‘pumfs’ of fruitless anti-aircraft fire from the cantonment, and listening to the fighter jets powering away again.

 That moment of intimacy with the fighter pilot has stayed with me through the years: for its personalisation of a machine driven conflict, for the very mixed feelings aroused by enthusiasm for the purpose of the fighter planes, and the knowledge that their success would be of personal benefit to me. Provided, yes, very much provided, that I did not become a contingent casualty in their success.  My friendly prison officer sought me out immediately afterwards. He had seen me on the roof, and seen the plane pass so closely over me. It was he that I told the wind had pushed me down. He was greatly excited, and in muted tones told me why. 

‘Soon you will be free, the Indian Air Force is looking for you! Soon Bangladesh will be free! Jai Bangla! ‘

I was sure that the pilot’s interest in me was momentary, but shared the officer’s enthusiasm for the possibility that the Pakistan army might soon be leaving. That moment, and that conversation, brought me the realisation that the world can change, and very quickly. Which is very unsettling when you are content with life as it is, but equally exhilarating when life is not as you would prefer it.

 PAKISTAN: IMPRISONMENT OF MR. GORDON SLAVEN

375

§ LORD BROCKWAY

My Lords, I beg leave to ask the first question which stands in my name on the Order Paper.

§ [The Question was as follows:

§ To ask Her Majesty's Government whether they will make representations to the Government of Pakistan for the release of Gordon Slaven, a British citizen, who has been sentenced to two years' imprisonment for relief activity in East Bengal in circumstances which contravened regulations regarding entry.]

§ THE PARLIAMENTARY UNDERSECRETARY OF STATE, FOREIGN AND COMMONWEALTH OFFICE (THE MARQUESS OF LOTHIAN)

My Lords, Mr. Gordon Slaven, who pleaded guilty to the charges made against him under the Foreigners’ Act 1946 for entering East Pakistan by a route not authorised for entry by foreigners, has appealed against the sentence. A British firm of solicitors has been appointed to act on his behalf, 376 and lawyers have been briefed in East Pakistan. In present circumstances there are no grounds for representations by Her Majesty’s Government.

§ LORD BROCKWAY

My Lords, while appreciating the assistance which has been given, may I ask whether the noble Marquess is aware that this man is a sincere young pacifist; that he went with a young American pacifist for relief work; that as a pacifist he declined a military escort and that it was because of that that he was arrested—because of his convictions?

§ THE MARQUESS OF LOTHIAN

My Lords, I think that the House certainly appreciates the idealistic motives behind Mr. Slaven’s and his companion’s wish to enter East Pakistan, but of course it must be for these people to obey the laws of the country. As I said, although I appreciate the noble Lord’s kind remarks in regard to the interest we have taken in this case, there is really nothing that Her Majesty’s Government can do at the moment.

HL Deb 10 November 1971 vol 325 cc375-6   Hansard 10 November 1970

 Another question in the house: House of Lords this time. Question raised by Lord (Fenner) Brockway, and batted away elegantly by the Marquess of Lothian.  Later, when I was released, I went to meet Lord Brockway briefly in the House of Lords. He was, of course, charming, and I was clumsily grateful for his intervention, and told him my story, at which he expressed interest and thanked me for my non-violent approach. I am still slightly embarrassed at how ignorant I was.  I knew he was an old man (he was actually 84 when I met him), and well respected, but had no real idea of who he was.

Who he was, of course, was the doyen of the British peace movement. Born in Calcutta in 1888, he started work as a journalist, and became a member of the Independent Labour Party in 1907. By 1913 he was a committed pacifist, and during World War 1 he was arrested three times for pacifist activity, spending 2 months in Pentonville for distributing anti-war pamphlets, and later served two years under the Military Service Act   (including a night in the Tower of London), being released long after the end of the war. He joined the India League, promoting Indian independence. He was the first  chair of War Resisters International in 1926. He first became a Labour MP in 1929 for Leyton, but lost his seat in 1931 because he opposed the cross-party National Government

He moved away from pacifism in the 1930’s, realising that fascism needed to be fought, brought home particularly in the Spanish Civil War.  He sent a letter of recommendation for Eric Blair (aka George Orwell) to join the International Brigade in Spain.  After spending time in Spain he wrote “”There is no doubt that the society resulting from an anarchist victory (during the Spanish Civil War) would have far greater liberty and equality than the society resulting from a fascist victory. Thus I came to see that it is not the amount of violence used which determines good or evil results, but the ideas, the sense of human values, and above all the social forces behind its use. With this realisation, although my nature revolted against the killing of human beings just as did the nature of those Catalonian peasants, the fundamental basis of my old philosophy disappeared.“  

After Fascism was essentially defeated in the Second World War, he reiterated his belief ina slightly less purist pacifism. He rejoined the Labour Party, and won the unlikely constituency of Eton and Slough in the 1950 election. He was defeated, narrowly, in the 1964 election. He then accepted a life peerage as Baron Brockway. 

Fenner Brockway was also one of the four founders of the charity War on Want in 1951, one of the six founding members (others included Bertrand Russell J.B. Priestley and Michael Foot) of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, and was a pioneer in steering the first legislation on racial discrimination through parliament in the late 1950’s. He died in 1988, just before his 100^th birthday. There is a statue of him in Red Lion Square in London. A ‘Fennerfest’ is still celebrated annually in Slough, and among its friends on Myspace, is one Michael Meacher, who asked the earlier question in the House of Commons.…

In other news, November 1971 saw Mariner 9 become the first spacecraft from Earth to enter Mars orbit.  Doing something that had a profoundly more lasting effect on the way we live: Intel launched the world’s first  microprocessor. And finally, this was the month that a man leapt from a plane he had hijacked, somewhere over Colorado, with a parachute and $200,000 ransom money, and was never seen again.

 The food given to a Category A prisoner was not, unfortunately, any improvement on the food I had previously received. Breakfast was a bowl with thin dahl, or lentil soup, and a chapatti. Lunch was the same, and dinner substituted rice for chapatti. Sometimes the rice appeared at lunchtime instead of dinner, just to add variety to the meals.  Although it was Ramadan from late October, and breakfast and dinner were provided in the dark, I was still served my lunch each day, as were other non-Muslim, usually Hindu, prisoners.   I received a banana on three occasions. One of those occasions was the feast of Eid el Fit’r, at the end of Ramadan, on 21 November. I had a front row view of the preparations for the feast for the first half of the day. On the ground below my cell, between our building and the prison wall, soon after dawn three goats were brought, and tethered. At about 10am, someone came to the goats, obviously not a member of the Gaol staff, for he was accompanied by a warder. I later learned that he was not, as I had initially thought, a prisoner, but was a halal butcher brought in especially.  He pulled out a very sharp knife, and approached the first goat, and after a brief ritual, he slit its throat, and held it tight, until he could lay it on the ground, and let its blood flow until it expired. It was interesting to watch, if somewhat gory, but the real surprise to me was the complete indifference of the other goats to the quick and bloody death of their companion. Similarly when the second goat was dispatched, the last goat showed little interest, and even when it was its turn, it seemed to accept its fate without demur.  I could not but think that this could be a metaphor for humanity’s ability to ignore the fate of our neighbours, not realising that it will be our fate next… Or perhaps goats are just particularly stupid. Once dead, the goats were skinned, and butchered, the lumps of meat were piled onto large basins and taken away. That evening, I, and all prisoners, got some goat meat and a hard-boiled egg with our dahl and rice, as well as a banana, as a celebratory treat. It was good.

The days were long and mainly empty. Apart from looking out over the wall to the fields, and daydreaming about flying away, I spent time drawing my pack of cards as I smoked my cigarettes, and created three new cards as I finished each pack of 10 from my benefactors, the priests. In less than three weeks,  by early November, I had my full pack, and was able to play patience whenever the mood took me, which was fairly regularly. 

 When not playing patience, I gazed in wonderment at the advertisements in the Esquire magazine, and read the articles, many times, with ongoing puzzlement at the importance attached to the minutiae of domestic US politics; to estoteric (to me)  cultural issues; and to the importance of appropriate sartorial style.  Of course, there were also the mystery novels, that also evoked an England, or an America, that I had never known, but which was comfortingly familiar, nonetheless.

To keep myself fit, I did pull-ups, using the top of the spiral staircase to grip on, and pulling myself up from a way down the stairs. I also did push-ups on the floor of the cell. Sometimes, I even went for runs around the cell, or played wall touch: running from one side of the cell to the other, as fast as I could, until I wore myself out. Nonetheless, as the weeks passed by, the water, and monotonous diet, began to have a deleterious effect on me, I had constant diarrhoea, and developed ringworm on many parts of my body, and the spectre of ‘general debility’ loomed ever larger. A visit to the depressing doctor let me know that I ‘probably’ had dysentery, but he had no medicine for it. I ‘definitely’ had ringworm, but he had no medicine for that either, but ‘it might go away by itself.’ I began to wonder if I would last for two years.

 In the evening the electric light went out at eight, and so that was when we went to sleep. The bed, while not exactly comfortable, was considerably better than lying on the floor, and the mosquito net made a great deal of difference to my comfort.  The nights were not always peaceful. The windows were glass-free, and bats flew in and through the room, freely. Only once did one fly into my mosquito net, and, apart from giving me a start, as it fell to the floor with a scream, but it quickly recovered and flew off again. Not all the bats were as fortunate, however. As well as the nocturnal bats, we had other nocturnal visitors: cats.  I never knew where they came from, but at least three feral cats seemed to find our room a congenial habitat after dark. They sometimes fought each other, noisily; sometimes they seemed much more friendly, but that was equally noisy; and sometimes they were lucky enough to catch a bat. On these occasions, the lucky hunter retreated to under my bed, and, growling to keep their caterwauling companions away from the feast, they crunched their way through their treat. Sleeping on nights like these was intermittent, and a momento mori.

Although we never saw our high-powered lawyer again, there was a positive result from his visit. Our petition to be upgraded to Category A prisoners continued to be processed, and at the end of October the prison Governor called us both in to tell us that he was very pleased to inform us that our petitions had been granted, though I’m still not sure by whom. I am fairly sure it was not the military authorities. My companion and I were both immediately, that very day, upgraded to Category A prisoners. I later learned that, for her, it meant little change, but for me it was a very significant change in my circumstances.

I was moved from my basic first floor cell, with the view of the block for disturbed prisoners,  to a different first-floor cell, about four times the size, with two barred windows, which I shared with one other prisoner. This large room was accessed by an enclosed spiral staircase at the side, with a flat open space at the top.  The cell ‘gate’, was at the bottom of the stairs, which was locked at night, and there was a normal door at the top which we could close or leave open as we saw fit. There were other wonderful things about my new accommodation. Firstly I had a wooden bed, with three blankets: one for underneath me, one on top of me, and the third blanket acting as a pillow. More importantly, there were posts at each corner of the bed and overhanging the whole thing was a mosquito net. Luxury! 

The cell was relatively close to the prison wall, and from my bed, I could see out of the window, and if I lay down low enough, I could avoid seeing any of the prison grounds, and see over the wall, and see a world that was not gaol, but a world of fields, and palm trees, and a world of people going about their daily business of farming. This view of a normal, if different, world, did wonders for my disposition. Even though the people I saw were farmers and labourers, their (comparative) ability to go where they pleased, and to go home at the end of their day, and to talk to friends and companions of their choosing, cheered me enormously.  I was not envious of them, but rather grateful to be able to observe normal life, and whenever anyone was working in the fields, or walking along the paths, I watched them,  a hungry voyeur of another normality. 

That is not to say that I did not have long and complicated fantasies of escape. With a leap I was over the wall of the Gaol, and making my wary way across the flooded, war-torn land to Calcutta… No, that would not work, I would not be able to blend in with the local people, there were too many armed people around, it would be too dangerous. No, there was nothing else for it. I would have to learn to fly, circling higher and higher above the gaol, like the raptors I watched when not watching the farmers, until I caught the jet stream (now, which way does that blow?), and cruised back to London,  sustaining myself on miraculously appearing Mars Bars.

 My new cellmate, Azziz, was very welcoming, considering that he had had this vast space to himself before my arrival. Azziz was the only other Category A prisoner in the gaol. He was about 40: short dapper, well groomed with fastidiously oiled and combed hair, laundered white shirt and lunghi, well-educated, with very good English, and very cheerful. He had a full-time job working within the prison office, doing the accounts and other administrative tasks. He was a key part of the prison administration, despite being a prisoner. He told me all this information (that I could not observe for myself) in the first 30 minutes of our meeting. He, of course, knew all about me already. He told me that he had been in jail for slightly more than two years, with about another two years to go, or less if he got time off for good behaviour, and he was hoping that  would be the case. He could possibly be out in less than nine months, he whispered, not wanting to jeopardize his chances by saying it too loudly. He lived in a small town not far from Jessore, where his wife still lived with his two children. They did not come to visit him in gaol. It took me some days  to work up to asking him why he was in jail. When I finally did, he replied ” embezzlement” and quickly changed the subject to the joys of mosquito nets, and the importance of hanging them right. 

Later, from my friendly prison officer, I learned that Azziz had been a school headteacher who had embezzled government funds for his school, and skimmed parents’ fees for himself. ‘But he was a very good teacher and headteacher,’ my informant concluded. By the time I had learned of this dubious part of his character, his cheerful, helpful  and undemanding companionship had already made him  someone I was happy to share a cell with. As he was out of the cell at work for the whole day, most days, there was no opportunity to be irritated by him nor, I hope, him by me.

IN New Delhi last week, one member of Prime the Indira Gandhi’s Cabinet was heard to remark: “War is inevitable.” In Islamabad, President Agha Mohammed Yahya Khan spent the better part of a 40-minute television speech railing against the Indians, whom he accused of “whipping up a war frenzy.” Along their borders, east and west, both India and Pakistan massed troops. Both defended the action as precautionary, but there was a real danger that a minor border incident could suddenly engulf the subcontinent in all-out war. {…}

The current dispute has grown out of the Pakistani army’s harsh repression of a Bengali movement demanding greater autonomy for the much-exploited eastern sector of the divided nation. The resulting flood of impoverished East Pakistani refugees has placed an intolerable strain on India’s already overburdened economy. New Delhi has insisted from the first that the refugees, who now number well over 9,000,000 by official estimates, must be allowed to return safely to their homes in East Pakistan. {….}

Though Islamabad has ordered the military command to ease off on its repressive tactics, refugees are still trekking into India at the rate of about 30,000 a day, telling of villages burned, residents shot, and prominent figures carried off and never heard from again. One of the more horrible revelations concerns 563 young Bengali women, some only 18, who have been held captive inside Dacca’s dingy military cantonment since the first days of the fighting. Seized from Dacca University and private homes and forced into military brothels, the girls are all three to five months pregnant. The army is reported to have enlisted Bengali gynecologists to abort girls held at military installations. But for those at the Dacca cantonment it is too late for abortion. The military has begun freeing the girls a few at a time, still carrying the babies of Pakistani soldiers.

No one knows how many have died in the seven-month-old civil war. But in Karachi, a source with close connections to Yahya’s military regime concedes: “The generals say the figure is at least 1,000,000.” Punitive raids by the Pakistani army against villages near sites sabotaged by the Mukti Bahini, the Bengali liberation army, are an everyday occurrence. The fighting is expected to increase sharply in the next few weeks, with the end of the monsoon rains. Both the Pakistani army, most of whose 80,000 troops are bunkered down along the Indian border, and the Mukti Bahini, with as many as 60,000 guerrilla fighters, have said that they will soon open major new military offensives.

On a recent trip deep into Mukti Bahini territory, TIME Correspondent Dan Coggin found an almost surreal scene. He cabled:

“Leaving the road behind, I entered a strange world where water is seasonal king and the only transport is a large, cane-covered canoe known as the country boat. For seven hours we plied deeper into Gopalganj subdivision in southern Faridpur district. The two wiry oarsmen found their way by taking note of such landmarks as a forlornly decaying maharajah’s palace and giant butterfly nets hovering like outsized flamingos on stilt legs at water’s edge.

“As darkness approached, we were able to visit two neighboring villages, with about 25 guerrillas living among the local folk in each. The guerrillas were mostly men in their 20s, some ex-college students, others former soldiers, militiamen and police. Their arms were various but plentiful, and they had ammunition, mines and grenades.

“A Mukti Bahini captain told me that the Bengali rebels are following the three-stage guerrilla warfare strategy of the Viet Cong, and are now in the first phase of organization and staging hit-and-run attacks. So far the guerrillas in the captain’s area of operations have lost about 50 men, and larger army attacks are expected. But the Mukti Bahini plan to mount ambushes and avoid meeting army firepower headon. {…}

 As conditions within East Pakistan have worsened, so have those of the refugees in India. The stench from poor sanitation facilities hangs heavy in the air. Rajinder Kumar, 32, formerly a clerk in Dacca, says he is “always hungry” on his daily grain ration of 300 grams (about 1½ cups). His three children each get half that much. “They cry for more,” he says, “but there isn’t any more.”

Malnutrition has reached desperate proportions among the children. Dr. John Seamon, a British doctor with the Save the Children Fund who has traveled extensively among the 1,000 or so scattered refugee camps estimates that 150,000 children between the ages of one and eight have died, and that 500,000 more are suffering from serious malnutrition and related diseases. {…}

Observers doubt that the situation would ease even if Yahya were to release Mujib and lift a ban on the Awami League. Where the Bengalis once were merely demanding greater autonomy, they now seem determined to fight for outright independence.

In his speech last week, Yahya also announced that the National Assembly would be convened in December, immediately following by-elections in the East to fill the Assembly seats vacated by disqualified Awami Leaguers. With the main party banned from participation, however, the election is likely to provoke more violence. Already the Mukti Bahini have vowed to treat candidates as dalals (“collaborators”).

Nonetheless, Yahya may find himself compelled to put his government at least partly in civilian hands. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, leader of West Pakistan’s majority Pakistan People’s Party and Yahya’s most probable choice for Prime Minister, has become more and more outspoken about “the rule of the generals.” Recently he said: “The long night of terror must end. The people of Pakistan must take their destiny in their own hands.” Formerly that sort of talk would have landed him in jail. Now even Yahya seems to have recognized that unless the military allows some sort of civilian rule it may face trouble in the West as well as in the ravaged East Time Magazine  Oct. 25, 1971