A Loss on Victory Day

Submit your contest entry in the space below: A Loss On Victory Day Based on a true story In March of 1971, after years of oppression under West Pakistan, East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) declared its independence. West Pakistan retaliated with infamous brutality, killing not only hundreds of thousands of freedom fighters but up to three million innocent civilians. Despite the brutality, Bangladesh persisted, and on December 16th, 1971 the country earned its freedom. Dhaka, December 16th, 1971: After months of darkness, the world had finally shone its light on Hala’s city. She hardly knew what freedom meant, but she knew it had been earned today through victory. Victory—that’s what the grownups cheered throughout the streets. The streets that had finally woken up after months of sullen slumber. Hala had left the house all by herself, against her baba’s wishes. “You mustn't go out alone today. It’s not a place for a little girl.” But I’m not alone, she thought. Today, the whole city was her friend. Baba wouldn’t understand, though. Baba never understands. And anyways, Baba would never know she disobeyed him. He was napping, and Hala would be back well before he woke up and took notice of her absence. Baba never noticed anything, but Hala didn’t mind. More fun for her —and more trouble— and that’s how she liked it. Hala picked the beli flowers that lined the front of her neighbor’s lawn. They smelt soft and sweet and reminded Hala of her mother. She coiled a few in her short, thick curls, forming a halo with the white petals. The rest, stuffed to the brim of her pocket, formed a sweet-smelling trail as she skipped to the market. The sun was shining, and her curls felt good bouncing up and down her neck. “Beti!” called the fruit monger, towering over his stall. It was Mr. Kalwani. Ammi always brought their fruit from him. Hala capered over. “Mango, beti?” he asked, his smile shining through his beard. “Yes please!” She fished a rupee out from her pocket. “Oh, no need.” The man pushed back the coin and handed her a fruit. “Joy Bangla!” “Joy Bangla!” Hala couldn’t help but grin. She didn’t know much about the war, but she knew that cry by heart. For months, those two words had been shrouded in struggle, a sliver of hope in a war that only grew grimmer. But today, the cry had been fulfilled. Her country was finally free, and its people finally smiled. A merciless curse had been cast upon her home, but, at last, the curse was broken. Today was the first day in a new and exciting world. She made her way from the market to the little garden in the center of the square. There, a few of the boys in her primary school were playing with a soccer ball. Hala skipped over. She forgot what it was like to play outside without care. She hadn’t seen other kids outside of school in forever. But she restrained herself. She was a big girl now. She couldn’t just play with boys. Instead, she plopped herself down on the grass and bit into her mango. Soon, her mouth was overflowing with its saccharine juices. “Hala!” a boy called. Hala wiped her chin. It was Abdul, from her class at school. Smiling, she beckoned him. The two sat for a while, watching a frog hop up a tree. It wasn’t long until they joined the little animal, climbing up the tree’s broad branches in a race to catch it first. When they finally fell, it barely stung, as the earth caught and cradled them. They laughed. The world was theirs today. The garden was their Eden. The trees, the mango, the luscious grass—only heaven had it beaten. The sun was at the zenith. Noon. Soon Baba would be awake. “Here, take my mango pit,” Hala said. Abdul sucked on it eagerly. It wasn’t long until Hala was in front of her house again. She wasn’t ready to go back inside, where life was stuffy and boring. She almost regretted not staying longer with the boys and playing soccer with them. But then, she saw a car pull up to the front of her lawn. “Ammi!” she squealed, excited to share the morning’s adventure. Hala loved to talk about her days, and Ammi loved to listen. “Ammi, you’ve been so long at Nani’s house. You said you’d just be gone the morning. I thought you’d never come home!” She skipped up to the silver Contessa, arms ready to embrace. But Ammi didn’t answer. Instead, Nani's chauffeur stumbled out of the car. “It was over...but they didn’t care…” His face was pale and sweaty. “Stay there,” he stuttered, “I’ll get your Baba.” But Hala didn’t listen. “Ammi, Ammi?” she cried, but nobody responded. She lunged towards the silent car and pried the back door open. Ammi was warm but limp and lifeless. Her sparkling eyes were dead and vacant. The silk of her fine sari was torn and caked with blood. Hala climbed into the car and drew her mother close. She pulled out her floral halo and laid it on the corpse. “I love you Ammi. I love you. I loved you.” At last, the war was done. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------ Ammi- word used for mom by Bengali-speaking Muslims Baba- Bengali word for dad Beti- term of endearment in South Asia for young girls Joy Bangla- War cry/ slogan meaning “victory to Bengal,” used during the 1971 Liberation war and still used today Nani- Maternal grandmother .

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