By Aquila Ismail
Forty odd years have gone by since those dark days that I spent in the Murapara internment camp in newly created Bangladesh, with my mother and sister, not knowing where my father and brothers were. It still hurts. It still makes me nauseous. How is it that something so beyond one’s control can take over, destroy, and mar life forever? I was never given a chance to say, ‘I was born here, this is my land, do not take it away from me.’
That is how the world works Borders and boundaries are all transient and fragile.
The book did not bring closure. It opened old wounds.
But these will not be brought to bear any revenge but an understanding that there is more to humanity than the religion it follows, or the tongue which it speaks in.
There is a shared link of time spent together amongst flowers and fragrances. Both bring good memories which are salve for the wounds that conflicts for power inflict on us.
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