Chapter 1 : How I was arrested
I barely go into reminiscence, but when I do, time has that
strange tendency to fly away unnoticed. I have been asked ad nauseam as to my
experience in prison. Whether through bleary eyes pleading through tear soaked
tones, hush reprimands or indignant snorts; many have tried to remind me of the
indelible mark this experience will have wrought upon my life. Others have been
highly supportive, constantly reminding me that the victory of the Islamic
movement was just around the corner. However, deep down, amidst the sea of
nagging thoughts and earthly worries, one little thought managed to always
float above all. There is a reason behind everything that happens in your life,
however big or small. My experience in jail was no exception. Before I begin
with the accounts of my days in prison, I ask for forgiveness, both to the
reader and the Almighty, in the event that any trace of ‘riyaa’ (showing off) inadvertently
creeps in while recounting my relatively modest experience.
I was arrested by security forces on the 31st of December
2013, after approximately 11 am local time from my residence in Dhaka. There
were no warrants, no accusations or even any evidence involved whatsoever. If
there was any legal backdrop to my detention, I was not made aware of it even
after repeatedly asking the officer who arrested me. Imagine my reaction when I
saw five plainclothes policemen entering the premises of our house and begin a
random search after asking who my father was! Ridiculous as it may seem, the
law enforcers exhibited sneering smiles when they saw a yearly calendar of
Bangladesh Islami Chatra Shibir hung on the wall of my room. I was made to sit
quietly on the bed, flanked by a plainclothes brandishing a pistol dangerously
close to my head, and made to watch the humiliating scenes of my room being
turned outside down. Whether as a measure of premonition or not, I managed to
send a quick SMS to a dear friend telling that police were at my house. The
same measure of premonition drove me to gently dislodge the memory card of my
mobile device and let it stealthily fall at my feet.
All the policemen were armed, either with pistols or
shotguns. The ‘evidence’ that they turned up with, after 15 to 20 minutes of
‘intensive’ searching, were the aforementioned Islami Chatra Shibir calendar
and a copy of the Chatra Sangbad, a popular monthly magazine by Shibir that a
friend had gifted me a few days back. My initial bewilderment at the audacity
of it all turned to alarm as the policeman standing beside me said, “Come”.
“Where to? Why?”, I asked. That was when his façade of calmness broke and a
glimmer of rage broke through, “Don’t you understand? Is this something new?
Just shut up and come with us.”
All this time, my mother had turned hysterical. No amount of
reason or frantic pleading seemed to work and there remained a great deal of
possibility that I would turn out into another crossfire victim. “Where are you
taking my son? Take me there too!!!!” she cried, as two policemen flanked on
both sides dragged me roughly outside. Matters became complicated when they
seized my laptop and mobile phone as well. As I was taken outside, I saw that
the policemen had come in three unmarked microbuses. People all around had begun
to gather outside their houses, watching the scene in shock as I was being
whisked away. Amidst the pushing and shoving and the hysterical cries of my
mother, I entered the micro in the middle, with a semblance of head held high,
despite the fact that I was shaken to the core within. As the door was closed
with a bang, I deeply sighed within, and prayed. Perhaps the end was nigh.
