The year 1971 is an indelible part of Bangladeshi identity and a rite of passage for Bangladeshi literature. For a writer of fiction, tackling the Liberation War is tantamount to announcing their arrival on the mainstream literary scene. To do this with a fresh take, however, is a feat few have accomplished. Nadeem Zaman’s In the Time of Others is one of those rare successes, expertly mixing the astonishing geopolitical scope of the war with the intimate claustrophobia such violence inevitably inflicts on individuals.
The novel is set entirely in 1971, starting a few weeks before the infamous military crackdown of March 25, and covers the entire conflict from the viewpoint of various characters. On one side are those fighting, in one way or another, for independence.
Not one person’s story
The closest we get to a central protagonist is Imtiaz, who arrives in the city before the war actually breaks out, witnessing first-hand the breakdown of negotiations between Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. He arrives in Dhaka to deal with an inheritance issue, only to get caught up in the unfolding war. For him and his wife (in Chittagong, and absent from most of the novel), the fighting juxtaposes personal struggles with political realities.
For Imtiaz’s aunt and uncle – both members of the old guard of Bengali activism – the politics of 1971 represents the latest broken promises from Islamabad. While the former engages in grassroots mobilising, the latter is cautious but no less patriotic. When the war kicks off in earnest, they provide help to the guerrilla freedom fighters, which includes many of her students. These students are easily the most idealistic and passionate of the bunch.
Representing the secular and multi-faith youth of the nation, they are the least willing to compromise and are the first to be ready to lay down their lives for a greater cause. Also involved in the liberation movement is Suleiman Mubarak, a Bihari Muslim judge, whose personal belief in Bangladeshi emancipation is viewed with suspicion owing to his non-Bengali heritage.
The truths on all sides
To have a Liberation War novel show such believable variety among its Bangladeshi cast is rare enough, but Zaman manages to provide equal depth to the anti-independence side, mostly focussing on two Pakistani Army officers. Captain Fazal Shaukat is shown as the quintessential military man – duty and honour above all else – whose unease about the barbarity of the conflict is not enough to stop him fulfilling his obligations.
Major Pervez Shahbaz, his superior, is far more sadistic, xenophobic and nationalistic. While Shaukat obeys orders, Shahbaz relishes his part in the destruction. Interspersed with this is Umbreen Shaukat, the captain’s wife, a depressed alcoholic who wishes nothing more than to return to West Pakistan, and who provides an opportunity for her husband to vent his frustrations and moral dilemmas on.
The novel also shines a spotlight on the treacherous Bengali collaborators, whose belief in the unity of Pakistan allows them to carry out atrocities with a chillingly clean conscience.
Then there are those whose involvement in the war is much more peripheral. Americans Helen and Walter, two married writers, and Sam Truman, a member of the diplomatic corps, take it upon themselves to bear witness to the horrors being committed and get news out to the rest of the world. Meanwhile, characters such as Hakim Patwari and Golam Rasool remain apathetic to the conflict, choosing to focus on their jobs and livelihoods, from which the war is simply a distraction.
Necessary discomfort
This rich cast allows Zaman to authentically balance the multi-faceted nature of the conflict. On a personal level, each character is completely fleshed out, which makes it easier to get caught up in the minutiae of wartime life. He makes us invested in them, and the danger feels more palpable and terrifying. Their humanity allows us to understand conflicting views and motivations. Crucially, this extends to the Pakistani characters.
Without apologising for their actions in any way, Zaman invites the readers into their heads, making them feel the necessary discomfort that accompanies the recognition of the rationale of violent killers. It is a testament to his skill as a writer that he takes us so far into their heads while unequivocally condemning their cause.
Violence is something the novel does not shy away from, and yet it never feels gratuitous. While there is often a risk of romanticising wars whose central goal is emancipation and self-determination, Zaman deftly avoids this by grounding the action in well-researched moments of bloodshed.
He depicts, in turn and in unflinching detail, the university killings that triggered the battles, a Pakistani torture site, a village massacre (the only instance in which the book really moves away from Dhaka), a military brothel with its captured sex slaves, the slaughter of intellectuals, and – a rarity indeed – the violent backlash against non-Bengali Muslims, who were referred to as Biharis. Crucially, none of these moments stagnates – instead, they build a harrowing image of what it meant to be living through these times.
A delicate nuance
Witnessing this violence is not only the role of the reader. The aforementioned Americans are outraged at what they perceive to be a one-sided and uncalled-for massacre. Yet they do not escape unscathed. In a series of exchanges, Zaman makes sure that the Cold War dynamics of 1971 and American complicity in Pakistan’s actions are not lost in the scuffle.
While the violence is rooted in and around Dhaka, the circumstances which allowed it to happen were rooted in the wider historical context as well as the unresolved trauma of 1947. It is in these moments, and in the fleeting encounters with real-life figures like Rao Farman Ali and Archer Blood, that it is possible to really admire the level of research that must have gone into this book.
Much as the novel embeds the Liberation War within wider politics, it is impossible to read this as fiction without considering the wider political climate at the moment. The Digital Security Act in Bangladesh has strictly codified ways in which history can be told, especially 1971. Moments in this novel, such as the in-depth explorations of the declaration of independence, the anti-Bihari sentiments and the sporadic continuation of violence after December 16, might never be recounted with such honesty. This makes Zaman’s book even more important.
The conflicted ownership of history relies on how we remember our past. The never-ending politicisation of 1971 has meant that it has become impossible to remember the war and its associated genocide with any degree of nuance. Historical fiction, especially pieces that deal with postcolonial narratives, thrives when it is able to shun simplification.
Syed Shamsul Haq managed it with his novellas Blue Venom and Forbidden Incense, but no other English language novel has been able to provide 1971 with such clarity before In the Time of Others. Nadeem Zaman reminds us that liberation is and will always be a struggle. It is imperative that we respect that and continue that fight moving forward.
In The Time Of The Others, Nadeem Zaman, Picador India.
Ibtisam Ahmed is a Doctoral Research Student at the School of Politics and IR, the University of Nottingham. His work is a decolonial killjoy, which deconstructs British colonial utopianism and shifts the focus on grassroots anti-colonial utopias.