PoriPurno News Desk | August 04, 2025
There was a time in my life when Professor Muhammad Zafar Iqbal was my iconic hero. None has influenced our generation as profoundly as he did. Unlike many others, Sir’s impact on me was deeply personal.
In school, I followed his footsteps — despite struggling in math, I joined math Olympiads inspired by him. I memorized 150 digits of Pi. His novel characters wandered with school bags, magnifying glasses, and homeopathic bottles — I felt I was one of them. His words about science fueled my dream to become an engineer. His passionate talks about the Liberation War and war crimes shaped my worldview. I believed that telling the story of our Liberation War and fighting for justice was the noblest cause.
Sir hated Pakistan so much that he refused to board any plane flying over it. His novel about patriotic youths preventing a funeral prayer at a Pakistani imam’s request moved me to tears. His conviction instilled a deep sense of responsibility in me.
For over a decade, I immersed myself in researching the Liberation War — collecting testimonies, compiling data, struggling to reconcile the grand narratives with the rural realities. I discovered widespread corruption among reputed researchers, while grassroots stories differed vastly from official accounts.
This is not today’s story. Today, I speak of the plane Sir refused to board.
I was lucky to have had his mentorship and affection. He wrote the foreword of my first book, turning me overnight into a star. I used to send him my questions and received replies. Once, I shared news clippings about his family being evicted by the Awami League’s local militia, leading to protest and eventual restoration. Sir advised me not to embarrass the government at that moment.
In 2018, Sir and other professors protested the resignation demand of a university vice-chancellor. Student league militants violently attacked those protesting professors, including Sir and Professor Yasmin. Sir sat helpless in the rain near the Shaheed Minar that day. Yet, astonishingly, he later accepted the militants’ apology, calling it a misunderstanding.
That same year, when a government minister labeled quota reform protesters as “Rajakars” (collaborators), Sir was initially silent. But when a student proudly wore a t-shirt saying “I am Rajakar,” Sir’s conscience awakened, and he wrote passionately against the stigma.
I saw Sir’s “fire of hatred” burn only selectively. While he condemned attacks by student league members, he remained silent on other atrocities committed by them. Data shows that student league’s offenses surpass those of all other student groups combined. Still, Sir’s hatred seemed reserved for the Rajakar label, not for the living victims.
Years passed. In 2024, during brutal police and student league violence against protesters, Sir wrote despairingly that he no longer wished to visit Dhaka University — fearing that every student might be a Rajakar. On the very day of his writing, a young man named Abu Said was killed by police gunfire in Rangpur. The minister called him a drug addict. Sir did not condemn the minister or mourn the victim.
Deaths increased — from one to ten, then to hundreds. Children like Ria Gop, playing on the rooftop, were shot and killed. Mothers like Sumaiya, just delivered, died from stray bullets. Sir did not rise in protest. His “fire of hatred” did not ignite.
Sir’s father was brutally killed by Pakistani invaders, fueling Sir’s deep loathing for Pakistan. He refused to buy Pakistani products or board planes flying over Pakistan. When I learned this in seventh grade, his patriotism deeply inspired me, even leading me to confront a vendor selling Pakistani goods at a fair.
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But now, faced with my beloved country’s mass killings under a government claiming Liberation War ideals, Sir remained silent. This silence breaks my heart.
The brutal massacre of 2024 stems from a violent interpretation of the Liberation War ideology — an ideology Sir helped shape with his narratives. The painful irony is that the architect of these ideas is my beloved mentor.
I know this article may not change Sir or his standing. Even after the deaths of Ria Gop, Sumaiya, Mugdha, or Abu Said, Sir likely will not blame the ruling party or student league.
This truth pains me deeply. Yet my emotions exist, just as Sir’s do. The man who once left a comfortable research position to teach in a village college, the man whose call I would have died for, now seems distant — indifferent to the bloodshed.
My tears, once shed reading his books, now fall for the children shot in the streets. I mourn alongside Ria Gop, and I hold my mentor accountable for his silence.
Justice must come for the victims of 2024’s massacre.
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