My father declined their assistance – to my disappointment, and to his credit. We were back to square one.
Now, I recall certain events in my life associated with the subject of student politics. For instance, there was my uncle, a retired Major General called Khalilur Rahman. I remember right after the resignation of General Ershad asking him about the evil of student politics. I remember his reply to this day:
"There's nothing you or I can do about it."
Well, he was one person who did a great deal to promote student violence: he negotiated General Ershad's overthrow, acting as a go-between with the parties on the one hand, and the General, on the other. At one stage, Ershad had wished to parley: my uncle had proudly told us in our living room how he had refused the offer.
"There's nothing you or I can do about it" will forever ring in my ears. There's little we can do against evil individually, but we don't have to promote it actively, just because foreign donors, who won't be living in our country, want evil done.
But most of all, I remember my father's friend, Dr. Mozaffer Ahmed, Ph.D from the University of Chicago, a scholar who had made his mark in the west, teacher at the Institute of Business Administration, one of the most respected figures in the country.
I used to revere him, and hang on his every word. Then one evening he and Mrs. Rowhan Jahan, his wife, paid us a visit, and the subject of student politics came around (this was before the shakedown described above).
Both husband and wife – both learned people – were solidly in favour of student politics. When my wife and I mentioned the ruined lives, they shrugged off the problem: "The students can always go back to class." Yet, being an economist, Dr. Ahmed should have known how difficult it is for lower-middle class parents to get their children through university in the first place; and then to lose a son, perhaps the only male breadwinner-to-be after the father's retirement, to student politics and criminality. For not all student politicians got to be ministers.
Fine. The professor and his wife believed in the inherent wisdom of students (odd view for an educationist) and the propriety of their getting into politics at a tender age. After all, in 1952, so goes the nationalist mythology, a handful of brave students were mowed down by the police when they defended their right to use the mother tongue. The second mythology stems from the valiant student movement that brought Field Marshall Ayub Khan to his knees in 1969 (never mind that the students were rooting for a demagogue who brought unimagined disaster on the nation, and then went on to starve 50,000 of the loyal voters to death as first prime minister of a liberated country). Fine.
One can criticise a man for holding obnoxious views, but to be able to label him immoral he would have to contradict himself. He would have to act contrary to his own precepts. And this, the very next morning, the good professor proceeded to do.
A TALE OF TWO STANDARDS
I get up late, and I remember Dr. Ahmed nearly waking me, having come up to my bedroom to speak to me. I rushed into the living room after changing hastily. Something had agitated him.
It was the fact, discovered only an hour ago, that his son (who came in tow) had failed the admission test to Notre Dame College. Those who can't get into Notre Dame try to get into the rival college, Dhaka College. But it was well-known that Dhaka College was a factory for turning out student politicians, especially those belonging to the BCL (and at the tender age of sixteen). The professor didn't want his son to be embroiled in student politics, it seemed.
I knew some of the priests at Notre Dame College, and he asked me to put in a word for his son. My wife and I were stunned. What kind of man would laud other people's children entering politics, and be horrified at the very prospect of his own son doing the same?
That very evening, after work, I went down to Notre Dame College. Fr. Banas and I sat talking in a room at Mathis House. I urged him to accept Dr. Ahmed's son – I mentioned that he was a great scholar, and his son would do the college proud, and other assorted rubbish. Fr. Banas knew about my interest in student politics, and he had related to me how the college had kept student politics off campus: the prime minister's son, Sheikh Kamal, had personally interfered with police duty, telling the cops to leave the benighted campus after his thugs had cut the power. This had been in the early '70s. The fathers, in cassocks, confronted the boys, and then Fr. Peixotto, who was vice-principal at the time (the principal was out of the city), entered into negotiations with the leader and a police officer. The latter backed every demand made by the former, and Fr. Peixotto went along. Why? Because the priests had decided they would leave the country the next day rather than run a college as an appendage to the ruling party. The boys sensed this, and never came again.
After the incident, for several years, Fr. Peixotto set up ballot-boxes for elections to the college students' union: not a single boy voted! They had clearly perceived the dangers of "civil society" to their education and their future – the elite boys go to Notre Dame, and letters of recommendation from the priests open many a university door in the United States. "Good" boys don't get into politics. And this was how Notre Dame College kept student politics off the campus.
After I described the argument over student politics with Dr. Ahmed and his wife, Fr. Banas and I sat in silence, our heads hung in shame: the leading educationist of the nation had displayed a dangerous lack of character.
Now, I recall certain events in my life associated with the subject of student politics. For instance, there was my uncle, a retired Major General called Khalilur Rahman. I remember right after the resignation of General Ershad asking him about the evil of student politics. I remember his reply to this day:
"There's nothing you or I can do about it."
Well, he was one person who did a great deal to promote student violence: he negotiated General Ershad's overthrow, acting as a go-between with the parties on the one hand, and the General, on the other. At one stage, Ershad had wished to parley: my uncle had proudly told us in our living room how he had refused the offer.
But most of all, I remember my father's friend, Dr. Mozaffer Ahmed, Ph.D from the University of Chicago, a scholar who had made his mark in the west, teacher at the Institute of Business Administration, one of the most respected figures in the country.
I used to revere him, and hang on his every word. Then one evening he and Mrs. Rowhan Jahan, his wife, paid us a visit, and the subject of student politics came around (this was before the shakedown described above).
Both husband and wife – both learned people – were solidly in favour of student politics. When my wife and I mentioned the ruined lives, they shrugged off the problem: "The students can always go back to class." Yet, being an economist, Dr. Ahmed should have known how difficult it is for lower-middle class parents to get their children through university in the first place; and then to lose a son, perhaps the only male breadwinner-to-be after the father's retirement, to student politics and criminality. For not all student politicians got to be ministers.
Fine. The professor and his wife believed in the inherent wisdom of students (odd view for an educationist) and the propriety of their getting into politics at a tender age. After all, in 1952, so goes the nationalist mythology, a handful of brave students were mowed down by the police when they defended their right to use the mother tongue. The second mythology stems from the valiant student movement that brought Field Marshall Ayub Khan to his knees in 1969 (never mind that the students were rooting for a demagogue who brought unimagined disaster on the nation, and then went on to starve 50,000 of the loyal voters to death as first prime minister of a liberated country). Fine.
One can criticise a man for holding obnoxious views, but to be able to label him immoral he would have to contradict himself. He would have to act contrary to his own precepts. And this, the very next morning, the good professor proceeded to do.
A TALE OF TWO STANDARDS
I get up late, and I remember Dr. Ahmed nearly waking me, having come up to my bedroom to speak to me. I rushed into the living room after changing hastily. Something had agitated him.
It was the fact, discovered only an hour ago, that his son (who came in tow) had failed the admission test to Notre Dame College. Those who can't get into Notre Dame try to get into the rival college, Dhaka College. But it was well-known that Dhaka College was a factory for turning out student politicians, especially those belonging to the BCL (and at the tender age of sixteen). The professor didn't want his son to be embroiled in student politics, it seemed.
I knew some of the priests at Notre Dame College, and he asked me to put in a word for his son. My wife and I were stunned. What kind of man would laud other people's children entering politics, and be horrified at the very prospect of his own son doing the same?
That very evening, after work, I went down to Notre Dame College. Fr. Banas and I sat talking in a room at Mathis House. I urged him to accept Dr. Ahmed's son – I mentioned that he was a great scholar, and his son would do the college proud, and other assorted rubbish. Fr. Banas knew about my interest in student politics, and he had related to me how the college had kept student politics off campus: the prime minister's son, Sheikh Kamal, had personally interfered with police duty, telling the cops to leave the benighted campus after his thugs had cut the power. This had been in the early '70s. The fathers, in cassocks, confronted the boys, and then Fr. Peixotto, who was vice-principal at the time (the principal was out of the city), entered into negotiations with the leader and a police officer. The latter backed every demand made by the former, and Fr. Peixotto went along. Why? Because the priests had decided they would leave the country the next day rather than run a college as an appendage to the ruling party. The boys sensed this, and never came again.
After the incident, for several years, Fr. Peixotto set up ballot-boxes for elections to the college students' union: not a single boy voted! They had clearly perceived the dangers of "civil society" to their education and their future – the elite boys go to Notre Dame, and letters of recommendation from the priests open many a university door in the United States. "Good" boys don't get into politics. And this was how Notre Dame College kept student politics off the campus.
After I described the argument over student politics with Dr. Ahmed and his wife, Fr. Banas and I sat in silence, our heads hung in shame: the leading educationist of the nation had displayed a dangerous lack of character.
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
