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In 1959 Abdul Latif was a hopeless romantic, madly in love and eagerly waiting to tie the knot with the love of his life, Najma. He was in his mid twenties and was a full-time radio artist and a part-time singing teacher at Quamrunessa Girls School. Latif Bhai, as he is known to all, young or old, was aware of the unrest brewing in the university campus, and among the students although he was not directly involved in their agitation. It baffled him that any body could forbid him to speak in his mother tongue. When the police opened fire on the protesters on February 21 around noon, word spread out like fire that some students had fallen. It was the beginning of the birth of a new nation. The momentum of the agitation was no more restricted within just the campus of the university.
   Writers, poets, painters and musicians were born again with a new zest and unbridled surge for an identity. Laying down one’s life for her/his mother tongue was the least one could do at that time. It was a precedent set by the Banglis of Pakistan, fifty three years ago and is yet to be broken by any people or any nation in the world; that is, sacrificing one’s life for his language.
   Barely eighteen, Abdul Gaffar Choudhury wrote “Amar Bhaiyer Rakte Rangano Ekushey February” as homage to the martyrs of 1952. The original score of the song was composed by Abdul Latif, parts of which were later changed by Altaf Mahmud.
   The atrocities carried on by the police affected the Bangalis, especially the younger generation so intensely that they were surprised at their own creativity. Around that same time Abdul Latif wrote his famous song, ‘Ora amar mukher katha kaira nite chay/ ora kathay kathay shikal paray amar hate pay’ but was somewhat hesitant about it. He showed it to a senior member, considered to be an acclaimed intellectual, of the family. The gentleman read it and giving it back to the composer said, “Eta kichchhu hay nai. Ratre balisher talay rekhe diyo, ar sakale uthe chhire phele diyo.” Although a little disheartened, Abdul Latif, fortunately didn’t give up or destroy the song. Instead he took it to Farrukh Ahmed, who was already an established poet and had earned fame for his poem ‘Las’, written on the 1944 famine.
   When Farrukh Ahmed read the song, he had tears in his eyes. He looked at Abdul Latif and said,‘Tui amar haye jabi, ei gan-tar janya.’ ‘I was so taken aback by his response, I was dumfounded’, Latif bhai said. It was the ultimate inspiration for anyone, and Latif bhai set to compose the music for his poem. ‘Today, when I look back I find it hard to believe that I had written that song,’ Latif bhai mused. He sang a few lines, in his still resounding voice, at my pleading; I went back in time and remembered the first day my mother had taken me, a little girl, to Latif bhai’s class in Quamrunessa Girls School, and remembered how intimidated I was by his booming voice, teaching his students, ‘Karar ai lauha kapat.’ It seemed as though the walls of the small class room would shatter and crumble down.

As the birds created a symphony of spring against the dying rays of a February afternoon, Syed Shamsul Huq gazed into the distance, nostalgic yet resolute. But, for a person who had been in the social scene when the language movement happened in 1952, it’s always the firm determination that comes back.
   After all, nothing would have happened if there wasn’t a strong will to back it up. ‘21st February is a day marked in blood, but to talk about the movement we must go far beyond. In fact a social and political move to have Bangla established as our main language had its roots in the beginning of the last century,’ said the noted poet, novelist and playwright. ‘Long before partition, the language issue had been simmering with a fluctuating flame but after 1947, it gained a new dimension and thus came to the forefront. But, language is not just about words that carry our passion and emotion. Each word is charged with our heritage, culture and our identity,’ adds Huq and goes on to emphasise that language is not merely a vehicle of expression but an institution that sets a nation apart giving it a unique place. Talking about the ones who took to the streets in the fifties to press home the demand for Bangla to be declared as the mother tongue Huq said that they were the first freedom fighters. ‘They were the ones who laid the foundation and eventually this movement culminated into 1971,’ said the writer. He then observed, ‘The blood that was shed in 52 gave the process a new meaning elevating it from just a public outcry to one that involved our deepest desires.’
   Commenting on the observation of sceptics who often say that those who were shot were killed accidentally he says, ‘How they were shot is immaterial. The fact is that blood was spilt and that is what we remember till today. It’s this blood that brings Ekushey to us wrapped in inexplicable passion and fervour.’
   As the nation observes 21st February with overpowering emotion what is the comment of Huq on the status of Bangla today? ‘Well, I am sad to see that we are vocal and voluble in talking about our language but our loquaciousness is not endorsed by our actions. Regrettably, we are not functional about our language. Bangla used in most official papers is either wrong or too pompous and this will have repercussions in the future.’ Stating a survey that speculated that by the end of the 21st century only 10 per cent of languages would survive Shamsul Huq observed rather grimly that if we didn’t take care of our language then it might end up dead.
   ‘But, that cannot happen. So much sacrifice, such a united movement cannot end up like that. Perhaps it’s an assumption that many languages will disappear, but we cannot take the risk. Though Ekushey is being observed all over the country a creeping psychological inferiority compels us to feel low when we speak Bangla.’ Harbouring no animosity towards other languages he observed that we must overcome this feeling and learn Bangla as well as other languages. As the evening set in slowly, the light outside faded away but the glint in Syed Shmsul Huq’s eyes was as powerful as ever and in that light the essence of Ekushey became all the more potent.

‘We used to live in Begumbazar in the old part of the Dhaka city. I was a student of 3rd year at the Government Institute of Arts. In the morning of the 21 February 1952, I went to the museum compound at Nimtoli to see the preparation of the exhibition of the Dhaka Art Group. The government had declared Section 114, because of the student agitation. I started walking alone towards the Dhaka University. When I reached the campus I saw processions coming from different corners. The students had decided that groups comprised of ten in number, would go to the Assembly and would violate the Section. Shahidullah Kaisar, among others led the movement in the campus.
   Near the Kala Bhaban I met Hasan Hafizur Rahman. The female students were not being allowed to come to the campus. Police were also throwing teargas at us. At noon, we heard the sound of firing. There was total chaos and everybody started running in frenzy.
   As we moved towards the medical college hostel, I saw some people helping a man, who was hit by bullets. As I pushed through the crowd I saw a clean shaven man, bleeding and gasping for water. I hesitated to put my wet and soiled handkerchief to his mouth. But I did. The man said, ‘I am Abul Barkat, and I live at Bishnupiya Bhaban in Paltan.’
   I was wearing a chocolate coloured shirt which was soaked with Barkat’s blood. We carried him to the medical college. There I met Emdad Hossain and Ali Ahad among others who were wounded.
   When I reached home I found my parents worried and angry with me, as they had no idea where I was. When I told my father, Dr Mohammad Shahidullah, about the firing and the killing and showed him my bloody shirt he was stunned and asked my mother to bring his black achkan. He had left the university early that day and didn’t hear of the shooting. He cut up the achkan and told me to tie a band around his arm. He said that he although he was worried for my safety but if I had died for the language movement he would have been very proud of me.
   On the occasion of the East Pakistan Literary Convention, a photography and painting exhibition was held in 1954 in Dhaka. My Bloody 21st was on display. There were many photographs of the 21st February but not any painting, except mine. Earlier in 1953, there was an art exhibition, the first annual art exhibition of the Government Institute of Arts, held at the premises of the institute. Fifty two students and five teachers took part in the exhibition but sadly there were no painting on the spirit of Amar Ekushey.

Razia Khan Amin is one of the most versatile talents in our field of literature and education. She is a poet, fiction writer, novelist, critic and essayist. She had a significant role in the Language movement in 1952. Her father Tamizuddin Khan was leader of Muslim League and a member of the cabinet in Pakistan. But that didn’t dissuade her from expressing her secular thoughts and ideas which were contrary to her father’s ideals.
   On the occasion of the Martyred Language Day 21 February, Anisur Rahman of New Age talked to Razia Khan on her role in the Language Movement in 1952 and her reflections after more than fifty years.
   Anisur Rahman: What do you remember about your involvement in the Language movement in 1952?
   Razia Khan: We were in Karachi just before the movement started. I was sent to Dhaka where I got admission in Quamrunnesa School and lived with my elder sister in her residence on Fuller Road Dhaka University. Professor Nurul Huda, my brother in law was a teacher of Economic of the university and was entitled to residential quarters in the campus. I was a teenager and preparing to get into the university in 1952 when the movement was gathering momentum. Being in the University campus, I had the advantage to be right in the middle of the movement. But unfortunately the family decided that I should go and live with my uncle in Gendaria. I felt cut off from the centre of everything. I was assigned to read aloud all the newspapers every morning to my uncle. That was the only way I could keep myself abreast with the happenings. But I was not allowed to join the movement or go near the university.
   When the students were uniting for the movement, the government imposed Section 144. I realized that more than anything else I wanted to have a role in this movement. Along with some of my friends, Kohinoor and Salma we began to campaign in favour of the protest. We could convince a large number of housewives to give us the support we needed; we made hundreds of posters and organized processions demanding that Bangla should be the state language of Pakistan.
   When my family saw me in the newspapers, I was put almost under house arrest and not allowed to cross the Lohar Pool at Gendaria. I sat in the house helplessly watching history take its course.