Nearly 85 years of age, Kumudini is a member of a indigenous group call Hajong. They are all spread around in the North eastern part of Bangladesh and Meghalyam, Asham and West Bengal provinces in India. At the time of the division of Indian subcontinent into two deferent state, there were nearly 100,000 Hajongs in East Pakistan (Now Bangladesh). Now only 15,000 Hajong inhabitants could be found in the border districts of Netrokona and Sherpur. Most of them migrated to India between 1947 and 1971.

Despite being a minority in the land of muslim majority, Hanjong’s migration to India was rooted to their history of struggle for land rights and fair share of cultivated crop almost autonomously and s. Before the arrival of the British, Hazongs along with other indigenous groups, lived in the “Garo” hills, almost autonomously and secluded, under their own social system. In the late 19th century the British Colonial government established a feudal systems, giving the Zaminders the right to govern their acquired land according to their whims in return of yearly fixed taxes. With the backing of mighty British Empire, The Zamindar of contemporary Durgapur, started the Tonko system.

Under this system, farmer received a piece of land with a commitment of certain amount of rice (much higher than practiced rate). The farmers had to provide the amount of rice even they received reduced or failed crops. Even if the farmers cultivated the land for years, the Zaminder can take way the land without any notice. If the farmers ever failed to provide this imposed tax in return, the Zamindar would send his army and take what ever they feel appropriate from the farmers house. In 1937, the Bagaleese farmers started the organized rebellion against the Tanko system. Seeing a hope of eradicating this exploitative and inhuman system, the whole Hajong community, usually dependent on agriculture and poor, not only joined but took a lead in the rebellion.

Because of the relentless pursuing of the Hajong Community and their unimaginable sacrifices the movement was able to stop the Tonko system in the whole area. The Zamindar tried every brutality humanly conceivable: burning entire village, killing unarmed population including elderly and children, raping and torturing Hajong women, yet failed to subdue the resistance, Zamindar and his vast private army fled the area and ask the British Government to send the colonial force, however, the government forces was busy to fight the Second World War.

After the war ended, British Government sent a large army battalion to quell the rebellion. The army tried to get the overdue Tonko rice from the farmers. When the Hajongs resisted, the military unleashed the most brutal force on them. Even though the Hajongs knew that they are fighting a loosing battle, they fought with whatever they can get hold of – bows and arrows, knifes, sticks, swords against mighty British army and police with rifles, machineguns and even grenades, The Hajong Farmers Chanted, “ We would rather give our lives than our paddy”

I met Kumudiny Hajong during my recent visit to Netrokona District. I met many other elderly Hajongs who remembers the fateful but glorious days of the struggle. They related their sorrows of losing their homes, lands, friends and relatives to the struggle. Over the next few weeks, I will try to shed some light on the sufferings of in Hajong Community. I will start with the story of Kumudiny, who at the age of 20, unwittingly become a part of the glorious but painful History. Her story is part of a larger tale of “never ending disaster” in the lives of the Hajongs.

I don’t know how it happened. For years, people in the NGO world only talk about economic growth, development and progress. It did not matter how we achieved it or what price we had to pay for this so-called development. Donors poured in hundreds of millions of dollars as long as it showed economic growth and upward movement in the poverty index. As long our so-called under developed world rushes to be a part of new liberal economy and billions of peoples join the market.

We were told that if we grow more, we could sell it to world market and enjoy the good and great things that market has already produced for us. For a glimpse of the clad clothed women telling us about the new fragrance, we destroyed another pieces of forest. For a test of frozen cold water from the slick and slim refrigerator, we stop growing rice and started to grow shrimp on our land – a land that cannot grow anything else ever since. For a speedy ride to distance on the gas guzzling yet proficient cars, we imprisoned our rivers and built bridges and roads.

Many tried to warn us not be mesmerized and amused by this shiny new world. All those who ever even showed slightest doubt against this new world, we banished them. We all followed the piper from Hamilan. People of our part of the world paid greatly of our sin. Everything we know is in the verge of extinction.

I get angry when I hear that the huge portion of Bangladesh, the country I grow up may be under sea in fifty years. Along with the world, people in Bangladesh will face more and more floods, cyclone and drought. However, unlike those who had promised us the great new world, we have nothing to face these natural disasters. We destroyed everything that could protect us from these calamites; our rivers, land, forest, environment for all that is shinny and glamorous. I guess that is our punishment of selling our souls to the devil. That is our sin that we were amused by these promises so easily. 

I arrived in Pakistan in a time when millions of people are fleeing from their home and bombs and guns indiscriminately killing innocents and destroying everything that poor, ordinary people built over the years with hard labour. The so-called war on terror launched by Pakistani military has displaced millions of people. While fighting is spreading in other areas, Pakistani government forcing people to go back to unsafe places where gun fire still targeting innocent people. People are forced to go back to their destroyed home. There is no water, electricity or even a place to buy food. It is always surprising to see how innocent people become the pawn of political agendas or ideological rivalry.

Once we finished the day covering almost more than 10 miles, 50 children vaccinated, we headed out to the villagehead house in the evening. We ate our share of bread and milk and head to bed. Ahmed Ali sat with few ill of the village, giving them advise on their illness. I fell sleep without knowing.

Next morning they all were up and ready. They are going to find another set of houses behind the mountain picking on the horizon. It was time for me to go back to town.  I bid my farewll to them.  On my way back on the car, I looked back and saw them disappearing behind the mountain. They will carry on for another next 9 days, ensuring every children are vaccinated in the area.

Fatema learing alphabets at the alternative school

Adult are also welcomed to learn reading and write

English, Afar, Math and Social Science is part of basci education

Pastorlaist communities migrate from one area to other around the year in search of water and pasture. Afar communities travel long distance in the dry season. Because of their mobility, it is impossible for their children to attend school. Afar Pastoralist Development Association designed and implementing a education programme that fits the need of these pastoralist communities. The teachers are recruited from the community and trained. Once the training is complete they go back to their village and teach the children. If the community moves, the teacher travels with them

I was woken up really early in the morning with women voice and footsteps, going to the dry riverbed to collect water. They leave early and comeback within few hours, bringing water on jerry cans on the camel and donkey and sheep skin container on their back. I took a walk around the village in the early light of rising sun, going from house to house, watching women baking bread on the hand dug woven, milking the goats, waking up their children. I saw a women getting ready for the Morning Prayer while her children looked at me rubbing their eyes in an attempt to wake up.

Hamferi appeared by my site to assist me my curious journey. While back in his house, Hamferi signalled me for breakfast. After another fill of milk and baked bread, I was ready for the hot sunny day. Hamferi walked up to a hill blew an whistle, calling his student to class. He came back, sat by me and had his breakfast. Then he blew his whistle few more time and signalled me to follow.

We walked up to a structure made with stacked stone and tree branches, a much more permanent structure than most pastoralist School. The villagers chipped in with their labor to build this school. Slowly the classroom started to fill in with students of all ages. Mariam Gillni (8), ran by her brother, holding his hand.  Abdullah Mohammed (22) came with books and a stick in his hand.

Dahara Butaba(20), mother of one daughter, reached last, running and breathing hard. She explained to the teacher that she was delayed because she wanted to get water for her household. The teacher explained to me “this area has experienced the worst  drought in years. Getting water is getting harder by the day” he added, “although the hours for class is from 8 –12 in the morning, sometimes I have to let the children go so they can collect water for their house hold and the animal”

After the class, I rode with Dahara and hamferi to the water point by the dry river. On the way to Dahara, who wants to be a teacher in the future, related  “ I walk half an hour to collect water in the morning, feed my family and then come to class leaving my child to my mother.”

Once we reached the river, I saw the riverbed is covered with numerous holes; all are hand dug by the women of the village in an attempt to secure water. I saw women are collecting water from the hole, filling up their cans and giving it their animals. Hamferi introduced me to the women and explained, “ We are pastoralist, we move from place to place for water. These women have gone far and worked really hard to stay in one place. They want their children to get education.”

I walked up to the women and talk to them for few minutes. Aysia Hammud, a mother seven related, “ I was not sure of this schools at the beginning. What good this reading and write would do to our children, pastoralist children? Now I see the world is changing. Our children need to know the way of life. I would do anything, so they can learn. If it requires to dig few holes, I am happy to do it.”