Bangla no more involved in our lives, laments Ahmad Rafiq
Md. Nahid Hasan Published: 21 February 2025, 05:54 PM
Language Movement Hero Ahmad Rafiq-- Jago News Photo
At 95, Ahmad Rafiq sits in a rented home in Eskaton, his voice heavy with regret. “Most people go to the Amar Ekushey Book Fair not to buy books, but to have fun. This is a very bad sign—a sign of the nation’s decline.”
A hero of the 1952 Language Movement, Rafiq once marched as a Dhaka Medical College student to defend his mother tongue. Today, he mourns its fading presence. “Bengali is not even involved in our lives now,” he says. “It’s the language of the village, of village people.”
Speaking on International Mother Language Day, Rafiq—a physician who traded medicine for a lifelong pursuit of literature and culture—offered advice tinged with resignation. “Students should think about how to build a healthy society,” he urged, “and leave potential issues for it to grow.”
Yet when asked if the current generation yearns to hear tales of those turbulent days, he brushed it aside. “My days are over. They’ll hear from new people—those researching, those working on this. Our time is up.”
Once an avid newspaper reader, Rafiq now relies on his attendant, Md Abul Kalam, to relay snippets of the world. “How can I read? I don’t see well,” he explains. “There’s not much news of the country anyway. I don’t want to talk to anyone anymore. Sometimes, I remake songs—but not always.”
His memories of 1952 remain vivid, though tinged with frustration. “It’s wrong to say everyone marched together in the morning,” he corrects. “The names of the fallen aren’t mentioned properly. We wouldn’t have named Rafiq, Barkat, and Salam otherwise. I only knew Barkat—a university student—but I didn’t move with him.”
Rafiq’s dismay deepens over the state of Bengali today. “How can we use it properly when it’s not part of us?” he asks. On the mixing of Bengali and English, he’s unequivocal: “It’s not right. Say it correctly, say it well, with proper pronunciation.”
He struggles to recall if any comrades from ’52 survive. “One or two might be—Ali Ajmal, a doctor from Shahjadpur—but I don’t know if he’s alive.”
When asked about the 2024 mass uprising that ousted Sheikh Hasina, Rafiq hesitates. “She couldn’t run the government properly—she needed to fall, and she fell. Students protested, yes, and brought her down. But a mass uprising? A military coup? I haven’t thought about its nature.” Does he see the spirit of ’52 in today’s youth? “Yes, there’s more of it,” he concedes. “In any right movement, there’s spirit. But now, it’s different—spirit alone doesn’t mean it’s headed the right way.”
Despite his frailty, Rafiq writes in his diary when strength allows, later refining the words as Kalam reads them back. He dreams of publishing these as a manuscript—a final act of devotion to the language he fought for. Yet his words linger with a quiet warning: a nation that forgets its tongue risks losing its soul.
