It was during the Liberation War of 1971. I can’t recall the exact date anymore, but it was sometime in September, at the height of the conflict. One day I told my parents, “I’m going to join the war.”

My younger brother, Abul Kashem, insisted on going with me. No one in the family agreed. Despite their objections, we slipped out of the house, determined.

We walked for a long distance until we finally reached a freedom fighters’ camp and enrolled ourselves. There were 24 of us in total—young, hopeful, ready for battle.

For about a month we trained under the camp commander. Soon after, we were sent to the front line. Our family had no idea where we were. Days passed, weeks passed. When no news came, they probably assumed we were dead.

Another month drifted by like that. Then one morning we set out for an operation, but Pakistani soldiers ambushed us. Later we learned that collaborators had given them our location. We were captured.

The place they took us felt like a prison—crowded with captured fighters like us. Many of them never walked out again. We saw countless comrades executed in front of us—some hanged from trees, some shot with their hands tied. They wanted to terrify us, to break us so we would speak. Torture was their tool.

Some were dragged behind vehicles with their hands bound. Salt was rubbed into open wounds. The screams still echo in my head.

Out of all who were held there, only four of us managed to survive. Death was a daily visitor at that camp. Every morning someone else was taken away and never returned.

Watching our brothers die, helpless, shattered us inside. The rage, the sorrow—words can’t capture it. Those memories haven’t faded, and they never will. Even now, my heart aches for the men who didn’t make it home.