• প্রথম পাতা
• গ্রুপ ব্লগ
• বাংলা লেখা শিখুন
• নোটিশ বোর্ড
• 

ধানশ্রী ব্লগ

বিস্মৃতি ও বিষাদটিলা

দি টর্চার অব তাসনিম খলিল

২৬ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ রাত ৮:২০

শেয়ার করুন:                  

At around 12:50 a.m. on the morning of May 11, 2007, I was playing
with my six-month-old son, Tiyash, in my apartment in Dhaka, when
the private security guard in my complex called my name from outside
my door. In previous weeks I had received calls from the [government]
security services complaining about my work as a journalist, so I
looked through the peephole to see who it was. I only saw the guard,
so I opened the door. Then I saw the other men. There were four or five
of them, it happened so fast I’m not entirely sure. They had been
hiding out of view when I looked through the peephole. One asked meif I was Tasneem Khalil. Then they entered my apartment and
instructed me to get dressed. They said they were the “joint forces,”
which means police and army, though under the state of emergency it
usually means the police are present only to make the army’s
participation legal.
I asked them what they were doing in my apartment and whether they
had an arrest warrant for me. I asked for their identity, rank and where
I was being taken. At first they kept on dodging the questions, then
they said that since they were from the “joint forces” they didn’t have
to show me any arrest warrant due to the state of emergency.
I told them that I was an accredited journalist with The Daily Star, one
of Bangladesh’s biggest and most influential newspapers, and CNN. I
said that as a citizen of Bangladesh I have the right to know, and my
family has a right to know, who is detaining me and where I am being
taken. At one point one man, who apparently gave me a fake name,
said I would be taken to the Sangshad Bhaban army camp, an army
camp near the parliament.
They took me to my study and their leader sat down before my
computer, where I was drafting an email to a foreign diplomat who had
expressed concern about my security. I was describing how I was
under constant surveillance and that I had received phone calls from a
Lieutenant Colonel of the Directorate General of Forces Intelligence
[DGFI], asking me to meet him at his office.
I was sceptical about the invitation, as the DGFI was notorious for
torture. I had spoken at length about the phone calls with colleagues
at The Daily Star and Human Rights Watch, who I had also worked with
in the past on a report about abuses by the paramilitary Rapid Action
Battalion [RAB], which was involved in many extrajudicial killings and
torture. Members of RAB saw themselves as above the law and
therefore above criticism. My work on RAB had not made me popular

with the security services, but I thought it was essential that the facts
about what they were doing—in the name of fighting crime—were
documented and published.
As I watched the man reading my computer screen, I was disgusted
and told him he could not do so without my permission. When he
ignored me, almost reflexively I pushed the restart button on my
computer so he could not read my private correspondence. He jumped
up from the chair, pulled out a revolver from his holster, pushed it
against my lips, and started shouting, “You are under arrest.” I started
shouting back, telling them that what they were doing was illegal.
Then all of them started shouting abusive words at me, telling me to
shut up, otherwise there would be problems for my wife and child.
Throughout, my wife Shuchi and son Tiyash were watching the whole
thing.
Then they made me stand in the middle of the room while they
disconnected my and Shuchi’s computers. I told them I did not work
on my wife’s computer and it was for her design work. I asked them
again and again not to take it, but they didn’t listen. They started going
through all of my files, notepads, CDs, important documents, bills, and
reports, and put them in a pile. They went to my bedroom and
searched through my wardrobe. They took my passport, two cell
phones and other documents. They asked me about my personal
diary. I told them I did not maintain one. Then they asked me to put on
some shoes. I told them I was more comfortable with sandals. They
whispered among themselves, and told me that was okay.
I was taken out of my apartment. While climbing down the stairs, I
remembered that I had forgotten to bring my inhaler. When I told them,
they said they would give me whatever I wanted once I was at the armycamp. I told them that I suffer chronic bronchial asthma, so they
allowed me to go back to my apartment and take my inhaler.
At this point they asked Shuchi whether I take any other medication
and about my physical condition. She told them I have asthma. I was
taken to the lobby of the building. They instructed me to “absolutely
shut up” and “not create any scene,” because people from the other
apartments were now watching what was happening.
I went blank. “Whatever is going to happen to me is going to happen
anyway,” I told myself. When I was coming out of my house I hugged
Shuchi and Tiyash and whispered, “If I don’t come back, then you
must know that I love you. And tell Tiyash that his father died for a
cause.” Shuchi told me, “You just go. I must start calling up people.”
Since we feared something like this might happen, Shuchi had a list of
people—friends, colleagues, diplomats and organizations—to contact
immediately. Tiyash was watching as if he knew something very wrong
was taking place before his eyes: some strangers were taking his
father away.
I was pushed into a luxurious SUV that was waiting outside the gate. I
was sitting in the middle of the backseat with one person on each
side. They blindfolded me with two pieces of black cloth. I was
handcuffed with metal chain handcuffs. The car started driving. As I
knew the road very well, I could figure out that I was being taken to
Dhaka cantonment, home to the headquarters of the army, navy and
air force.
They stopped driving. I think we were at a checkpoint or at the
entrance to Dhaka cantonment. The guy sitting on my left opened his
door and I could hear foot thumping salutes. The car then drove for
five to 10 minutes and stopped. At that point, I heard someone hand a
piece of paper to someone and say, “These are his allegation papers.”

They took me out of the car. I could feel that I was walking on grass,
then on a cement floor and then there was a stair, where I stumbled.
The guy who was holding my arm said, “Sorry, sorry, be careful,” and
guided me inside. I was taken to a room and made to sit down on a
wooden bench without any back. All the while I remained handcuffed
with my hands in front. I was told to keep my hands down.
There was a table in front of me. Someone came in and started asking
me for my name, address, profession, father’s name, etc. I could hear
someone taking pictures. Then I was taken to another room, where I
was made to lie down on a bed, where a doctor took my blood
pressure, pulse, temperature and checked my breathing. He also
inquired about my physical disabilities and aliments. I told him about
asthma and low blood pressure. Then they took me back to the first
room and made me sit on the wooden bench again, still handcuffed
and blindfolded.
A voice suddenly yelled, “Son of a bitch! Where is salam?” I then said,
“Salam-alekum,” which in Arabic means “peace be upon you.” The
man screamed, “Louder!” I cried out “salam” once again. He then told
me to stand up straight and cry out louder still, which I did. Then he
told me to sit down and not to raise my hands off the table at any
point. Then another voice asked me why I was there. To which I
answered, “I have no idea.” Then he asked me my name. I gave it and
then a third voice said, “Khalil Shaheb [Mr. Khalil]. What do you do?” I
told them that I worked for The Daily Star and CNN. The second voice
then asked me what stories I reported on for CNN. I said whenever
something major happened in Bangladesh that was newsworthy for an
international news network like CNN, I reported it. Then another voice
asked me to give examples of my recent reports. I could not remember
anything at that moment. And then the second voice said, “Baanchot
[an abusive word], you have only reported on negative things. And you
have fucked Bangladesh by your bloody anti-state reports. Whatever
you have reported for CNN in all these years is all negative news. You
shit on the same plate you eat, you are a traitor. You work for a foreign
agency, and damage Bangladesh’s image outside.”
Someone started punching the side and back of my head. I started
crying out in pain. Then someone cried out an order, “Bring in salt and
nails!”
At one point they asked me why I did not go to DGFI headquarters
when they called me on May 2 [2007]. I told them that my editor,
Mahfuz Anam, strictly instructed me not to meet any DGFI officials as
he had a prior understanding with the agency that no journalist at The
Daily Star would be contacted directly without his consent and
knowledge. I myself never wanted to go to DGFI headquarters, which
was notorious for being a torture center. DGFI had been calling many
journalists at that time in for meetings to tell them what not to report
and to be patriotic, or else.
They asked me what things I had reported for The Daily Star. I said I
had reported on human rights issues: the persecution of Ahmaddiyas,
a heterodox Muslim sect that fundamentalists had been attacking with
at least semi-official backing; RAB and extrajudicial killings;
indigenous and minority rights; and other violations. Then they asked
me whether RAB had done anything wrong by killing criminals like
Picchi Hanan, a notorious gangster. I wanted to say that it is wrong to
kill anyone in cold blood and that they should have arrested him and
put him on trial, but I did not say anything. Suddenly people on both
sides of me started brutally beating me with batons on the lower back,
just below and next to my kidneys. The pain was excruciating.
In that instant I assessed my situation. I could be a tough guy and get
more of this, or I could cooperate. I quickly decided that it was time to
cooperate with these people and do my best to dodge more beatings.
I said I was sorry for whatever I had done.

But at that moment another guy shouted, “How dare you bastard write
these things against the son of the ex-prime minister?” Apparently
turning to whoever was in charge, he said, “Sir, you see what he
wrote?” This was a reference to a story I did for Forum magazine on
Tarique Rahman, the son of the Bangladesh Nationalist Party leader
Khaleda Zia and the power behind the throne. Tarique was arrested on
March 8, 2007, by the interim government, but as a political
conservative and strongman he retained great loyalty among many
members of the security services. My article was about DGFI’s ties with
Islamic militancy in Bangladesh. Another guy said, “Fuck Tarique Zia.28
This bastard has written against the patriotic armed forces and its
intelligence agencies. He shits on the plate he eats from. He is a traitor
and a threat to national security.” They asked who my source in DGFI
was. To avoid disclosing my source I said I did not have any source in
DGFI and whatever I wrote was made up. I said I was repentant for
doing this. Throughout this whole conversation I continued to receive
beatings.
Then they asked me about my connections with Human Rights Watch. I
told them I worked as their consultant. When they inquired further, I
told them I had worked with Human Rights Watch since 2006. I worked
with Human Rights Watch on a report about extrajudicial killings by
RAB. That suddenly infuriated them so much that all of them started
hitting the table with hands and sticks and started shouting at me,
saying that RAB executed Picchi Hannan. “How dare you write against
our brothers in RAB? You are a burden on society. You are an immoral,
unethical insect, an anti-state criminal. We will hand you over to RAB.”
Someone came around the table and started punching me on my head again.

They stopped for a little bit and then asked about my background,
about my education and family. They asked me how old I was. I told
them I was 26. They asked me the same question again and again.
They were not impressed by my family background.
They called me “a rootless asshole.… That’s why you don’t love your
country. Did you come from India by any chance?” When I told them I
studied English linguistics at North South University in Dhaka, they did
not understand what linguistics was. I tried translating it to Bengali
and they started making fun of me, mocking me, saying that I had not
even studied journalism and yet thought myself “a big champion of
journalism and human rights.”
Then they asked me how many times I had been to India. I told them I
went there twice. The first time was years back on a personal visit. The
second was in 2005 or 2006 on a business trip as I was working as the
public relations coordinator for an advertising agency that represents
the Tata company in Bangladesh. One guy said, “You have been under
surveillance for four to five years. We had to send our guys after you to
India.” There is a deep vein of fear and paranoia about India, based of
course on some reality, among many in Bangladesh. Accusing or even
implying that someone is spying for India is a very serious allegation.
I was then questioned about my job with the advertising agency.
Then they asked me about the apartment where I had lived in Uttara
about two years earlier. They also asked me about another house I
used to share with my friends during my university time. Another
person, whose voice was very familiar to me but, as hard as I tried, I
just could not identify, said I was “a bastard.” He said I smoked too
much, even though I had asthma and after smoking had to take puffs
from my inhaler. I was surprised because this is a piece of information
that only people near and close to me knew. They asked me about my
apartment. I told them I did not have any property whatsoever in
Dhaka and all the properties have been rented.
They clearly had done their homework. In retrospect I don’t think they
followed me to India. I doubt that they can do this very often, and I just
wasn’t important enough then to be followed there. And they probably
picked up the stuff about me using my inhaler in the days before I was
arrested. But with all the information they were throwing at me about
my personal life, I certainly believed them at the time. It was unnerving
and frightening.
They asked me about my bank account. I said I had one at IFIC bank,
with a balance of 1,000 taka [US$15]. I told them I received 25,000
taka a month from The Daily Star and that I did not get any regular
income from Human Rights Watch, CNN and other freelance jobs. They
asked me how much the international embassies pay me, suggesting I
was a spy. I told them, “If I was paid by embassies, then I wouldn’t be
struggling to pay my bills!”
The interrogation soon became much more aggressive. They asked me
about my contacts among the international community in Dhaka. I told
them I knew people from the US embassy through Human Rights
Watch and CNN. I know people from the Indian, Australian, Canadian,
and British embassies through personal and professional contacts.
They asked me “Do you think that they [the diplomats] are going to
come and rescue you? You met them, and passed on secret
information that is threatening national security.” They didn’t tell me
what secret information I had. What I knew came from my work as a
journalist and human rights researcher. But it did show that the
security forces were involved in killings, torture, “disappearances,”
and illegal arrests. They certainly did not want this publicized. They
were furious that I had reported these things. They asked me when I
last met these diplomats (The diplomats had wanted to know details
about the intimidating and somewhat sinister phone calls I had
received from the RAB intelligence wing. I had therefore met them over
lunch at a popular restaurant in Dhaka’s Gulshan area.).
They also asked about the story I wrote for the magazine Forum. In that
story, titled “Prince of Bogra,” I exposed how Tarique Rahman was
sponsoring militant groups and how DGFI creates and harbors Islamic
militant organizations in Bangladesh. Based on video evidence and
my interview with one of the top leaders of the International Khatme
Nabuwat Movement (IKNM)—a radical group that campaigned against
the Ahmaddiya sect—I reported that the DGFI was directly sponsoring
IKNM. The report also explored allegations that the DGFI and National
Security Intelligence were actively supporting Jamaatul Mujahedden
Bangladesh (JMB) and Jagrata Muslim Janata Bangladesh (JMJB),
organizations that had been responsible for bomb attacks and
assassinations around the country. The United States and other
governments had spoken out against the repression of Ahmaddiyas
and were quite worried about the growth of radical Islamic groups, so
this was very sensitive for the security agencies.
The Forum article made my interrogators furious. They started beating
me again mercilessly, from all possible directions with hands and
batons and kicks. I pleaded with them to give me one last chance. I
said I would not do those things again. But one person said I had
already “made the blunder.” I think this was a reference to my lunch
with the diplomats.
I started begging for mercy. The beating continued for some time. Then
another person said, “We will think about giving you a chance, but you
have to do as we say.” He said I had to write a confession to the AIG
[Additional Inspector General] of police, saying what they wanted me
to say. Then I had to beg for his mercy.
They dictated some points I should include, such as admitting that I
was engaged in anti-state, anti-military, anti-RAB activity, and that I
smuggled out sensitive national security information to foreign
organizations. That I kept close ties with the opposition Awami League
party (I am friends with many in the Awami League and other political
parties but I was not a member and was not involved in party politics).
That I was engaged in propaganda against the current interim
government. That I wanted to destabilize Bangladesh, that I was
immoral and unethical, a yellow journalist. That whatever I wrote, I
wrote for name and fame and money.
There was other stuff but I cannot remember what it was. They
instructed some junior level staff to give me a pen and paper and take
my statement after they had left. They also instructed them not to
allow me to go to the toilet or eat anything.
After they left, a security guard came in and took off my blindfold. He
was wearing a khaki uniform with bullet pouches. His insignia I could
not recognize, but it comprised three monograms together: army,
navy, and air force. On his green beret there was a triangular red
figure. I later found out that this is the DGFI monogram.

Then two people came into the room in plainclothes. One was such a
familiar face – maybe he worked as a security guard at the apartment
complex where I live, or maybe as a cab driver or rickshaw driver, but I
am sure I had seen that face 100 times in my life. Even his body
language indicated that he feared that I might recognize him. But I
could not connect it. They were carrying a file, a form, and sheets of
paper. The second guy sat down and instructed the first one to fill out
the form. I was asked my name, my father’s name, family history,
address, about my property, educational background, siblings, inlaws,
wife, child, and other stuff.
While they were filling out the form I stole a glance at the form and the
folder. I saw that both had a “Very Confidential/Top Secret” label and,
in Bengali, “Directorate General of Forces Intelligence” was written on
them. Though I had surmised it before, this was the first time that I
confirmed that I was in the custody of DGFI.
With my blindfold off I could finally see where I was. The room I was in
was a torture cell. It was a small room with no windows, one doorway
with a wooden door, and a second grill like in a prison. The room was
soundproofed with a wooden wall covered with small holes, like in an
old recording studio. There were two CCTV cameras in the corners
attached to the ceiling. There was a fan. I was sitting in front of a table
and three batons were on the table along with some stationery. One
was a wooden baton, about a meter long. The other two were covered
with black plastic. Poking out of the end of these two were metal wires
which appeared to fill the plastic covers. The plastic and wire batons
were a little shorter than the wooden one. I assume these were the
batons they tortured me with. When one guy saw that I was looking at
them, he put them aside. I’m not sure if they used electricity on me.
The pain often came like shocks, but they were hitting me so hard that
I’m not sure whether it was just the force that hurt like this or if it was
electricity.
Then I glanced behind me and I saw what looked like a metal bed
frame. It was the same size as a normal single bed, but it was placed
on a platform with steps up to it. The bed had straps fitted at the top
and bottom, presumably for tying people onto it. There was a wheel to
change the angle of the bed to lift it up or down. There were spikes at
the top of the bed. Right beside that there were ropes fitted to the
ceilings with rubber loops for wrists to go through.
Before I started writing my statement as instructed, I wanted to go to
the toilet. They agreed and called in a guard, who took off my
handcuffs and blindfolded me again. Holding me by my arms, he
guided me through a series of corridors. In the corridor I could hear
people crying from different directions and screaming in pain. This
guard was very kind to me. He seemed to feel sorry for me. He kept the
blindfold loose and I could glance out by the side of my nose. On my
way back I saw what appeared to be prison cells. I saw someone
apparently saying prayers inside one of the cells.
I was taken back to the torture cell, where I sat down and started
writing a confession as instructed. I wrote one to 20 points. I do not
exactly remember what I wrote, but it was along the lines they had
instructed. I deliberately did not sign it or address it to anyone. I do
not know if that undermined the confession, I just did it.
When I had finished writing I guess it was around 7 in the morning. I
had totally lost track of time and they would not have told me even if I
asked. I tried chatting with my minders. In the beginning they were not
that eager to talk but at some point one guy started asking me
questions about politics in Sylhet, a major city in northeastern
Bangladesh where I grew up. I did not know much about politics in
Sylhet anymore, but just to pass the time I started giving him cooked
up, bogus information. Two guys were apparently very satisfied with
their questioning skills and took notes religiously. As they went
through my file, I tried convincing them to tell me what the charges
were against me. At one point one guy told me, “You have been
charged as a foreign spy.” When I asked him for which agency I
supposedly worked, he got confused and kept mum. They stopped
talking.
At one point my blood pressure shot down and I was having heartburn.
I started moaning in pain and immediately they brought in a doctor.
The doctor came in and took my blood pressure and pulse, and they
gave me my inhaler back. I was given oral saline. I took two puffs from
the inhaler. I was given biscuits to eat. I felt a little better, but after a
few minutes I again started feeling bad. I felt like I was dying.
They then blindfolded me again and took me to another room where
they took off my blindfold. It was like a prison cell, with a big window
through which I could see buildings outside. It was an empty room
with a fan and a mattress on the floor. They instructed me to lie down
on the mattress and one person brought in two pieces of paratha
[flatbread] and vegetables. I asked the person whether the vegetable
contained papaya. He said yes. I am allergic to papaya, so didn’t eat
the vegetable and just ate one paratha. Then the doctor came in and
saw that my breakfast was half eaten. I told him I am extremely allergic
to papaya so I could not eat it. He gave me two biscuits and a cup of
tea and asked me to sleep for two or three hours. He said no one
would disturb me. He gave me a tablet, which I took.
I slept for a little while, then they woke me up and said someone else
was coming into the cell, so I had to move. I said I wanted to go to the
toilet. They took me to the toilet blindfolded. Near the toilet there was
a closed iron gate. I could see vehicles through the gate in front of the
next building. These were probably Bangladesh navy staff buses,
which can be easily recognised from their navy blue and light blue
colors. DGFI headquarters is right behind the navy’s Haji Mohsin
Camp...

পুরোটা এই লিংকে

লেখাটির বিষয়বস্তু(ট্যাগ/কি-ওয়ার্ড): তাসনিম খলিল ;

• ২৫ টি মন্তব্য
• ৪২২ বার পঠিত,

রেটিং দিতে লগ ইন করুন

পোস্টটি ৮ জনের ভাল লেগেছে, ২ জনের ভাল লাগেনি

১. ২৬ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ রাত ৮:৫০

নেমেসিস বলেছেন: কদিন আগে কে যেন একবার পোস্ট দিয়েছিলো । যাই হোক উত্তরপাড়ার এহেন আচরনের নিন্দা যানানোর ভাষা নেই । কবে যে মুক্ত হবে এ দেশ ।

২. ২৬ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ রাত ৮:৫৭

তারিক টুকু বলেছেন: এটা আগে পোস্ট হয়েছিলো, সেটা আমি জানতাম না।

৩. ২৬ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ রাত ৯:১৬

নেমেসিস বলেছেন: অসুবিধে নেই । কেননা অনেকেই হয়তো না দেখে থাকতে পারেন । এসব তথ্য তো বারবারই সবাইকে জানানো উচিৎ ।

৪. ২৬ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ রাত ৯:২৯

মাহমুদুল হাসান রুবেল বলেছেন: অনুবাদ করে দিলে আরো ভাল হতো ।

৫. ২৬ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ রাত ১১:৩১

মৃদুল মাহবুব বলেছেন: হারে আমরা এইখানে বাস করি! ভাষা নাই কিছু লেখার।

৬. ২৬ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ রাত ১১:৩৭

নেমেসিস বলেছেন: তাসনিম খলিলকে নিয়ে বিপ্লব রহমানের একটি পোস্ট Click This Link

৭. ২৭ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ রাত ১:০৮

মামু বলেছেন: এইটা কি তাসনিমের পুটকির চবি?

কুবই দুক্ষ জনাক......

এই ধরনের টর্চারের জন্য ঘৃনা রইল...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

এই ধরনের টর্চার কিচু হলুদ সাংবাদিকের উপর করলে খুশি হইতাম...

৮. ২৭ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ রাত ১:৩০

তারিক টুকু বলেছেন: কি কমু মামু, আপনে যা ভাবছেন তাই।

আমাগো জওয়ানগো বীরত্ব।

৯. ২৭ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ সকাল ১০:২৬

ইলা বলেছেন: সবটুকু পড়ে শেষ করতে পারলাম না এখন। হাতে অনেক কাজ।

১০. ২৭ শে ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০০৮ দুপুর ২:০৮

আউটসাইডার বলেছেন: তাসনিম এ সুইডেনে রাজনৈতিক আশ্র‌য় পাইছে। কোনদিন হ্যায় দেশে আয়া বড় বুদ্ধিজীবী হইবেক। অথবা বিদেশে বইয়া আগাচৌ এর মত কলাম লিকবেন। আর আমরা পুটকি চুলকাইতে চুলকাইতে হের লেহা পড়মু আর কমু আহা দেশের কি অবস্হা!!! পেপার পইরা ছোট্ট বাজারের ব্যাগ আর একটা নোট নিয়া বাজারে যামু তাসনিমের লেহার কথা ভাবতে ভাবতে আর যহন বাজার থেকে অল্প ওজনের ব্যাগ নিয়া বিষন্ন মুখে বাড়ি ফিরমু তহন তাসনিমরে ভুইলা যামু।
আহা এমন মাইর যদি আমিও খাইতাম!!!

১১. ০৪ ঠা মার্চ, ২০০৮ রাত ১০:৪১

সফেদ ফরাজী...... বলেছেন: পোস্টটি অবশ্যই জনগুরুত্বপূর্ণ ও মানবিক দৃষ্টি দাবি রাখে। এ পোস্টটি থেকে বুঝা যায়, কী রকম সভ্য (!) দেশে, কী রকমভাবে বেঁচে আছি আমরা।
কি আর বলা যায়, অসভ্য শাসনযন্ত্রের নিচে!

টুকু, ধন্যবাদ।

১২. ২২ শে মে, ২০০৮ সন্ধ্যা ৬:৩২

শেহাব বলেছেন: ৫

১৩. ৩১ শে অক্টোবর, ২০০৮ রাত ১০:১৪

নাজনীন খলিল বলেছেন:
অনেক অনেক ধন্যবাদ তারিক টুকু আপনাকে ।অনেক দেরীতে আমি লেখাটি পড়লাম।আপনি যে এই লেখাটি লিখেছেন আমি মাত্র আজকেই জানতে পারি।তাসনীম খলিল আমার ছেলে।

১৪. ৩১ শে অক্টোবর, ২০০৮ রাত ১১:২৫

খোমেনী ইহসান বলেছেন: এই বর্বরতাকে ঘৃনা করে কী লাভ? যদি আমরা এ ঘটনার বিচার নিশ্চিত করে দোষীদের শাস্তির ব্যবস্থা না করতে পারি।।


আমরা এ ঘটনার বিচার চাই।
আসুন সবাই এ বিচারকে নিশ্চিত করি।-