When Garo freedom fighters took up arms against Pakistan

Right where Bangladesh meets India, the Garo Hills rise along the border. Some families live on the slopes, others in the small villages beneath. 

Aisong Sangma, 78, lived on one of those hills. Just beside his house stands a stone marker — the land beyond it is India. His brother-in-law, Anath Marak, 71, lived at the foot of that same hill.

In 1971, as violence spread across East Pakistan, the tension soon reached these border villages. Many of their relatives already lived on the Indian side.

When the Pakistani military established a camp in nearby Birishiri and reports of killings began to spread, the easiest choice would have been to cross the border and stay there.

And many families did exactly that. The border was close, and for communities like the Garos, the line between India and Bangladesh had always been porous. Relatives lived on both sides.

But Aisong Sangma and Anath Marak made a different decision. They initially moved to India as tensions escalated, but after a week there, they began to question that choice.

"Since we had already ended up in India, we knew we could not return home like this. Should we remain in India like cowards, hiding away?" Anath Marak said.

Initially, in early 1971, many believed the movement was about autonomy. But as violence erupted and news of killings spread, that understanding quickly changed.

"If we wanted to go back home, we had to free our home first," recalled Aisong Sangma, who later fought alongside him in the same platoon.

"From that moment, we considered ourselves people of Bangladesh. We thought — if we are going to die anyway, should we just sit and wait? If we have to die, then we should die fighting," Sangma added. 

At the time, small groups of young men from Garo villages began discussing what to do. The conversations happened quietly among themselves, without waiting for political leaders or outside organisers.

"We spoke among ourselves," Sangma said. "We asked — when others are fighting for Bangladesh, why can't we? Are we not part of this land too?"

Eventually several of them crossed into India again and joined youth camps where volunteers were being recruited for training.

One of the main centres for refugees and trainees in the region was Baghmara, directly across from Bijoypur, where camps operated with the support of Indian forces.

Around 28–29 Garo men eventually formed a platoon. Their company commander was Ejaz Chowdhury, while their platoon commander was a Garo fighter named Tarun Dhari.

"I was around 23 at the time. The blood in my veins boiled with anger when I saw all the killings," Sangma said. "We had very limited weapons, but we did our best with the resources we had. Sometimes bombs exploded nearby, but I survived. I had three close encounters with death during the war."

They fought under Sector 11, which bordered Meghalaya and played a strategic role in cross-border operations during the war.

As people of the hills, Garo fighters could navigate the terrain of Birishiri with ease — a critical advantage in combat operations. They carried out sabotage operations, targeting infrastructure and military positions, while also helping defend areas along the border. 

A different kind of struggle after the war 

After nine months of brutal war that cost the lives of many of Sangma and Marak's comrades', the long-awaited moment arrived — independence.

But for many of those who had fought, independence did not bring the stability they had imagined. Marak said the years that followed the war were among the hardest for the community.

After the 1965 India–Pakistan war, many refugees had crossed the border and settled in the area. The Garo community initially welcomed them and lived alongside them peacefully. But over time, Marak says, many began taking land from local families through deceptive practices.

"After the war, life was very difficult. The Bangalis showed little sympathy. Even after 1971, they often pressured us. If we tried to sell half a katha of land, they would take eight kathas instead, taking advantage of our illiteracy," Marak recalled.

"Because of hardship, we sold small portions of land, but in the end they took the entire property. People tricked us into selling our land very cheaply."

According to Marak, the Garo community also became politically marginalised in the years after independence.

Garos of Birishiri had little access to formal education or legal institutions in the years immediately after independence. That made them particularly vulnerable in disputes over land. What began as small transactions during times of hardship often ended with families losing far larger portions of their ancestral property.

"Sometimes we thought we were selling a small piece of land," Marak said. "Later we realised the entire plot had been transferred. We did not understand the paperwork, and people took advantage of that."

Over time, the effects of these losses reshaped many villages across the region. Land that had belonged to Garo families for generations gradually changed hands, often through documents they could not fully read or challenge.

Formal recognition as freedom fighters came nearly three decades after the war, in 1998. The government began providing a monthly allowance, which initially amounted to just three hundred taka — not enough to rely on. Before that, many of them returned quietly to their villages, resuming lives shaped by poverty and uncertainty. 

What began as a war of territory, dignity and survival is often remembered today through the lens of linguistic nationalism. While the Language Movement of 1952 helped shape the political consciousness that led to 1971, that framing does not fully account for the experiences of communities like the Garos.

For many of them, the war was not primarily about language. It was about protecting their land, their homes, and their right to remain on it. They fought alongside Bangali freedom fighters, despite differences in language and identity, driven by the same immediate reality of violence and displacement.

Yet in the dominant narratives of independence, those distinctions are often flattened. The story of 1971 becomes a singular story of Bangali nationalism, leaving little space for the histories of those who stood outside that identity, but fought for the same land.

Today, the stone marker still stands beside Sangma's house, marking the line between two countries. For him, it is a reminder of a time when crossing that line meant survival — and of why he chose not to.