বাংলাদেশের স্বাধীনতা যুদ্ধ দলিলপত্রঃ ত্রয়োদশ খণ্ড
after the floods.
At that time many of the survivors were clamoring and fighting over supplies that would not have ranked as bargains at a suburban jumble sale. Some relief workers found themselves in the ridiculous position of having to fend off the very people they had come to help. It was a miserable experience for them but emphasized the difference between long term, professional relief work and the massive emotional response the disaster touched off through the world.
There was a lot that was wrong with that first effort. But it saved lives, reduced suffering and brought hope to hundreds of thousands who had been left with only hunger.
There is still room for individual effort. But the scale of the tragedy needs government help. Not faceless bureaucrats distributing public funds but nations offering surplus wealth to prevent a tragedy.
The cost per head amongst the developed countries would be quite small. As one relief worker said to me when we were in the disaster area “Lives are cheap here-you can save them for a few shillings a week".
It hardly seems worth the trouble of not bothering to help.
ROLF RANGE, NORWEGIAN CHURCH RELIEF
We were a group of Norwegians visiting Cooch Behar in the northern part of India to get an impression of the refugee situation. One TV reporter, two cameramen and I, previously a journalist, at present Information Officer in Norwegian Church Relief. Our first impression: too much propaganda. We did not see many refugees, and as a journalist, I did not have confidence in the newspapers available. To me it appeared as pure propaganda all these stories about burning villages, massacres and raping.
When we told people about our opinion they replied: Wait, you will see things yourself at the boundary!
An early morning in May we approached the border to East Pakistan. The sun had just risen, the dew drops were glittering and the landscape was idyllic. Vast green rice fields and small cluttering of palms. After a half hour of waiting we saw people coming up the road.
They were refugees—an endless stream of people. We counted five hundred oxcarts and on both sides of the vehicles walked people. Seven or eight men abreast. Young and old. They started to walk faster, raised their hands and started to yell. They appeared to be very eager to tell us of their plight.
The people up in front started running toward us, yelling and pointing in the direction from where they had come. None of us spoke Bengali, but it was not difficult to understand. The village which they had been forced to leave was burning. An old white haired man lifted his hands towards heaven and cried out his grief. With gestures he told us that all his
