Bangladesh News

November 16, Mongla
The moon was a brightly shining crescent, hanging low on the horizon. The stars shone in their zillions on the other part of the sky, reflecting on the waters below. The extraordinarily smooth Khulna road was eerily empty and tidy.

Then the road took a sharp turn and the scene changed. The signs of devastation of the night before were now clear.

Sawed-off stumps of trees lay on the sides of the road like amputated limbs. Trees thick enough to need two men to stretch their arms and measure. Hundreds and thousands of them. Only minutes ago, we saw hay stacked neatly by the way, not a single stick was displaced. As if there had not been any wind blowing at 240km an hour in this part of the country.

In the silence of a countryside drowned in absolute darkness because of outage, the devastation left by cyclone Sidr looked grotesque. Even after it took us ages to cross the Padma with cars and buses forming long lines at the ferry terminal. And the speed with which the road was cleared for vehicles was also surprising. The armed forces and the people had swung into action and removed all obstacles for quick dispatch of relief.

All the roadside market places were empty, the bazaars that usually thrive until late evening looked deserted. Then we saw some figures in the car headlight. A few men and women, looking distressed and carrying small bags. They waved frantically at the approaching cars.

These people had evacuated the nearby coastal areas when the cyclone approached for a landfall. Some 24 hours later, they now wanted to return and they did not know what is left of their homes. The kitchen with neatly stacked pots–they must be hungry by now–the khats their strained bodies need so badly, the cattle in the shed they desperately need to find alive to see their lives through. They did not know if any of these bare necessities of life exist for them or they will have to begin life again.

A locally made diesel engine powered small lorry came and they all jumped onto it. The lorry chugged off into the darkness, into their uncertain future.

At Chila in Mongla, some of these coastal people had taken refuge in the cyclone shelters and tell of horrible tales.

Nothing is left of the village, they said. Nothing but probably some debris if the winds had not blown them away too.

Three fishermen had just landed there after their gruelling battle against waves and sea all the way from Dublar Char, about 110km from Mongla. Tired, they looked like awakening from a bad dream…nightmares exactly. And they talked about a land that “once existed”. They talked about bodies floating–11 they counted and brought one back with them. The figure only rose to 34 the next morning as coast guards said. The fishermen cried. But they did not know what they cried for–there are so many floating out there in the sea.

Close to Mongla port, the roads had not been cleared. There were no giant trees lying and dying. But the wide road was matted with fallen leaves. Our car made a strangely muffled noise as we passed. Tomorrow we will go to the sea with the navy–to the spots that bore the brunt of the cyclone first, to the people who are still mutilated and moaning, or those who are not mutilated but still are moaning what befell them. The muffled noise coming from the tyres seemed to be their sighs tonight.