The Pitiful War Against A Colossus: Bangabandhu And The Smallness Of His Detractors

“The little men and little women go on waging war on Bangabandhu, history’s colossus. They keep losing, yet they feel no shame. A pity!” – Veteran journalist Syed Badrul Ahsan

These words capture, in a single breath, the paradox of Bangladesh’s political landscape today: a ceaseless, pitiful struggle by petty minds against the towering figure of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the Father of the Nation. Nearly half a century after his assassination, the pygmies of history still try to drag his name through the dust. Yet their stones fall short, their venom loses its sting, and their campaigns collapse under the weight of truth. What remains is not their triumph, but their disgrace—a spectacle that evokes both sorrow and contempt.

A Colossus in History

The word colossus is not hyperbole when applied to Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. He was no ordinary statesman but the embodiment of a people’s centuries-old yearning for dignity and freedom. In 1971, at the helm of a nation-in-waiting, Bangabandhu stood unbending against one of the most brutal Pakistani military regimes of the 20th century. His call for independence galvanized millions. His voice, resonant with both fire and compassion, became the anthem of a new nation.

The Liberation War of 1971 was not just a military victory but a moral one. Three million martyrs gave their lives, and hundreds of thousands of women bore unspeakable violation, so that a sovereign Bangladesh might be born. At its heart was Mujib, the visionary who turned the dream of emancipation into political destiny.

And yet—like all towering figures—he has remained a target of envy, hatred, and distortion. Those who lack greatness seek to chip away at it. The colossus does not fall, but the chiselers expose their own pettiness.

The Pygmies of History

Who are these “little men and little women”? They are not merely individuals, but a type—petty politicians, opportunists, revisionists, and power brokers. They include those who once collaborated with the direful Pakistani occupation army, those who profited from genocide, and those who continue to peddle the poison of communal politics.

They have inherited the shamelessness of the Razakars and Al-Badr brigades, who butchered intellectuals, torched villages, and attempted to erase an entire people’s identity. Today, their ideological descendants mask themselves in suits and ties, in academic gowns and judicial robes, in the false sanctimony of political neutrality. Yet their aim is the same: to diminish Mujib, to weaken the spirit of 1971, and to replace truth with lies.

They attack his leadership. They belittle his achievements. They seek to fracture his legacy by painting him as a mere politician rather than the nation’s founding father. They rewrite textbooks, distort facts, and spread propaganda through digital misinformation. In their shrill voices, one hears not conviction but resentment—the resentment of the small toward the great.

The Futility of Their War

And yet, what do they achieve? Nothing. Time and again, their attacks collapse under scrutiny.

When they deny Mujib’s leadership, history answers with the 7th March Speech of 1971, recognized by UNESCO as part of the world’s documentary heritage. When they dismiss his statesmanship, history recalls his solitary defiance in the face of Pakistani Gen Yahya Khan and Pakistani politician Bhutto’s treachery. When they smear his name, history remembers the millions who called him Bangabandhu—Friend of Bengal.

Their attempts to erase him only magnify him. For every falsehood they circulate, ten truths rise in response. For every insult they hurl, a generation of Bangladesh’s people recalls the debt owed to the man who delivered their independence.

It is, therefore, a war of ants against a mountain. The mountain remains immovable; the ants scatter, humiliated. And yet, they do not cease. They feel no shame.

Why They Persist

Why do the small persist in their pitiful war? Because their politics cannot survive in the shadow of greatness. Mujib’s legacy is a mirror in which their deformities are exposed. His vision of a secular, democratic, inclusive Bangladesh stands in stark contrast to their politics of division, hatred, and opportunism.

To acknowledge Mujib is to confront their own irrelevance. To honor 1971 is to admit their betrayal. To celebrate his vision is to confess their smallness. And so, rather than bow before truth, they wage a futile war against it.

This shamelessness is not new. The assassins of August 15, 1975 believed that by murdering Mujib and his family, they could kill the idea of Bangladesh itself. They failed. The idea lived on. The people kept his memory alive in whispers, in poems, in clandestine celebrations of his birthday. When history turned, Mujib returned—not in body, but in spirit, embodied in the democratic awakening of the people.

The Pity of It All

And here lies the pity. The tragedy is not that Mujib is maligned—no colossus escapes the envy of the small. The tragedy is that these petty wars waste the nation’s time, energy, and moral resources. Instead of building on Mujib’s vision—an inclusive democracy, economic self-reliance, and social justice—the pygmies drag the country into endless cycles of distortion and division.

Every insult to Bangabandhu is, in truth, an insult to Bangladesh itself. Every denial of his greatness is a denial of the sacrifices of 1971. Every shameless attack is not just pitiful—it is dangerous, for it corrodes the moral fabric of the nation.

The Call of History

Bangladesh today stands at a crossroads. On one side lies Mujib’s dream: a self-confident, prosperous, and humane nation, true to the values of liberation. On the other lies the nightmare of the pygmies: a nation reduced to squabbling, betrayal, and servitude to foreign powers.

History is clear in its verdict. Greatness cannot be erased by smallness. A colossus cannot be toppled by pygmies. But vigilance is necessary. Truth must be defended. Justice must be upheld. The distorters must be confronted—not merely for Mujib’s sake, but for the integrity of Bangladesh itself.

Terminus Point: The Immortality of Greatness

In the end, the ceaseless war against Bangabandhu reveals less about him than about his detractors. He emerges untarnished, his stature unshaken. They, meanwhile, stand exposed as petty, shameless, and pitiable.

As the British historian Lord Acton once observed, “Great men are almost always bad men”—but Sheikh Mujibur Rahman proved the exception. He was great because he was good, because he embodied his people’s struggles and sacrifices. His name, etched in the blood of martyrs, cannot be erased by slander.

Let the little men and women continue their war. Let them hurl their stones. The colossus of history remains unmoved, towering above their smallness. They lose, they will keep losing, and their shamelessness will remain their lasting epitaph.

And we, the inheritors of 1971, must refuse to be dragged into their pettiness. We must rise to Mujib’s vision. For to honor him is not merely to defend his legacy—it is to defend the very soul of Bangladesh.

Anwar A. Khan

Anwar A. Khan, a direct witness of the brutal birth of Bangladesh from the direful Pakistani military regime from a very close proximity in 1971 and a frontline Freedom Fighter of the 1971 war field to establish Bangladesh.

×