After watching The Pianist, I still feel as though I’m trapped in a daze, wandering through a fog of time. While we may have some idea of how war can devastate a nation, The Pianist has plunged me into a deeper abyss of thought. The film vividly portrays the grim reality of the war between Poland and Germany from 1939 to 1945, with Adrien Brody pouring his heart and soul into his role.

When Władysław Szpilman hides in a confined flat, armed soldiers move about just beyond the window. From his room, he watches their relentless activity, and every few days, a friend sneaks in to leave him a morsel of food. The entire country lies in ruins, food prices soaring beyond reach. Szpilman has nothing left to sell, nothing with which to buy even the smallest amount of sustenance. In a desperate act, he removes his wristwatch, handing it to his friend in hopes it will fetch some food. As he does, he says, “Food is more important than time.”

Sometimes, food and life itself become far more precious than time.

The Pianist is one of the most significant films I’ve seen. Perhaps, for anyone seeking to understand the agony of partition and the cries of war-torn souls, this film is a must-watch.

Amidst this rainy evening, I recall that team of the energetic and dynamic boys who had embarked on the journey to the far flung mountainous region, without informing their parents. They might have been trained and nurtured under the supervision of some religious organization. Having crossed many villages, valleys, twisting paths among the hills, they had set up a secret dwelling in that remote area. After completing the daily chore, in the quiet calm afternoon, they would practise with AK 47, short gun, Kalashnikov etc, they would get training and learn different war tactics. I was stationed in that hilly training camp as one of the member of the team which comprised of ten persons. Disguising ourselves as common rural people, we would work as peasants in the field and then would roam in the bazaar. While going around people and doing the grocery, we would collect different important information. Doing the grocery we had to return to the mountain to do the vigorous training once again. we were taught how many parts a bullet contains, how to hold the short gun with both the hands tightly, the weight of the AK47, how much pressure is to be exerted on arms while shooting etc. The training for aiming at began with a toy gun, then it went on to Martial Art, push ups, running all the fighting skills.

After the midnight suddenly the siren would go off, to test our presence of mind alertness and preparation for the fighting, the sooner you are awake and take position for the fighting the more marks you would get. The weird thing for me was we could not see the face of our trainer as he always wore a mask over his face. For three months this vigorous training went on under different trainer as we could differentiate them from their voice.

After a period I was upset and depressed, I started missing my family and home, was uncertain how long we would have to stay there as we had not informed our parents about our departure. I kept missing my parents thinking about their misery, how frantically they would be searching me everywhere.The friend who convinced me and brought me here was nowhere to be found since that day.

My other team mates would pray to Jesus Christ however in the daytime the would discuss the Qur'an and Hadith all the time,

One dark night I was awake and heard them speaking quietly and I came to know they all belonged to Christian missionary and they are getting prepared to go into a conflict with Islam, they had a far reaching objectives, I also came to know that I had been sold out by the same very friend who brought me here. Many other young boys were trapped and brought to that particular camp by different fraudulent.

Knowing all this about their treacherous behavior and my so called friend's infidelity I was upset. worried and fearful of future I started planning to run away from the camp.

In the evening all the boys would go to the bazaar, so that particular day. acting as if I were sick I stayed back in the camp, and once I was alone, in the twilight of the evening. I slipped out of the camp quietly and crossing many high and low hills, valleys, jungle and forest I was able to get out of their sight. Having reached home, I narrated the entire story to my parents, learning this they suggested to report it to the police, but I requested them not to do this as it would land me in further trouble.

Now I focused on my studies and I was progressing well, one day while going through the newspaper one heading caught my attention, this piece of news was about the same group who abducted me, the news was that group of some fundamental Christian Missionary was captured and held by the armed forces stationed at the border, now the law will take its course.

After a long day's journey, by road and sea, the weight of the world seemed to wrap itself around us like a heavy cloak. Reluctantly, we had come here—though the sight of the setting sun on the vast horizon of the afternoon lagoon stirred a quiet pride in my heart. Our ship, after much effort, brushed against a green island, and suddenly, the thirst in my parched throat was quenched. What a strange and enchanting green island it was! Soon, we were told to board a small red boat, just a few yards from the sea, as the ship was too fragile to take us to the shore. We huddled together, nearly a hundred of us, on that little red boat. The day’s end reflected in the gentle smiles of those waiting, like the final glow of sunset spreading across the sea's horizon. As we disembarked, we were informed that we would need to cross a long bridge to reach the main road, where vehicles would await us. Yet, despite this, the frustration I had harbored towards Fazal and Fahim still lingered. We had left Dhaka bound for Cox's Bazar, but plans had shifted, and now we were in Sandwip. My opinions had been dismissed, and thus we had taken this detour. After a grueling, dust-covered journey on broken roads, we finally reached Kumiraghat, where I could, at last, breathe a sigh of relief.

2.

We were guests of Aziz Bhai—our classmate from the first and second year at Darul In'am. Life had taken a turn for him, and now he was teaching orphaned children in a secluded Noorani Madrasah, hidden away in Kalapaniya Union, Sandwip. He had sent a biker to fetch us. Bikes, as we learned, were one of the primary modes of transport on this island of three hundred thousand people. We piled onto the bike, and as the sun descended in the west, it greeted us with a warm and forgiving light. The island, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, was slowly lighting up house by house with solar power. It was as though this island, with its indescribable charm, had washed away all the anger in my heart. Quietly, I thanked Fazal and Fahim.

3.

As the Maghrib call to prayer echoed across the island, we arrived at Sandwip Mahila Madrasah. A massive three-story building, painted white, stood before us, surrounded by a vast field of lush green grass. I stood at the field’s edge and called out to Aziz Bhai. Within minutes, a figure emerged—thin and worn, with shoulder-length curly hair like a lion’s mane. It was Aziz Bhai. I embraced him, overwhelmed by the years that had passed since we last met. Time had weathered him, his once youthful face now bearing the marks of life’s storms. Circumstances had drawn him away from his family and education, bringing him to this remote island in the Bay of Bengal, where he now dedicated himself to teaching the faith to young children.

4.

The madrasah was a humble, tin-roofed structure with four modest rooms. Beside it stood an unfinished mosque, half-built and abandoned, while a small lake shimmered in the distance, the moonlight gently kissing its waters. Inside, young children recited 'Surah Waqiah' in unison, their voices rising together in the stillness of the night. Having left behind the bustling chaos of Dhaka, I found it hard to believe we were now on this quiet, faraway island. After performing ablution for the Maghrib prayer by the lakeside, Fahim led the prayer, and our discussions carried on until Esha. Later, we headed to the local market mosque for the Esha prayer. The people of Chittagong, known for their generosity and strength, now revealed their immense hospitality. After the prayer, Aziz Bhai introduced us to a few familiar faces. One man, with a voice as strong as his heart, insisted we stay at his home and dine with him that very night. Though we gently declined, explaining our need for rest, he left us reluctantly, his heart heavy. This, I thought, is the true essence of human love—if only such affection filled every heart, the world would wrap itself in the warmth of brotherhood. How beautiful the world could be then.

5.

As we walked along the winding road, rows of tall betel nut trees stood on either side, their rustling leaves filling the air with a serene solitude. The quietness around us was profound, broken only by the soft jingle of distant sounds. The sky hung low, and though the moon was absent, the stars sparkled brightly above. A gentle breeze brushed against us, carrying with it a sense of wonder. I still couldn’t shake the feeling of being in a dream. Here we were—on an island, encircled by the endless embrace of saltwater, a world unto itself.

We had arrived in Kalapaniya Union, home to nearly nineteen thousand souls. Nestled in the northwest corner of Sandwip Upazila, the union stood about 14 kilometers from the upazila center. To the north lay Santoshpur and Amanullah Unions, while the southern edge was cradled by Bauria Union, Sandwip Municipality, and Harishpur. And to the west, the endless Bay of Bengal stretched out beyond the horizon, its waters lapping gently at the island’s shores.