When it comes to communalism and hate, we don’t have to look very far

 

In Bangladesh, we like to assume that everybody is Muslim.

Our hearts and minds are still in Christchurch. As a nation, we are horrified, riled up, concerned about our friends and relatives living abroad. We are also concerned about the future of Muslim minorities abroad — some 1-3% of the population of most countries of the West, countries that are supposedly a slice of paradise for anyone seeking help. 

It shocks us when a white terrorist puts up a manifesto with all the hate in the world condensed into 73 pages. We cry for the 50 lives (and counting) that were lost, we heave a sigh of relief as our cricketers narrowly escaped, traumatized and afraid. We are all traumatized and afraid. Why did we click on that livestream link? Why did we watch the horror that unfurled? How many of us could sleep at night?
However, we like to assume that everybody is Muslim in Bangladesh.

It bothered us very little (or not at all) when an idol of the Hindu goddess Kali was vandalized in Kushtia. Both Christchurch and Kushtia happened on the same day. Kali, with her tongue out and her foot pressed against her husband’s chest, cowers in shame. All her ornaments were taken off, on the same day Christchurch happened. The miscreants ran away after they vandalized her form. It must have hurt her, but of course, our minorities are the least of our worries.

It’s nice and comfy to be Muslim in Bangladesh, more so if you’re a man. During Ramadan, all restaurants are closed during the day. If I’m a female and menstruating, I can’t eat. If I believe in a different god, I still can’t eat.

If I don’t believe in god, however, I can’t live.

I get to have my head chopped off right outside of the Ekushey Boi Mela. Did my killers read my books, any books?

At our social gatherings, we take part in cozy coffee-table discussions. “You see,” says the elderly uncle, who may or may not sport a sunnati beard:

“The Hindus are taking over. They’re everywhere! Supreme court judges and BCS cadres, doctors and engineers, ‘government this and government that.’ So many Hindus! How come? They’re taking away all our jobs!”

Some auntie, who dyed her hair auburn recently, chimes in:

“Oh and look at how many girls are working! Don’t they have kids to raise? The shongshar is the most important, let me tell you. Give that job to a guy instead. At least he will support a family instead of buying lipstick.”

Somebody gets into a debate of who is indigenous and who is not. Someone plans a tour to Sajek, because, “they are infiltrating the mainland anyway, taking away all our jobs.” Doesn’t hurt to visit a tourist spot built on grabbed land.

Sounds a lot like The Great Replacement, doesn’t it?

We demand that the Westerners defend us. We share photos and videos that do away with Islamophobia, xenophobia, and what not. We urge them not to be silent, we urge them to challenge Aunt Molly when she complains about “those people” the next time.

Yet when our chauffeur calls another human being a Malaun, we stay silent and continue to scroll down on our phones.

Yet, when our valiant cricketers of other religions post about their Durga Puja celebrations, we don’t defend them against the fundamentalist internet trolls.

Yet, when all the Buddhist shrines and monasteries were brutally torn down, we kept mum and went on with our lives. Ramu who? Ramu what?

Our avatars change when we go abroad. People give us advice on blending in. I have been told to wear my hijab like a bandana, or cover my hair using hoodies. I have been told not to go near a mosque. I have been told to keep a “low profile” during my stay because that is not my country, Bangladesh is.

What about those unfortunate people, who have to keep that “low profile” in their own country, the land of their ancestors, all their lives, every minute of the day?

Before we cry tears of grief and remorse for Christchurch, let us first correct ourselves. Let us slam a fist down on those coffee-tables where The Great Replacement of a different kind is discussed. 

Let us explain calmly to our chauffeurs, our maids, our bosses, and to our friends why it is wrong to use ethno-racial slurs. When miscreants take away their temporary sense of security, let us send a cake over to our neighbours of a different religion.

Let us stand outside temples with placards that say: “We are with you,” like that responsible citizen in the UK, his plump smiling face speaking volumes.

More importantly, let us buy some eggs, and make good use of them for those who are in need of a protein treatment. I’ve heard that it nourishes your hair, makes it soft, silky and smooth. It also helps counter fascist ideals; from what I hear. 

Qazi Mustabeen Noor works at Arts & Letters, Dhaka Tribune.

Courtesy: Dhaka Tribune

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Our society continues to fail its women

A life destroyed BIGSTOCK

Can a woman call anyone or anything her own? And who is a woman supposed to trust? 

Recently, a video has been making the rounds of social media, yet there was hardly any mention of the “incident” in popular news outlets. In the video, an accomplished architect was looking the other way, facing some people who looked like news reporters and people pretending to care. Her “accusation” was deadly — her daughter, a mere child, had been raped by her own father — an ex-army officer. 

The irony lies in the last two words of the previous paragraph.

When a woman faces harassment on the streets, at the workplace, or at a social setting, we teach her to ignore it, or worse, to get used to it. As a woman living in Dhaka, I can say so from first-hand experience. Once, inside a lift, a social nuisance had passed a comment on me. I, of course, had gotten out of the lift immediately, and shouted back at the man when the lift had opened at another floor.

When I went home and decided to give the matter some thought, I realized that I had completely missed what the comment was. Luckily, two of my colleagues were with me in that situation, and they had confirmed that it was indeed an instance of catcalling. However, I had completely drowned it out, and had erased it from memory. This is the result of conditioning, of people telling women like me to forget, move on, and drown all kinds of “noise” out.

After all, I had been told, these are “random men on the streets that you’ll never see again,” so their actions shouldn’t count. Why waste our energy getting into feuds on the street, why bother teaching them a lesson? 

What if they are not strangers? What if you are supposed to call them your “own”? 

The architect and the ex-army officer had had a turbulent marriage anyway. Even after their divorce, the man would pay a visit and hit her, knock down doors, terrorize her. Even so, society believes in fathers, so does the court of law. The man received legal custody of the unfortunate little girl after his divorce.

When the one you are supposed to think of as your own takes advantage of you, when your custodian becomes your rapist, you, as a woman, cannot simply drown it out or move on with life. You see his face every day, he makes a great show of preparing your breakfast cereal, tying your hair, packing your school bag. He even “lets” you call mom. He even “lets” you visit friends.  But don’t tell anyone, okay? Papa will be hurt if you do. Here, have some chocolate. Papa loves you, you know. 

Many married women I know have a new concern after this incident had made the rounds of the internet. Every time such a father or brother turns rapist, the urban mother is scared for her little girl. In a household I frequent, the mother and the father have a rather egalitarian relationship. Both of them take part in child care, the husband changes the toddler’s diapers, powders her private parts, and basically does what a responsible father should do.

Many of the younger members of my family, both boys and girls, have been potty trained by their fathers. Now, when such incidents suddenly surface, mothers wonder whether they should let their husbands perform those responsibilities.

Should he be changing her diapers, should he be bathing her anymore? However, if you, as a mother, are scared that your husband might take advantage of your children, why are you still with such a man? 

Before we stop fathers from helping out with our female children’s personal hygiene, we must also remember that little boys are just as vulnerable. 

The architect broke down into tears multiple times during her statement, yet she was resilient and unforgiving throughout. When a reporter had said something along the lines of: “So you’re saying that your husband …” she cut him off immediately. “Excuse me, he is not my husband. He is the father of my child. He doesn’t deserve to be called that either.”

A breach of trust is the end of a relationship, no matter how close the ties used to be. Such a sickening case of pedophilia by one’s biological father defies all logic, we are completely at a loss, there is no prevention, no cure. Our fathers have shaped who we are, have loved us unconditionally, have helped us get dressed as children, have been our safe spaces. Yet, there are fathers like that ex-army man as well. 

The law does not side with the unfortunate, at least, not in this country. Families of perpetrators are perfectly fine with their golden sons doing whatever they wish.

The architect’s pleas for help, her calls to the national hotline, her countless GDs had gone unheard.

She had remained strong in the face of his constant taunts, his frequent visits to her house, and the bruises he left behind every time.
She had kept her mouth shut, because it was only she who was getting hurt. “But what about my daughter?” she asked. Indeed, what about her?

What about the newborns and the toddlers who get raped, even before they have been brought home from the hospital? 
“What were they wearing?” “Orna koi?”

Somewhere across the Atlantic, some champions of humanity want to decriminalize pedophilia.

The architect’s daughter, and many others like her, are watching. 

Qazi Mustabeen Noor works at Arts & Letters, Dhaka Tribune.

Courtesy: Dhaka Tribune.com

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