Pieces of Old Dhaka on an Early Friday

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Michael Jackson Tribute - Dhaka

my friends breakin' it down, Thriller style, making me and MJ proud

My First Rickshaw Accident

In the oldest part of Dhaka, aptly named, Old Dhaka – a friend and I went to do some shopping. Taking a CNG from Banani to Old Dhaka, we wandered around aimlessly until we realized we were not near Hindu Street, the main (and best) shopping street in Old Dhaka. It was my friend Sara’s One Year Anniversary of arriving in Bangladesh on the Fulbright, so her Bangla is impeccable. However, as always, none of the dozens of Bengalis following us understands our accent nor can I understand how a sentence is slurred together into one word.

Finally, one rickshaw driver knows the street – which shouldn’t be surprising because it’s the only street to buy all things Hindu. Then we climb onto what we don’t know to be the Rickshaw of Death.

Driving down new streets in Dhaka is bumpy, so driving down old streets is a whole other game. Dhaka makes a joke out of the video driving games in sports arcades. We keep yelling (yes, yelling) at our driver, “Bhai, ashte!” (Brother, slow!) But he is dodging around and through throngs of people, small streets busy with carts full of animal skins and boys playing futbol. At one point, on fairly wide part of the road, two men were walking hand-in-hand from our right side (reminder, South Asia drives on the left side of the road). Our rickshaw-wallah keeps ringing the bell, warning them of our path. To avoid them, he starts to steer around them—to the right. But, they saw us approaching and stopped walking. So, in this misunderstanding: we kept turning right, they stopped walking to our right…

We smashed in one man with the front wheel and kept rolling until we pushed him up onto the wall and into the sewer. As we are colliding into him, Sara clutches my left knee then jumps to the left off the rickshaw. Being on the right side of the seat, I can’t jump out because I’ll hit the wall, so I grip onto the back of the seat and hang on. We plow into the wall—and the man—and ram to a complete stop. I jump out to see that the back wheels of the rickshaw are in the air.

Within 4.7 seconds, 39 Bangladeshis rush to gawk at the scene. Sara grabs my arm and we exchange glances with eyes widened. We have been told that it is not safe to stay near an accident. It is common for people to attack the driver who caused an accident, in essence to punish him. But no real damage was done to anyone except shock. People start to argue but we get onto the rickshaw and drive off. Our wallah apparently didn’t learn his lesson because he kept pedaling and swerving.

We survived, thank Allah. The rest of the day was spent buying cool Hindu pictures and finding cheesey Bangla movie posters. I found one of the singer I danced in the video with, and we found the movie that Sara starred in called "Chaichi Tomar Bondhuta." I bought the movie—it’s a classic, I'll tell 'ya! Some shop owners recognized her and asked her to autograph their hands. Her one-year survival of Bangladesh, gaining the ability to converse in Bangla, have unique experiences (i.e. starring in a movie) and survive the bureaucracy and accomplish her goals gave me hope to do the same. With several promising meetings this week, I hope my field work will begin soon!

Amar Mishti Mashi

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Power of Listening

20.9.2009 -- Aseia

She chased me down the street. It was a lame day, the day before Eid. As much as I adore her, I was in no mood to talk

After school, I pass by the hotel next to my flat and practice speaking with the steps sweeper. Some days, I’m on point. Most days, I am still too slow to understand what she is saying, and she is not accustomed to simplifying her phrases for a bideshi. So most days, I pick up a few words to understand the topic, nod and smile a lot.

But every day, we walk together holding hands from her steps to my gate.

But the day before Ramadan, I was exhausted, I couldn’t put in the effort to listen and respond. As I walked past pretending not to hear her, she caught up with me, handed an envelope and ran away. “For Eid!” she said, smiling.

Inside was three pieces of jewelry. A gift from her. A gift of just spending time with her, for taking the time to listen to her. Words are powerful, so listening is just as powerful – even if you don’t understand.

Women and Islam

As a woman living in an Islamic country as a researcher of women’s issues, the matter of religion frequently rears its unresolved head. After reading several articles by Muslims, feminists and Muslim feminists (ie: Anouar Majid, Iman Hashim, Margot Badran) as well as a recent biography of Muhammed’s life written by a woman (Eminent Lives: Muhammad by Karen Armstrong), I will try to share a little of what I’ve learned of women in Islam.

The first important point is interpretation. Even with a book like a Qur’an, which is to be followed verbatim, there still remains historical context and diverging interpretations among the community. Muslim friends explained that many people who consider themselves Muslims have never read the Qur’an, but only hear other people’s interpretations. With the intent of the speaker differing across the world, many messages of the Qur’an are distorted. A friend said, “we should read the Qur’an as individuals, and what we get out of it is how we should practice. And not read just once – but many times. I have read the Qur’an when I was 18 and one message stood out to me. Read again at 25, other messages stood out. When I was 40, I learned something entirely new.”

This notion of interpretation leads into how there were particular intentions of Islam that were lost in dominating cultural pulls. “The gender question should be reexamined, as the gender revolution was intended in Islam but never took off. It was aborted arguably for two reasons…[one being] the door of ijtihad [intellectual effort] closed and the gender revolution was thereby aborted. (Mazrui, 1993)" The end of the intellectual effort (ijtihad) referred to what my friend mentioned above: individual interpretation. But because many followers cannot speak or read Arabic for themselves, the message and intellectual interpretation was lost.

Also, Muhammad faced intense adversity when trying to spread his message. One message was the equality of men and women: “Whoever performs good deeds, whether male or female and is a believer, We shall surely make him live a good life and We will certainly reward them for the best of what they did” (Qur’an, 16:97). However, some of Muhammad’s followers began to turn on him when he began to profess equality of women – equality extending as far as allowing women to take arms to fight for Islam.* In chauvinist Arabia, enemies against Islam became to use this ‘weakness for women’ against Muhammad while even his closest followers were aggressively disappointed in his equality stance (Armstrong). Muhammad’s message of equality, even with his charismatic ways, could not beat the ties to local culture (Armstrong gives an excellent review of how local culture affective the development of Islam). Overall, full gender equality was destined for Islam, however, like the development of the whole religion, was trapped by pre-existing Arabic culture. This entrapment is why the Qur’an permits men to beat their wives, which Muhammad feared and abhorred.

Then if these interpretations are accurate, then why do we hear so much anti-women and anti-equality professions of Islam?

First, sexism, chauvinism and misogyny still exists – everywhere. Those who preach male superiority quoted in Islam are widely considered to not be Muslims by Muslims. Second, Western media bombards us with the worst of the worst. Replaying images of women dashing out of their houses after the liberation from under the Taliban seeps into our mind, molding us to view all Muslims as the Taliban. We receive little public and personal exposure to Islamic ideals outside of the media because of the small population living in the west. It’s important to make judgments about a group of people that many of us have barely had a conversation with. One comedian, Russell Peters, put it so eloquently: “The only Muslims we see on Western TV is like people of the Middle East seeing Rednecks as the only Westerners.”

It’s important to remember that there are deeper layers of colonialism and exoticism at work. The West, past and present, perpetuates negative images of Islam in order to maintain it’s own superiority (as if we are perfect.) Attempting to make us sympathize with ‘subjugated veiled women’ gives the support they need to sanction their ulterior motives of wars.

“Muslim women’s entrapment in a false debate may well have started…with the publication of Qasim Amin’s book Tahir Al-Mar’a (The liberation of women) in 1899. [He] used the pretext of the veil…to launch an assault on Islam, despite Victorians England’s own patriarchal attitude towards British women… ‘Amin’s book then marks the entry of the colonial narrative of women and Islam—in which the veil and the treatment of women epitomized Islamic inferiority—into mainstream Arabic discourse. The opposition it generated similarly marks the emergence of an Arabic narrative developed in resistance narrative, not in the inferiority of the culture and the need to cast aside its customs in favor of those of the West, but, on the contrary, the dignity and validity of all native customs coming under attack—customs relating to women—and the need to tenaciously affirm them as a means of resistance to Western domination. ‘(Lelia Ahmed)” – Anouar Majid

Simply put, when people are attacked for their traditions, they are on the defense, griping even more tightly and fervently to what they are chastised for. Key point, however, is that the attackers hypocritically, aggressively and imprecisely combat ancient traditions.

I was once talking to someone about Islam and how misunderstood it was. Making a what I thought to be an obvious remark, that “not all Muslims are terrorists,” their response was, “but it is odd that most terrorist groups are Islamic.” Sadly enough, you can’t help but agree with their point, however the answer is deeper than their identity as Muslims, but into experiences as the colonized.

Like mentioned above, Islamic practices are so often being attacked that certain groups respond by vigorously asserting the exact practices that they are reproached for. The West’s past and present roles as colonialists and so-called ‘global leaders’ is in part at fault for exploitation of culture, resources and labor. Even apolitical, non-academics such as Greg Mortenson, the author of Three Cups of Tea, explains that the more we keep pressuring people to change, the more they will tightly grip onto traditions. Mortenson prompts us to work with and teach the on-the-ground population of other countries, especially by fiercely supporting education instead of bombs (please review article discussing Islam and Mortenson’s potent approach)

Islam in itself is pluralistic and ever-changing, as is the role of women in both Islam and global society. Trust me in that I’ve only scanned a brief surface of the issue and am still learning myself. But what we should already know is that it’s important not to assume we understand everyone experience and beliefs because of one label. We are more individual than that.

I want to end with a rather cute quote by the Sufi poet Jalal al-Din Rumi:

“The Prophet said that women totally dominate men of intellect and possessors of hearts. But ignorant men dominate women, for they are shackled by an animal ferocity. They have no kindness, gentleness or love, since animality dominates their nature. Love and kindness are human attributes; anger and sensuality belong to the animals. She is the radiance of God, she is not your beloved. She is a creator - you could say that she is not created.”

* The concept of the jihad is complex and historically rooted. When I feel I’ve grasped the doctrine better, I will speak on it.

Spontaneity and Her Role

To put it politely, the professional world is handled ‘differently’ in Bangladesh. My meetings have been cancelled because someone forgot to tell me that they decided not to come to the office today – discovered after I made the 100tk and 45 minute trek to their office. Or how professionals are always out of the office doing fieldwork, with no voicemail box and emails that bounce back. Or moving offices and not updating the new address and number on their website for 5 months. Or continuously postponing a meeting – for 6 weeks.

Yesterday, I was supposed to attend a meeting on the other side of the city – 20 minutes and 1.5km in a traffic jam, I get a text saying it’s cancelled – again. Should I just head home, or head to this place with nothing to do? It’s very hard to wander aimlessly in this city without the fear of falling into a sewage system or accidently winding up in a slum with your $600 camera in tote.

I stayed in the CNG and called another Fulbright Scholar, Herb Propper, knowing that he was doing a lecture in the same area. Herb and his assistant Saba have been kindly helping me try to get in contact with appropriate organizations for my project. Again, they generously invited me along to their event – which I then discovered was a private psychodrama session. With permission of the group members and my oath of confidentiality, I was allowed to sit in on the session.

It was one of those days where good things fall apart to make room for better things. I was blown away by the effectiveness and energy of pyschodrama. I saw, and Herb, correct me if I’m wrong, that a large part of psychodrama surrounds the concept of roles – how a drama has the different character actors, director etc.; our psyche works the same. One group member began to feel confused, pressured and weak. These feelings bubbled during one experiment. With this group member, a full psychodrama was performed, playing different roles to dig up the truth of the feelings and how to address them.*

I was stunned: sitting in a chair in the corner observing yet fully absorbed. I couldn’t help but cry at the intensity of this group member’s feelings, relating them to my own. I have a blessed curse of being able to relate to any emotion and being moved to love the person expressing it.

Herb began the session with an important theory that I needed to hear as well: the theory of spontaneity. One part of the simple definition of spontaneity is when you have an old, familiar situation with a new response – when this occurs, you have acted spontaneously. I have been here for three months still searching for avenues to do my topic. For three months, I’ve been approaching this project the same way, and I way I am used to (expecting speed and results). Clearly, it’s not working. So now I must adjust, adapt and change – either my process, or my topic.

So today, with the help of Saba, I finally could call one organization I’ve been trying to reach. They told me that in order to work in their shelter, which still doesn’t fit the ideal description of my project, I must write a letter to ask permission to just have a meeting with head of the shelter to then ask for approval to simply visit, let alone study. After a month of trying to reach them, yet another step! I was ready to throw the phone off the roof when I heard this. All I want is to love these women, is that so difficult?

But – I must adapt. I am here with a goal and it will be met, just in ways I don’t expect.

*Due to absolute confidentiality, the exact events of the drama will not be revealed.

Pieces of Dhaka from an CNG

inside a CNG sitting in daily traffic

the blue shirts indicates who is a licensed driver

(see photo in large size)

a man selling something on the street

(sidewalks barely exist independently of streets, most times indistinguishable)

(see photo in large size)

I Am Blessed

Bangladesh's Future Rests on Development of Ethical Financial Markets

Article by fellow Fulbright Scholar, Dr. Parvez Ahmed

A good article to understand the markets and ethics (or lack-thereof) of Bangladesh.

Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss: Backpackers Vs. Expats

“Tell me more – I want your life!” I said to Kim, an Australian cyclist that travels the world on her mountain bike. She responded, “That’s funny, because I’m trying to find ways to have your life…”

I met this woman during tea break of our Bangla classes. There are many foreigners coming in and out of the centre: here for a few weeks or a few years. Kim only plans to stay in Dhaka until the end of the week, then is biking to eastern Bangladesh, Sylhet, then back west into and throughout India. Like the Brit, Marc, she had all these beautiful things to say about Bangladesh, being here once before for a few weeks. She described biking through the endlessly flat and green scenery; through tiny towns not knowing the name where men on their motorbikes will ride up beside her and offer to buy her some tea in the next town where she is surrounded by villagers all excited by her presence.

She described previous trips, through Southeast Asia into South Asia , flying over to Africa where she said it was too dangerous to bike. I asked her what she considered dangerous – “after all, you are a white woman on a bike.” She responded that her gender doesn’t have a negative effect on her experience, but that people are so surprised by her then feel a need to take care of her. She said, “the best thing here is that 99 out of 100 people smile back at you, so I smile at everyone. I don’t want to be one of those travelers that walks around sunglasses on ignoring the people.”

I told her how refreshing it was to hear her perspective, sharing how I’ve stop smiling my experience here is that it invites negative attention more often than not. And I think here’s the key: I’m living here. A different perspective exists between traveling abroad and living abroad, between backpackers and expats.

My experience as a woman has been more negative than hers because the reality is that it is not easy being a woman in Bangladesh. The root of the positivity and negativity is in the art of moving. My negative experiences occur on the buses and trains – while she is biking around. Sitting still on a bus makes you more vulnerable, while biking summons an image of strength, and you move too fast and often for reality to sink in.

I wish to see the world, and this country, the way I used to, the way she is now: with broad optimistic smiles. When everything is new and exciting, you’re open and no need for the armor myself and other expats wear. The armor worn from the monotony and reality may protect us but weighs us down. It’s easy to find the good where you are offered tea due to your constant newness as you ride by; rather than attempting to become a local, understanding real life and studying topics like violence against women.

But, while clichés like “rolling stone gathers no moss” hold true – as does, “the grass is always greener on the other side.” While I was envious of her ceaselessly stimulating travels and positive outlook, she was jealous of my life of puncturing a culture to fully understand as well as deeply exchange with its people. How could I understand the emotions of trafficked victims if I wasn’t consistently digging deep? As my friend Sayaka said about a slum she works at: “I’ll see other white people coming into the slum with NGOs, taking pictures, playing with kids – then never come back. And locals notice – they remember names and ask for people who visited once months ago, but are now back in their country. They leave an impact but it’s so superficial.”

So there’s the argument – what is more important to you: nonstop traveling with a big pack brightly viewing the beautiful new diversity, but maybe on a more superficial level? Or living in a local apartment drudging through the ups and downs of reality, but grasping a deep and well-rounded understanding?

Both are valuable and important, but maybe the best is to drudge through reality of the latter with the bright, open smile of the former. To add one more cliché: is the glass half empty, or half full?

For the sake of my sanity with 9 more months left in Dhaka, I will look at it in this light: the difference between eating the skin of an apple, or munching on through right down to the very core – what’s more nutritious? I just need to enjoy each bite, even if I find a worm..

Learning Script

Finally, I'm in the third and final month of Bangla class -- finally learning the script!! And it's a good class: just Hiroto, myself and our fun teacher, Pulok. Script is hard but fun! I wanted to practice my handwriting but I don't want to waste paper. What's a Bangla student to do...?

Solution:

buy a 'magic board' from the local market for 2 bucks !!

Finding a Diamond in the Rough: The Case of 'Absolut' Beauty

Who would have thought that I found myself at the birthday of a woman who rented out a floor of the Regency Hotel for a party with 250 of her closest friends?

Well, I certainly didn’t expect it when I showed up in jeans and a T-shirt, and all the women were in beautiful cocktail dresses. It never occurred to me to bring a knee length dress to a country where there are still recent accounts of acid thrown on women who disobey husbands. But low and behold – there is some good fashion here! I also didn’t think that I would be handed a shot of tequila in Bangladesh – but what’dja know…

My good friend Sayaka invited me to her friend Nadia’s party. Everyone I met over the next few hours were from all over the world: Morocco, Turkey, Britain, India – and plenty of Bangladeshis who have lived abroad. And apparently there was a famous Bangladeshi singer there (forgetting her name) that I sat in the booth with as we drank champagne bought by the son of a Turkish ambassador.

Not to assume that any of these people were ignorant elites; but I will say that it is entirely possible to never see the torment and destitution of Bangladesh if you tint your BMW windows dark enough. If there is a middle class here, it is miniscule and hidden – but the upper class is too ostentatious to not be noticed. I’ve personally been struggling with the reality of this nation because I walk on the street, passing slow enough to see the desolation, the un-organization and the systematic corruption. Now I found myself screened from it all behind frosted bottles of Absolut and green strobe lights.

To a point, I can’t blame anyone for wanting to hide from it. I do myself when I wear my thick coat of armor on the street: chin up high, not glancing down at the deformed beggars or up at the pestering rickshaws. If I do, I’ll find myself buried under endless levels of misery. But, deep down, I know hiding is not what I value. This article by travel author Allison Cross aptly illustrates my view.

But there I was, 3am tipsy in a fancy hotel – and truthfully grateful for the escape: grateful to not be at home for another night reading about systematic violence against women and the brutal lives of trafficked victims. I’m drained, jaded, and numb, but I felt the beat of the woofer under my skin and that’s all I wanted right then. The people I was surrounded by felt the same: one friend just returned from vacation, wondering why she was back in this ‘hellhole,’ a man who hasn’t seen his three-year old daughter in 10 months, another man who couldn’t name one good thing about this country and an eclectic mix of people avoiding reality.

But, there was a diamond in the rough, and I received a beautiful dose of optimism..

After some crazy dancing, I sat next to a Brit named Marc. I knew he was visiting his sister, a friend of Sayaka’s. After revealing he had been in Dhaka for three days, I asked him what he thought of Bangladesh. His face lit up with excitement, “Oh it’s so wonderful! I was expecting insane poverty and devastation, I was expecting to cry. But instead, all I’ve seen is the amazing ability of people to adapt and smile through adversity. They live in squalor, everything’s a mess, but they live just like you and I do!” He was stumbling over his words – one could blame the potency of the alcohol, but I could feel it was the intensity of his feelings: “Maybe this is condescending, maybe I’m just naïve, but I’m just so surprised and happy at how beautiful everyone is, how strong they are, and how they just make their lives work. I love our species, we really are wonderful! I mean, if London or New York was destroyed right now, yeah it would be devastating, but we’d adapt, wouldn’t we?”

Immediately I thought: “I don’t know what frightens me more, the power that crushes us, or our endless ability to endure it.” (G.D. Roberts, Shantaram). But Marc wasn’t frightened, and neither was I. For once I’ve said, “Every day I saw the pain of these girls, struggling to overcome their violent past. And every day, I saw their endless ability to continue to dance, to smile, and to love.”

Amidst the superficiality, I found some grace. And that’s what it’s about: our view on the world is a choice, an active choice to nominate optimism as the winner. And where would any sports team or famous actress be without their fans? We need to be a fan of reality, of our race, of this world. This man reminded me of this in a place least expected. Beauty is everywhere but you can’t find it or believe in it if you hide – or even walk to fast with your chin up.

New Moon

Eid Mubarak!

Well, it’s over! The new moon is out and Ramadan has ended. Hopefully a fresh start for me as well.

As mentioned, Ramadan is the month of fasting and extra prayer. Muslims fast from the every day nourishment and activities; all given up in the name of Allah and bettering themselves as Muslims. By challenging themselves, they become closer to Allah and better themselves as Muslims.

The month of Ramadan, though not fasting, was a difficult month for me. By moving to Bangladesh, I have challenged myself in each aspect of my life: physical (food, weather), mental (cultural barriers), professional (working in an unorganized and corrupt nation), and personal (learning to exert self-discipline.) All in all, I am fasting from my normal, comfortable life in order to challenge myself to be a better person. But as always, it’s easy to forget the reason for your fast; whether it’s for Allah or yourself, that ‘person’ is easy to lose.

As Stage Three of Culture Shock sunk in – hard – I lost sight of my ‘future/strong/ new-and-improved’ self; the self I hope to attain at the end of this expedition. All I saw was the frustrations of living in one of the most underdeveloped nations in Asia (use your imagination as to what the aggravations and derailments are…)

But here it is, the end of Ramadan. Life is back to normal for all Muslims and citizens of Bangladesh. But my fasting remains. But I literally dreamt a few nights ago that I sawed off my leg in order to challenge myself. How appropo of my life in Bangladesh: I’m literally handicapped and limbless in this new place. My dream also showed me all my friends who rallied around me, also an accurate reflection, not only friends from home but new friends here. But when you lose a leg, a limbless life must become normal, you must adapt.

On Eid, I hung out with my friend Emy and her family. She was born here but lived in Florida most her life. Here with her parents and brothers, we drove around the empty streets of Dhaka blasting Jay-Z and Luda, chillin' and laughing, had a private Reggaeton dance party between the two of us, and stayed up until 4am talking about the difficulties of adjusting here. Though slightly different situations, we both feel a little lost and outcast here -- but comforted that we are not alone in it.

So now onto Stage Four of Culture Shock – adaptation: learning to find the beauty here, to understand the cultural nuances, blending in, making it home. As the New Moon rose ending Ramadan, I hope I enter a new stage of my life in Bangladesh.

**(I had photos from Eid, the end of Ramadan, but my memory card got ruined L so there are no photos.)