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DT 12 Editorial TUESDAY, JUNE 20, 2017 TODAY New Delhi, I love you Even with the international wars which are selfishly raged between our two nations, I could not, unlike many of my contemporaries and peers, find it in me to hate PAGE 13 The most deserving side won Pakistan’s team effort helped them write history at Kennington Oval on Sunday. Pakistan proved once again how beautiful the game of cricket is PAGE 14 No way to live, no way to die AFP Can’t you hear their cries? Who will take the responsibility for the loss of innocent lives? PAGE 15 Be heard Write to Dhaka Tribune FR Tower, 8/C Panthapath, Shukrabad, Dhaka-1207 Send us your Op-Ed articles: opinion.trib@gmail.com www.dhakatribune.com Join our Facebook community: https://www.facebook.com/ DhakaTribune. The views expressed in opinion articles are those of the authors alone and they are not the official view of Dhaka Tribune or its publisher. Every day, thousands of Bangladeshis put their lives at peril, seeking a better life elsewhere in the world. This is a worrying trend that we must address. It is disheartening that so many people spend hours on the dangerous seas, crammed into boats, without food and water. We must ask: Why are so many of our citizens taking this path, often drowning, starving, or suffocating to death? What is worse is that many of these migrants, with promises of a better life, are lured and kidnapped for ransom. The government must crack down on these illegal migration rings. Too often do we hear stories of boats carrying our citizens capsizing at sea, leading to the deaths of innocents. Furthermore, desperate citizens must be made aware that there are rackets such as these which they must be wary of. And, most importantly, we must investigate what is leading them to take such desperate measures. They must know that this is no way to live life and that no matter what the circumstances, the government is there to help. The authorities must also work with other government to bring back those who find themselves in compromised situations and the bodies of those who have tragically lost their lives. This unnecessary cycle of death must stop, and it must stop now. Let us take care of our citizens, and throw the book at those who seek to take advantage of them. This unnecessary cycle of death must stop, and it must stop now
New Delhi, I love you Opinion 13 How can you hate a nation when your life is steeped in its culture from childhood? DT TUESDAY, JUNE 20, 2017 THE WORLD IN PARENTHESES • SN Rasul It would be rather disingenuous of me if I were to claim that no part of my cultural and psychological make-up has been influenced by the powerhouse that is Indian culture. From the childhood memories of 90s Bollywood to the more contemporary dances at holuds, I have partaken in Indian culture in many instances as if it were my own. Masala dosa From the moment I was born, my eyes had glued themselves to the constant influx of Hindi serials and films which the kaajer meye consumed with a vociferous hunger. And I, too, did the same. From the melodramatic drums of Sanjeevani and Kasautii Zindaggi Kii to the classic romances starring the Khans, I revelled in the musicality of what made Indian culture so mesmerisingly appealing to a starry-eyed, impressionable child in the 90s. I grew up loving Shah Rukh Khan and his reverberating voice; I lay shocked with my head in my hands when I found out that the actors were not, in fact, the actual singers. At 13, watching Kal Ho Na Ho in a theatre in Ahmedabad, I wept tears of joy and sorrow. To say nothing of the times I actually visited the country. The food was exquisite and, every time I went through Kolkata, it was an extravaganza: I dipped crunchy dosa into sambhar (how did the South make vegetarian food taste so good?) and devoured the spicy chicken rolls next to New Market. I went up the Eden-like mountains of Darjeeling and came down to the gritty suburbs of Mumbai. I traversed across the breadth of the sub-continent in a 36-hour journey by train spanning a dozen states, passing a multitude of languages and cultures the likes of which I hadn’t experienced within the span of a singular country’s borders. And through it all, I was not at home, but I could function thoroughly, for the constant barrage of Indo-linguistic entertainment, I could speak my Every Bangladeshi recognises these faces mind, for I was fluent in Hindi. Which language is mine? My fluency with the language came about largely because of my cousins, and, by extension, many of my friends -- the people under whose influence a young teenager might find himself functioning. So, if someone had asked me at the time whether or not I loved the country of India, I would have said yes. Why wouldn’t I? What did the teenager in me know of border killings and Teesta, of pockets of no man’s land and cultural hegemony? What did I know of India’s dominance as a nation state over the slowly dying nation of ours? Anyone growing up here receives an education in three languages: Bangla, the mother tongue; Hindi, the language of television; and English, the language of schools. By the time we were coming out of the illusion of Hindustan as the go-to place for cultural superiority, society had already been divided by such linguistic means. Which language, then, do we call our own? My mouth found a home in Bengali, while my writing found the most comfort in English. English, with its simplistic Roman characters made it easier to find Even with the international wars which are selfishly raged between our two nations, I could not, unlike many of my contemporaries and peers, find it in me to hate patterns and nuances, whereas Bangla was complex, its letters interwoved, its multiple letters for the same sound confusing. Where could we then place Hindi, a language we at once loved and hated? Loved because I cannot indulge in nostalgia without revisiting Baadshah; hated because -- why exactly? Even with the international wars which are selfishly waged between our two nations, I could not, unlike many of my contemporaries and peers, find it in me to hate. Though hating India and Pakistan (for different reasons) seemed to have become the staple for any hot-blooded Bangladeshi. After all, I had met Indians and enjoyed their company, eaten their delicious food, danced to their (now “khaet”) songs with merriment. Even if I hadn’t, was hatred for an entire nation and its people something I could muster? This was a hatred that hadn’t been sanctioned by state or society, but existed, and still exists. Mauka mauka There was an article last week about how India’s “Mauka mauka” campaign during the 2015 Cricket World Cup, where they mocked the other nations, was instrumental in cultivating the hatred for the Indian cricket team and, subsequently, the nation. Though I’m sure the campaign didn’t help, I remember hating the Indian cricket team for as long as I have been watching cricket. I have consistently enjoyed India’s losses more than I have enjoyed Bangladesh’s wins. And so, when India lost on Sunday to Pakistan, and that too, devastatingly, I, with the rest of the country, was overjoyed. Why? Because of the arrogance, the sick nationalistic pride, the egotistical fans, the face of Kohli. But are we any different? Or have they made us become the same? Bangladesh’s luck and talent were instrumental in them reaching the semi-finals, and this was worth celebrating. But how much of this sport is used to cultivate certain sentiments, both of patriotism and hatred, which keep us inundated in our respective cycles of life? Growing up, sports was something that brought the neighbourhood together. It seems that sports (and politics) had torn the neighbourhood asunder. Not without cause, of course. But, through the hatred of specific people and their specific policies, now one feels like an outcast when one appreciates a certain kind of music of a certain culture, or expresses the beauty of a certain country’s landscapes. Bangladesh is beautiful. And so is India (and Pakistan, I’m sure, though I’ve never been). Can’t we leave it at that? • SN Rasul is an Editorial Assistant at the Dhaka Tribune. Follow him on Twitter @snrasul. REUTERS
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