Reclaiming the Homeland
The Bangladeshi flag flies high
Over the last four years, many of my friends and relatives have asked me about my decision to live in Bangladesh. Some did this tactfully, genuinely curious about what life was like for me. Others could only see from their limited experiences and would ask questions such as, “How are you surviving there?” My extended family in Bangladesh would always frame the question as a comparison: “Which do you like better: Bangladesh or America?” My dad’s friends would usually ask with evident curiosity only to nostalgically answer their own questions: “How are things, Fatema? They sure must be easy! Life in Bangladesh is more comfortable, isn’t it?” Then they’d start discussing at length how comfortable and ideal life could be there “if one were to forget the corruption” and find a niche, more or less forgetting my presence.
Whether or not I was able to answer in the moment, I’ve thought a lot about my experiences of Bangladesh as a result. There’s been the experience of the homeland as a child who is open and receptive, the experience as a young adult who has acculturated to her new home and finds readjusting difficult, and the experience of subsequent returns as an adult that has its own worries and rewards. Each is markedly different and can frame the way one understands, loves, and perhaps even reclaims the homeland.
Most recently, I was left in awe by what I heard from a young cousin, an eight-year-old little boy who had recently visited Bangladesh with his parents. When I asked him whether he liked it there, he exclaimed, “I loved it!” and then proceeded to excitedly tell me all the reasons why. He had stayed with his multi-generational family: grandparents who adored him, aunts and uncles who also showed him great affection, and cousins his own age who ran around and played with him as much as he wanted. His father confirmed the stories: “We [his wife and him] were able to go on overnight trips without him; he just didn’t want to come with us!” I wasn’t surprised; most kids who visit the homeland at a young age and are surrounded by family generally tend to love the experience. The first time my family and I went back after having migrated to the States, my then 17-year-old brother had the exact same experience as my eight-year-old cousin: he soaked up the loving attention from our grandparents, charmed our aunts and uncles, and made friends with all the kids in the village. I didn’t have quite the same experience, though.
The first time I returned to Bangladesh, nine years had passed and I’d done little to stay connected to the homeland. I had more or less given up on reading or writing in Bangla, and had rarely spoken to the family members I’d left behind (this was all before the advent of cell phones). In fact, I was so worried about the return that I was plagued with a recurring dream for weeks. In this dream, I walked through the village where I’d grown up. The buildings and roads had all aged, some dilapidated beyond repair. The colors were completely saturated and gray, except for the open doors of each house through which bright light warmed the surrounding area. Inside, I could see the people I knew, everyone as young as I had left them, happy and going about their daily routine. But, I could sense how I had changed and could no longer go back and join them. This anxiety stayed with me during my first visit, and despite my best (and sometimes frustrated or half-hearted) attempts, I could sense that my efforts were not enough. I found it difficult to relate to anyone, missed the comforts of the States, and often became frustrated with what I perceived as constant monitoring and chaperoning. Could I not be left alone for a little while so that I could read? Did I have to take my male cousin with me if I ever wanted to go out? Did people (women) ever do anything outside of the house? Needless to say, I found myself disconnected from Bangladesh. Where my brother and my eight-year-old cousin found a sense of love and family, I only found loneliness and frustration, which made any thoughts of returning impossible.
Yet I returned. Why?
During my time at university, I gained something I didn’t have growing up: teachers who not only knew about the South Asian region, but who wanted to teach me about it. (I soon found out that very few Asian Studies courses actually focus on Bangladesh, but that’s another matter.) What they could teach me, though, was enough to ignite my curiosity. I wanted to know more about all the things I only have vague memories of: the culture, the music, the arts, the folk tales and traditions. I wanted to understand, to go beyond the limiting stereotypes that had shaped my views. And by a stroke of luck, I found that “niche” my dad and his friends talked about.
So, what was that final experience like? How did I “survive”? Which do I like better: Bangladesh or America? Was it really as comfortable as my dad and his friends imagine?
The truth is, like the other versions of “the return,” my time in Bangladesh was varied. The first and most lasting impression was one of liberation: Here I was, a woman, living on my own, taking a rickshaw or CNG, doing my own shopping, traveling on an overnight bus, swimming in Cox’s Bazaar and hiking in the Banderbans—all things that a vast majority of Bangladeshi women don’t do at all, much less alone (or only with other female friends). I felt empowered, freer than I’d ever felt in America.
The second impression was one of awe and reverence. Because of the university environment in which I worked, I was able to see and learn much. For the first time in my life (that I remembered), I found myself observing Ekushay February (International Mother Language Day) and celebrating Pohela Boishak (Bengali New Year). In my classes, I taught bright, motivated young women who were keen on being leaders in their communities and who were actively involved in making social changes. In the office, I worked with a wide range of Bangladeshis from whom I received a more nuanced idea of what life was like for them in Bangladesh. And I heard and read Bangla all around me, the words romantically, lyrically surrounding me (often a word like projapati* would get stuck in my head and I’d wonder and marvel at its form).
Despite these positive experiences, I sometimes felt that I was “surviving.” I did on occasion miss the green spaces and general anonymity I enjoyed in America. I especially missed being able to go out to a movie or a café (though, this was not so much because of Bangladesh as it was Chittagong, where I lived and worked). I often felt overwhelmingly frustrated by the patriarchal structure. But none of that really made me like one place over the other. What it did do was help me feel great ownership over my Bangladeshi and my American identities. I no longer felt like the imposter who spoke about her country from a knowledgebase of stereotypes and limited experiences. I was also able to identify and appreciate the pieces of myself that I considered to be American.
I know that not everyone can uproot their lives and go live in their homeland as adults, nor should they. I do believe, however, that taking a proactive stance on learning everything one can about their origins can help in finding that balance that those of us with multiple identities struggle with. So, start with a Google search, read that Wikipedia entry, find those authors who write about the desh wherever it may be. And don’t rely on newspapers alone; you’ll never find the gems, the hopeful messages, the beauty of your country there. It’s not too late to reclaim your homeland.
*Definitions:
projapati – butterfly
desh – country