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I would go
back to my village in the north eastern corner of Bangladesh, Sunamgonj, which
is full of big lakes that light up at night with moonlight and thunders in the
day during monsoon season. The thunders strike while the dark grey gloomy skies
make constant sounds that seem like a warning from the divine in a heavy deep
voice to stay inside the house. We children would not care and come out
collecting the mangoes downed by the storm.
If I go back
to those days, I would be staying inside the house; looking out and contemplating,
against the rhythmic sound of rain drops bursting onto the tin roofs of the
house and think of my exile. Or I would probably just be in bed resting under a
light blanket (katha) my mother and aunts sewed while gossiping their husband’s
faults.
In our Mamar
bari (maternal uncle’s house), we boys would dare to sail out to the lake
(hawor) in stormy weathers and would jump from the small boat we took without
uncle’s permission. All day long we would compete with each other on who could
jump first to grab the shaluk (some fruits born in water).
We would
annoy the fishermen all day long who were busy catching their prey and eager to
get to the social capital, the bazaar, as soon as they could, to get a good bargain.
Often a bargain would come from a rich customer who lived abroad, a customer who
had bargained their economic wellbeing in exchange to accepting a permanent
exile in London.
I would go
back to those nights when we would await with sleepy eyes for delicious dinners cooked
by my aunty on a mud stove. The room we used to read and have dinner in, was
barely lit with rural-electricity (Polli bidduth). The light was poorer in comparison to
the lantern’s light and we would keep them both on. Electricity was a special
blessing then and was provided to only a few privileged families due to their political
and social connections with the local distributor.
The mud
stove that my mother and aunty used to cook on would burn the wood and tree
branches collected during the day from the wild. No the wilderness didn’t
have any dangerous animals in it- but the stories of snakes and small tigers
from the parents helped to calm our excitement with necessary fear before we slept.
There were
fishes from the pond in the canal adjacent to the house that became a footpath
in the dry season and there were fresh vegetables in the winter, grown in our
gardens. These gardens had fences made of bamboo braches to save the fruits
from the wondering cattle.
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| Hawor in Sunamganj, Bangladesh |
Outlaws
I still
remember the ‘Khuarr’, a man-made jail for the cattles, made of the strongest of the bamboos, to
punish the cattle that raided our neighbour’s vegetable gardens. The owner of
the cattle had to pay a hasty fine to release their disobedient animal. This
was often a cause of conflict between families and tribes in the village.
The jailing of a cow was probably my first experience of societal law and
justice, and for some reason as a child I found it cruel and terrifying. My childish heart wished
that the cow should have been allowed to eat and go wherever it liked. Punishing it by restricting it into a closed square was probably the first cruellest thing I
observed. This thought of mine was transformed
into a silly joke later, when I observed my father slaughtering our favourite
cow in the name of God and we enjoyed its meat for dinner.
In
recollecting the ‘crimes’by cattle invading human space, I remember our crimes
as boys. I would go back to those nights when I joined my brothers to steal
coconuts from neighbouring ‘baris’ (houses) and kept on raiding the village to
find every fruit they have grown in their houses wild and that we could lay our
handson.
This would
happen while we could hear the Imam at the mosque or some religious speaker
from a distant village speaking at Jalsha (yearly event organised by a mosque
or Masjid). For us boys Jalsha night were an excellent excuse to get out of
the house.
The hujurs
(preachers) were religiously busy shouting and screaming about the temperature
of the hellfire, the importance of hating disbelievers and how many huuri’s (virgin
women) you would be granted in heaven. The Jalsha was more commonly organised in the winters
following our annual school exam period..
I would like
to have gone back to jump in the canal (khaal) again that remained dry most of
the year but during monsoon gave us the opportunity to catch big chunks of fish
with its thousands of small descendants and would make a fantastic meal. How
ruthless we were.
At night we
would go and observe egoistic tribal uncles and brothers resolving issues. They
loved trouble for the sake of itand gained enjoyment, ‘community trial’ kick from
it, whilst sipping away tea dipped with salty biscuits made available by the one
small shop in the village. The most expensive brand of cigarettes sold at this shop
was ‘Gold Leaf’ and my uncles and father would smoke it religiously day and
night.
A Mother’s Dilemma
I would go
back to my small town Sylhet which was calm in the morning when I walked to
my school. This town has now became a disorganised city, full of big buildings at the
receiving end of the capitalist wave, proudly hosting KFC and Pizza Hut. I would
go back to my friends who would become fathers, quarrelling husbands and to my dear
mother who grows old missing my presence beside to her and tragically praying
that I never return from exile.
She does not
want to me to return to her land -our land, because it does not guarantee the security
of my life, liberty, progress and everyday ‘chaul (rice) and dail (lentils),
the Bangladeshi version of bread and butter.
A cruel reality that to secure my bread and butter, my mother and I slaughter our connection with my native land. I leave my country. Often I am reminded by many friends who were (un)fortunate to remain in their land that I should be appreciative of the fact that I was able to escape. That exile was better than being married to ones land for life, says friends.
A cruel reality that to secure my bread and butter, my mother and I slaughter our connection with my native land. I leave my country. Often I am reminded by many friends who were (un)fortunate to remain in their land that I should be appreciative of the fact that I was able to escape. That exile was better than being married to ones land for life, says friends.
So my mother
was my associate in executing this exile, like many other millions of concerned
mothers in Bangladesh who urge their sons to leave, feeling compelled that the only
security of life and prosperity is to leave this cursed land, go overseas and embrace
exile. For some, this exile is just to jump on a never returning ship to
Malaysia or to be a servant of brutal torturing rich Middle Eastern Sheikh from
the Prophet’s country, Saudi Arabia, or to help building the capitalist UAE
empire earning a minimum wage.
For some, exile happened in the name of
‘education’ and taking advantage of the British immigration system. Exiles in
western countries are preferable than the Middle-Eastern ones. Here, the
prospects of life are good, the governments are 'liberal' and employers are
probably less racist- providing a generous pay.
Myth of Return
Edward Said lived
a life on exile and no wonder he captures it perfectly in his reflection:
‘’ Exile is
strangely compelling to think about but terrible to experience. It is the
unhealable rift forced between a human being and a native place, between the
self and its true home: its essential sadness can never be surmounted. And
while it is true that literature and history contain heroic, romantic,
glorious, even triumphant episodes in an exile’s life, these are no more than
efforts meant to overcome the crippling sorrow of estrangement.”
A question
that I often confront nowadays is ‘Will I be able to go back?’. The
impossibility frightens me and the possibility frightens me even more - the possibility
to confront something that has been lost. Sometimes it is wise to not discover
what you could have lost, is it not? In fact nothing is banished if you don’t
discover what is there to be banished in the first place.
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