By Zaiyan Anam
“Indian.”
If I had a nickel for every time I was called “Indian”, be it by an ignorant teacher or a discourteous student, I’d swim in my riches. I scoff under my breath every time it happens. Alas, that is all I can do, for it seems like no amount of expounding and dumbing down my words can explain it to some people. I am in fact not Indian, I am Bangladeshi.
“Whatever, same thing no?”
Hearing that envelops my heart and chest in a searing pain, my head begins to pound, I know just the type of person that I am dealing with. Exaggeration aside, my point is not to imply that being “Indian” holds a negative connotation in any way. Rather, I’ve lately started to grow tired of my culture simply not being recognised as its own culture, not only by ignorant Westerners but by fellow South Asians. The fact is, yes, while the imaginary lines that separate nations within the Indian subcontinent may be “superficial” at first, and to the ignorant eye it might just all appear as one, brown, homogenous smudge on the map, we do have our clear-cut differences. For years upon years, I beat myself up over it. “Why can’t we finally be put on the map?” I’d say to myself. I wanted my nation to be relevant in the public eye. I expected more. But just as I seemed to put my expectations to rest, the (not so) unexpected happened.
A revolution. The extent to which our little nation had never seen before. An oppressive, new policy initiated by the Prime Minister, Sheik Hasina, which involved a reduction in the number of government jobs, along with her habit of embezzling government funds and funnelling them towards the mafia, sparked a harsh reaction among students and the youth of Dhaka. In response, hundreds of can-do youngins organised peaceful protests across the city. However, their mostly tranquil show of disapproval towards the new policy was met with violent pushback by the police force, acting under direct orders from the PM.
In an attempt to frame the protestors as enemies of the nation, Hasina uttered words that should not be taken lightly. On the 15th of July, the PM labelled the nonconformists as “razakar”. For those unaware, labelling one as “razakar” is considered a heavily, extremely derogatory term for a traitor. The literal meaning of the word is “Judas”, the biblical man who infamously betrayed Jesus and his disciples. However, in Bengali and Bengali culture, “razakar” is a colloquial term often used to describe a sympathiser and a corroborate towards Pakistan. For the average civilian, the word bears an extremely callous effect, yet when uttered by the Head of State to label an entire demographic, the offence takes on a new level of cruelty. As if to add fuel to the fire, the whole country was set ablaze by her crude language, sparking violent, vehement pushback across the nation. The people were no longer protesting, they were rioting.
Apartments were burnt to the ground, the police force was mobilised en masse, and protesters as young as 14 were gunned down like dogs.
These were all ordinary during the brutal riots from late July to early August 2024. In response to this, on the 20th of July, Hasina (who was at this point huddled under her desk in tears) tightened her grip and set an extremely rigid curfew across the nation. Past seven PM, the streets were dead quiet, save for the sounds of gunshots, marching policemen, the whir of armoured trucks, and faint yet haunting screams which filled the air. Along with this, the phone lines had been cut, meaning the whole nation had gone dark.
I remember frantically calling my relatives, only managing to make a few words out of the mumbled gibberish that came out of my phone before they were abruptly cut off. I lost sleep worried sick for everyone back home. At any point, officers, indistinguishable from active duty infantry, could barge into your home and gun you down. All I could do was pray. But there is something unexplainable, yet admirable about the nature of the human spirit. It perseveres and thrives under immense, authoritarian pressure. Time and time again we see it happen. Under oppression, like-minded individuals will band together and push back. Oppression creates community, and bonding through shared beliefs and ideation with a strong sense of liberation and sheer will. This idea stands undoubtedly true for the people of Bangladesh.
On the 5th of August, 2024, a day that will go down in the history of our nation, one final, unrelenting push was made by the people of Bangladesh. This time, however, they boldly elected to storm the palace of PM Hasina. In response to the absolute hurricane of change barreling towards her direction and to save her skin, Hasina made the knee-jerk decision to resign as the PM of Bangladesh as she fled towards India with her tail tucked between her legs. As her government escort helicopter whizzed through the air, thousands of victory cheers followed in her wake. The people had won. Yet, while the people may have achieved victory, the future of our nation remains uncertain. Soon after her resignation, remnants of Hasina’s administration formed an interim government, with Nobel Peace Prize winner Dr Yunus serving as the figurehead.
While our future remains increasingly unclear as time goes on, this period of strife, as well as other events in Bangladesh’s history, continues to cement ourselves as our own people. Only now, am I beginning to understand what it means to be Bangladeshi. Bangladeshi people are hard workers, and resilient, with a strong sense of community and familial bonds. We are a people that thrive in numbers, allowing ourselves to stand in opposition against the unwavering, often impossible odds that stand against us. Our flag, a vibrant green adorned with a single red spot, symbolises our nation’s spirit. The green signifies our bright, hopeful future, while the red honours the blood shed by those who fought for our independence. Together, these elements embody the essence of our people.
Time and time again the whole world is reminded of our presence and of our flag’s significance. We are, in fact, not India. We are our own nation of strife and freedom, persecution and liberation, oppression and rebellion, and, most importantly, a nation of blood and glory.