Dhaka . . . Aah . . . Dhaka! by Nuzhat Shahzadi

Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh was named after “Dhakeshweri” meaning the “goddess” of Dhaka. The Dhakeshweri Temple draws millions of Hindus throughout the year. Durga Pooja, the biggest annual festival for Bengalee Hindus is celebrated every year at this temple.

Dhaka also witnesses the celebration of Buddha Purnima, the largest Buddhist religious festival. Christmas, known as “Boro din” is a time for jubilation throughout Bangladesh. A month long fasting in Ramadan by Muslims is broken by the celebration of Eid-ul-Fitr. Eid-ul-Adha follows after over two months––animals are sacrificed as is the ritual. Dhaka at the time turns into a city of “blood-stained” streets, stench.

Eid, Durga Pooja, Christmas and Buddha Purnima are observed as national holidays to uphold the principles of inclusion and diversity. All faiths participate, more or less, by choice. The largest celebrations, however, are 21st February, the international language day, “Pohela Boishak” to welcome the Bengalee new year, and 16th December––the Independence Day.

Dhaka at those times turns into a city of terrifying joy, an epitome of hope inspiring millions that REAL change is going to come, one day…

Shahid Minar’s (language day monument) replica in a school

It’s not all hunky-dory . . . There are subtle and overt intolerances subjecting minorities basically motivated by political and financial interests. Cultural attitudes (“Bengalism”) are far more neutral, inclusiv.

As the country changed, Dhaka changed under turbulent political storms, economic and long term sustainable development approaches (in partnership with government, NGOs/development partners)––mutating the Bengalee-social-DNA––its cultural and social fabric. Girls’ education attained parity, women’s mobility securing a significant place in the workforce including in leadership positions became a reality, CBR fell, contraception/family planning gained momentum, childhood diseases preventable by vaccines made progress. Bangladesh eradicated polio in 2000.

. . . GNI per capita improved but still about 18% of the population lives below the poverty line, struggling to survive . . . Climate change is creating further hardships (two third of the total population live in coastal areas).

Since independence, a large mass of low-income, low literate population crossed over to the Middle East to provide services as laborers/manual workers. They kept importing foreign ideologies, I believe. Garments industries flourished recruiting 90% women/girls in the workforce. Slowly, gradually, the cultural landscape began to change . . .

Dhaka’s differentness was obvious during my recent visit in January, 2024. Before that, I was in Dhaka in 2019.

I had interesting discussions––current trends in philosophy, ideologically . . . what gives hope, what creates despair . . . strengths, happiness, and barriers . . . One thing became clear (among others)––overriding all obstacles is systemic corruption––instated from the highest levels to the lowest, in public and private sectors. It’s infuriating, sad, frustrating. Of course, there are decent folks with good-morals, compassion, and integrity. They are the “endangered” species, essentially, in today’s Bangladesh. And they bring the message of courage, optimism.

. . . My memories of Dhaka are from 1965 when my grandparents had their residence in Dhanmondi ––the new town of that time. Theirs was an inter-generational home, embracing a joint-family living. Dhanmondi was a prestigious residential-area––housed diplomatic missions and diplomats. Gulshan, present day’s affluent-diplomatic residential neighborhood was in its infancy.

Prior to moving to Dhanmondi, my grandparents lived in the old part of the city––the old town. My recollection of that time is hazy––mainly created based on general discussions in the family. I do, however, remember the humming of the printing press they owned on the ground floor, the steep, spiral stairs that led to the residential floor. I also somewhat remember snippets of the caravan of rickshaws and baby-taxis (three wheelers) on our narrow street––pedestrians and vendors with goodies in large cane baskets on their heads . . . oozing aroma of street food

. . . voices and rickshaw bells, some honking, many colors . . . a memory-salad of life around my tiny universe.

The upstairs windows caught a slice of the street––peeking outside was exciting. The back of the rickshaws and baby taxis had paintings of folk-lore scenes or fairy-tale characters. I loved looking at them . . . crafting my own stories of unreal beauty, borrowed from the palette of my wild imagination.Decades ago, this building was pulled down and replaced by a multi-storied structure that brings (till today) good money from rent. (By the way, the UNICEF-Dhanmondi office was on the same street as my grandparents' home. UNICEF, to me, was an unknown entity––possibly awareness raising about our agency needed more attention or my adolescent years had a different kind of focus. Not sure).

Those days, traffic was less––low pollution, smaller population. There were trees in Dhaka (surprise! surprise!)––hardly any high-rise buildings. Today it has transformed into a city of concrete.

Dhaka-sky from rooftop

Dhaka–– a city of concrete

Every time I go back, I find the city unrecognizable. Demolished buildings replaced by new skyscrapers, sounds of constant construction––new houses, super-markets, commercial buildings and flyovers . . . bumper to bumper-jam-packed roads at any hour of the day or night (perhaps it eases during mid-night and wee hours of the morning) . . .

Everything is Dhaka-centered. Unless optimal decentralization happens, pollution, dense population and traffic jams would continue though new flyovers and expressways have been constructed.

Express way

Expressway beside a flyover

Dhaka is a thriving city of restaurants. It’s also known as the city of Mosques. Five times a day, the call for prayer/Azaan alerts the residents . . . I have heard comments about it from internationals ––understanding a culture is the best way to navigate through it, I guess.

My visit this time was extremely micro––12 days to take in the immensity that Dhaka offers. Very few friends still live there. Among my siblings, half live overseas––(in our next generation), except for one niece, all have migrated to the US, UK, Canada. We became the “class” of migrants ... we kept looking, searching, moving . . . we didn’t learn much from Moses, I guess. Utopian Society is a fantasy . . . Every society has its ups and downs––wisdom and ludicrousness, inclusivity and discrimination, anarchy and harmony . . . we are human! I learnt this during my decades-long never-ending-weary trotting of the universe.

. . . This is not the Dhaka I knew. Where have the sounds of laughter, echoes of voices gone? So much is gone ––the flavor of food . . . on crazy-joy pumped weekends when we gathered around our parents’ dining table with kids for hearty meals . . . all those arguments, differences, debates over important things and nothings . . . seem like a lovely dream. Parents are no more today––neither those vibrant times, now frozen in history.

Despite everything, I had a good time in Dhaka, though. Today is different, also endearing, brimming with the warmth of affection, love, friendship, acceptance. It felt like home–– "Home is the place where when you have to go there they have to take you in" –– I remembered the lines from Robert Frost (my favorite poet).

Some things are immortalized ––no amount of change could change them:

Famous BRTC bus––a rarity!

Rickshaws

The first few nights I couldn’t sleep––construction was going on after midnight.

“We are used to it . . . doesn’t bother so much,” my brother was philosophical.

I heard that people suffering from tinnitus listen to music for soothing relief––to subdue the ringing sounds in the ears. So,I played songs on my phone while I hit the bed at night. It worked.

The chaos of the upcoming election and rallies and political violence wasn’t consuming at all. Opposition parties had boycotted the election. Victory for the Awami League (party in power) was a fixed-match.

Election posters adorning the streets

“We try not to get involved . . . never discuss politics on the phone, social media,” friends remarked.

“Corruption will continue, whoever comes to power––this government has provided with overall stability . . . why bother?” Some were resigned––an uphill fight is impossible.

In 2019, an activist photo journalist was jailed by the government. It was Shahidul Alam!! During my UNICEF-Dhaka days (1992-1994), we hired him for the Meena Project to campaign for girls’ rights. We became friends––I have been to his tiny studio “Drik.” There was a worldwide uproar, protests were held in NY demanding his release. He was released after 107 days of imprisonment. Facebook has been blocked several times to stop criticism of the government.

I stayed with my brother and his beautiful wife in Uttara. Once upon a time, this building was a two-storied single-family home of my parents. More than a decade ago it was flipped––reconstructed as a 8 storied apartment building with modern amenities. One thing struck me, though. The Dhaka-folks have turned their homes into green-oases of comfort.

 

 Rooftop flower garden

Growing vegetables on rooftop

I visited the government property registration office to address some personal stuff. At one point, I ended up in a rafters-branch of the office––under a small low-roofed balcony, stacked chairs with desks were occupied by the department staff. The entrance was littered with papers, wraps, dead leaves. There was a small “canteen” that sold tea, fruits, biscuits. I almost went bananas . . .

 

Rafters office and canteen

The clerk who serviced us wore a mask.

“I am impressed. Can I take your photo?” I was genuine. He took off his mask and posed with a broad smile!

Clerk

Inside the main building, I saw instructions on the wall on social distancing, and face

 

Mask instructions

And I met the mobile coffee-servers. This was definitely new.

Coffee man 

 A newly-adopted (?) practice attracted my attention . . . About 95% of the women staff and visitors were wearing Hijab (my assumption, based on what I saw)

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Women wearing hijab in registry office

A woman in hijab at Dhaka airport 

I don’t remember seeing girls or women wearing Hijab or burqa when I was growing up or lived in Dhaka. Usually rural women/and a tiny percentage of educated women––Hindus and Muslims alike covered their heads with the “achol” or end of their sharee, more as a cultural norm than religious affirmation. In rural India, women still cover their heads.

“It’s my decision––I feel good in a hijab.” Some women stated when I asked around.

Some wear hijab due to peer pressure as their friends and relatives have started wearing headscarves.

I took the discussion to my brother’s and sister-in-law’s domestic front. They adopted an orphan girl, Moina, who is now about 19, and a young woman, Meena in her early twenties. Meena, was married to an old man as a minor, abused, and so ran off. My brother’s wife is homeschooling them––hired a teacher for both. They are treated as family––protected, cared for and loved.

“I cover my head, wear a mask when I go to the market––buy whatever I need, myself. I don’t like men looking at me,” Moina told me.

In order to be safe from leering, teasing, many do the same. However, I was told that there are incidences of sexual assaults on hijabi-women as well.

Both Meena and Moina can speak English which they practiced on me as I was the “Aunt from America.” I had great fun with them.

My friends and extended family visited me in Uttara as I didn’t want to be stuck in traffic for hours. But I tried 3 restaurants and attended a wedding (actually only the Henna party). Bengalee weddings are long-affairs–– include many steps and folds, rituals. Food, flowers, music and fun are inherent components.

Dancing at the henna party

And I visited Aarong––the Brac store that sells hand-made products, arts-crafts mostly produced by rural, low-income women. The revenue/profit is used in Brac’s social-development programs.

Aarong Jewelry stall

Liftman in Aarong- from a forgotten era?

. . I found posters with photos of Sheikh Mujib (founder of Awami League, father of Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina) adorned almost everywhere, forcefully ––media, offices, private and public institutions, roads, airports . . . radiating the flavor of a one-party government??

 

 Sheikh Mujib––everywhere

Something interesting  caught my attention:

Men in coffin-clothes, Dhaka-Airport––travelling to Mecca for Umrah-pilgrimage,

Finally, Dr Yunus was arrested on a flimsy charge while I was in Dhaka. It was a sad day. Shameful!

In mid 90s, when I worked with UNICEF-ESARO (Nairobi), with my zealous friends I met with Dr Yunus at his Grameen Bank office in Dhaka with a proposition to establish a women’s conscientious-platform to encourage dialogues on women’s rights––to create awareness towards equity for girls and women. Dr Yunus agreed to be in our group. I was naïve–– the thought of “changing the world” haunted me . . .

Dr Yunus, Nuzhat (in blue), and team

The spirit of Dhaka remains sassy, magical . . . bold––with thunders captured under its wings, defying roadblocks. The maddening crowds, forever-alive mayhem, dusty skies, stormy times, unique grit. . . safely bedded in its womb, Dhaka, fearlessly carries a heavy knapsack of everyday joys and troubles, majestic and terrifying–– and basks in its delightful insanity.

Fall out of love for Dhaka? Bizarre! A mission impossible?!

(Note: this article is dedicated to my “Dhaka-it” family and friends. Pun intended in Bangla)