A Love Letter to Bangladesh

Amar shonar Bangla, | My Bengal of gold,

Ami tomay bhalobashi. | I love you.

I’m not exactly sure what comes to your mind when you read the word Bangladesh, but I have a feeling that what you do know about my home country goes something like this: Bangladesh, the dirty, overpopulated country that you might recognize from the little tag sewn into your favorite forever 21 shirt—made in Bangladesh. Have I jogged your memory yet? You may consider it one of those places that exploits child labor. You might consider the quality of life there to be very poor, or at least that’s what Jeffrey Eugenides, author of The Virgin Suicides believes: “What have kids got to be worried about now? If they want trouble, they should go live in Bangladesh.” Upon reading that line, I felt my heart sink knowing that I was going to have to add The Virgin Suicides, a book I thoroughly enjoyed, into my mental bank of media content that furthers the agenda that Bangladesh is a country pervaded by misery. But Bangladesh is my home, it’s where I grew up listening to Rabindranath Tagore from my mother, where I would explore the grahams (villages) with my father, where I felt the most comfortable expressing myself. Bangladesh is where my large extended family would spend hot, humid summers playing outside and enjoying ice cold lebur shorbot (lemonade) back inside. It’s home to me. Bangladesh is by no means perfect, but the way it's portrayed differs greatly from the Bangladesh I grew up loving. 

To give you a little context, I picked up The Virgin Suicides right after reading another book, titled The Love Match, your typical, young adult, overly cliched love triangle book. Except for the fact that it was the first book that I ever picked up that had a primarily South Asian character list, more specifically Bangladeshi-Muslim characters. These characters were lovingly written to mirror the lived experiences of a very small community of Bangladeshi Americans, characters who mirror my very own friends and family. It was the first time I had ever seen Bangla printed on the pages of a contemporary young adult book, or read the oftentimes simplified wording like chai be spelled out the way I grew up saying it, Saa (personally, my family would pronounce it as Chaa, but beggars can’t be choosers here). So many times I had to put the book down, purely because I would become overwhelmed by how much of the book reflected my personal experiences as a Bangladeshi in America. I realized my reaction came from a place of feeling defeated by the representations of Bangladesh that have only become further fortified by popular media. Reading The Love Match felt so familiar, yet so foreign to me - I had become accustomed to the negative perception of Bangladeshi culture, so reading something that I completely related to left me floored. So, I wanted to write my own love letter to Bangladesh, swapping out the distorted American lens that so harshly looks down upon Bangladesh for the lenses I was looking through during the eight years I lived there.

Dear Bangladesh,

We didn’t get along very well at first.

You became my home not by choice, but out of necessity. You let me in with open arms but I was scared to feel your warm embrace. I wasn’t ready, not yet.

Watching my grandma get sicker every day served as a constant reminder of why I became tethered to your topical land—I had to be here. I don’t know if I would have gotten to know you as deeply as I have had there been no ulterior reasoning behind my relocation.

But now that my grandma is solely distant memories that I piece together, I can ignore the fact that you were never my first choice. To be fair, I was barely a year old when I found you, so I don’t think I ever had a choice to begin with. Nevertheless, it was never going to be you.

While you were not my first choice, I can say maa and baba chose you.

Sure, they left you a few times, but they always made their way back—did you feel betrayed when they phoned Virginia for a visit or when they gave you one last hug before moving into California?

I remember feeling betrayed when you allowed for the concrete roads to waver so much that they would rattle the wheels of my bike, causing me to plummet. 

It wasn’t you who bandaged my knees, and you surely didn’t try to convince me to continue biking after I declared my decision to quit trying. 

I never tried to ride a bike again. 

And you were okay with that.

But it was also you who allowed me to make friends.

You housed Sir John Wilson school, and while conservative, they allowed for me to exist.

Did you know that? 

They let me sing, they let me draw, they let me dance, they let me cry in front of the whole class.

I sang “Put Your Hearts Up” by Ariana Grande for a school competition. Can you believe I won?

I sang for my high school’s homecoming in America. I don’t even remember the song. What I do remember is coming back to class and a classmate telling me I don’t sound like a boy. I never wanted to sing again.

America doesn’t allow for much.

I grew to like you. You made unbearably warm summers magical.

I find myself wishing I could be 10 years old again, entering the train to Chittagong and looking out the window hoping that the ride would end before my sister would announce her feeling queasy. I have emetophobia.

I miss when you were the one stop shop for my entire family.

It’s scary when I want to talk to my aunt and she’s 2 days away from me.

It was within your arms that I experienced true friendship. The kids I played with never made me feel a certain way for my existence. I bet you wouldn’t believe me (or maybe you would), but in America, that was not the case. I don’t think I’ll ever experience that again. I hate you for that!

Do you hate me?

I would hate me if I were you.

I spent years pretending I didn’t know you. I wanted to be associated with America and not you so badly.

I forgot how to speak your language. I can’t even write my name in Bangla anymore.

But Bangla is the language that I shared not only with you but my parents, my nanu and nana, my friends, my family, everyone I knew.

Now, when I meet Bangladeshi people, the words that exit my mouth in Bangla feel like a jumble of syllables, none of which land in the way they should.

Do I embarrass you?

For a while I thought it was the other way around, but looking back, I think you were pretty cool.

I loved spending Eid with you. Eid is normal here too, but it's not as special. I liked walking along your roads and seeing everyone in punjabis and salwar kameezes. It’s not like that here. I would get stared at if I wore a punjabi to the subway.

I like all your weather choices, but monsoons look especially beautiful on you. You’re slick with humidity, radiant from the presence of the sun, but also strong with downpour. It’s like sipping on the most delicious mixed cocktail. You’re somewhere between a tequila sunrise and purple rain.

Most of all, I loved the people you introduced me to.

My Bangladeshi community in America is so great. If I never met them, I would have erased you from my memory. You’d become more distant than my dadu and dadi. 

They reminded me of why you are so important to me—I feel like I’ve known you my whole life even though you’ve only been a part of a fraction of it. You are the most familiar person. In a room full of people, I could spot you from a distance. 

You smell of waterlilies and a little bit like cows. More of the former, less of the latter.

You sound like Rabindranath Tagore. My mom sings his songs from time to time and when I hear her sing, I remember singing with her too. I don’t anymore. I don’t remember how to. 

I think I love you.

And I miss you.

And I hate that I won’t be seeing you anytime soon.

Then again, I don’t know if I could ever face you again.

So instead, I’m writing this letter.