The week in re(ar)view
Dejá vù. It means things that happen and then happen all over again. The term popped up in The Matrix in the form of a black cat. It turned up twice in the same spot and that set off warning bells among our protagonists. We have Dejá vù in real life but do we heed the warnings?
BAF crashes………..yet again
Medical fiasco…….that too yet again
BSF kills Bangladeshis……………oh yeah, yet again
By Gokhra and Mood Dude
The last breath
Cold dark shadows cast themselves across the floor, giving the hospital ward a gaunt, sinister look. Her wounds, both mental and physical were still smoldering, still aching.
She'd never expected it, never thought it would happen to her. But it did. A class ten student, Mayesha always walked home after school. On the way she'd pass a chaer dokan, and a group of men, a few years older then her, would taunt her as she passed. She always ignored them, never gave them much thought.
Her parents had come to visit her this morning, their eyes filling up with tears. Her mother had grasped her hand, silent tears flowing in rivulets down her face. Her father, crying had been unable to speak, his grief too great to be expressed. Mayesha had cried with them, her tears stinging her burnt, once beautiful face.
The police had come to, and they'd made her relive those horrendous moments, their questions piercing, asking for the gruesome details she couldn't voice. She'd told them everything, describing the five men as best as she could, told them how it had all happened.
Mayesha had watched news stories of how frightening things happened to girls like her. She'd never gave them much thought, thinking that it would never happen to her. She'd seen the ghastly pictures of the victims, and then, she had forgotten about them. Now she was one of those pictures.
The media had shone their spotlight on her, flashing her across TV screens and newspapers. Mayesha had hated the whole the ordeal. People would only sympathize with her and then forget it all, just like she once had.
Some her friends had come to visit her, they'd cried with her. They told her how their parents had forbade them from visiting her, told her all about the snide comments that people were passing about her. They told her about how those men were still roaming free, how they were still hanging around the chaer dokan, still teasing girls. Justice had failed her.
It had all happened when one day she was returning home, a bit late. One the men had approached her. Stopped her and tried to converse with her. Mayesha had side stepped the man and kept on walking. The men then started following her. She running them, calling out for help. She'd been quickly intercepted, gagged and carried of. They took her to a deserted construction site.
They pain she'd suffered then was incomparable to anything else. She had screamed and writhed as the men raped and massacred her body, breaking her apart. Then they poured the acid, burning her head to foot. They left her for dead, their lust satisfied. She'd been found two days later, her breath coming out in rasps, her heart beating every now and then.
Now, as she lay in bed, her wounds still aching, her mangled body crying, she let the last breath leave her lungs, closing her eyes and shutting out the harsh world…
All kinds of love and hate sent to this address firstname.lastname@example.org
Couple of comments
In Bangladesh, we use the term "football", not soccer. Only USA and few other countries use soccer. In a relatively recent RS edition, two articles used the word soccer, the Pink Panther review and World Cup kits. Why are we trying to be like Americans? We call it football, and that's what should be used in RS.
Photography not easy
In the first class of photography at Pathshala, our teacher Momena Jalil said a few things about ethics and its requirement in photography. One of the examples was that of a little boy being beaten up by a police inspector. For me its ethically cruel to just sit there and watch the show. But it's important to take a picture of this scene as well! So what should be done? To be honest I am still thinking deeply about it and until now no logical answer came to my mind.
16th April, my grandpa turned on the TV for afternoon news and what we saw was horrible. Police sergeant Akbar along with his men beat the hell out of the photographers. Immediate question was why? Later when I thought deeply about it, there were lots of questions and the top concern was if I had been there what would I have done? My rebellious instinct can get me into serious trouble, nevertheless watching that image gave me shivers. For al I know I could be in that situation a few years later.
These half literate cops have no idea about media, because they just showed the entire world how uncivilised Bangladeshi people are(which I believe is not true) and maybe any photographer would be lucky enough to get an award from the world press for taking such a great picture.
Meanwhile I would be still thinking about ethics and about what should have been done. The conclusion is simple, photography as a hobby is much safer than profession.
By Salman Rahman
Behind my mother's curtain, I am still alive.
In the roses on your table,
In the blood that once dropped
From your finger
Cut by the rose's thorn, I am still alive.
In the road beside the lakeside,
You can still hear my footsteps;
In the letters that I sent you,
Can you still hear me breathe?
I am still alive,
Behind the door of my room
In your verandah where the rain tip-toed
In this thread-bare knot of pain
Struggling to be buried in an open casement,
I am still alive.
In the shade of the night
You can still smell my aroma in the shadows,
In the pond beside your home
Can you still see my reflection?
Along the breeze of my memories
In the mirror of my memoirs
In these words,
I am still alive.
By Adnan M. S. Fakir
When day breaks
| Issues | The Daily Star Home
© 2006 The Daily Star