Feature

Hope Filled Revolutionaries A Journey Through Bangladesh

Benjamin Williams

Ranak Martin

“The genuine revolutionary”, according to Che Guevara, “is animated by feelings of love.” Love that his fellow Latin American, Paulo Freire, believed must combine with rage, in order that hope might exist. Hence I find it difficult to contemplate taking flight as anything short of a hope filled revolutionary. For love and rage in Bangladesh are anything but in short supply.

“I expect to see you a week from now,” came a knowing sound of resignation, “angrier than ever.” I expected likewise. Yet, as I was soon to learn, expectations offer little more than a false sense of security; a futile attempt to shape the path that lies in anticipation. In the first instance, we have had to wait an extra week. My insides exploded, temperature goaded, I found myself in the company of Mymensingh medics. That, in itself, did not prevent my returning home on time. That I managed to lose my passport, money and visa in the process…yup, that kind of did.

Secondly, though I found no shortage of anger within, the source demonstrates the type of contradiction that served to underpin this entire experience. For where I expected sadness, pain and despair, I found nothing but spirit, pride and determination. Yet where I counted on a stirring of souls, among those with whom I travelled, I found attitudes and actions from which the ground could not with sufficient haste consume me. Not, I must emphasise, from a finger pointing perspective, but rather because of the intolerable reminder of all with which I am complicit.

The following was written in this regard. It is based on what I saw and heard throughout the week, which only served to signal that we all stand tainted. Yet that shame need not be the source of paralysis, if only we should appreciate its transformational qualities.

He could not help where he was born
He saw not why we would be torn
No fridges, fans or poultry wings,
This was not fit for western kings
She thrust her lens without a care
But would not have them stand and stare
No doubt they sought her pale white skin
Or was that just her thought within
His hollow words did mock profound
Beneath a breath his truth had sound
These people he was sent to teach
Alas he found them far from reach
All that passed in '47
Shone no light upon their heaven
Yet the truth may one day humble
And in shame we all shall stumble

Both this and the next poem were also inspired by conversations from a memorable bus journey north. Bangladeshi beats; overwhelming pass by scenes; my beloved plastic carrier bag (completely illegal but wholly appreciated); the true legacy of the British Raj. The latter Bangladeshi and Pakistani insight progressed to that of land ownership issues, giving rise to sentiments that equally feature in the second piece. In short, if one should stand and demand their right to that which is “legally” held by another, there is little prospect of the owner relinquishing. Should that same owner find ten thousand upon their doorstep, their response would do well to adapt. Quickly.

The lies we tell ourselves
The spies we sell ourselves
As we walk these dusty roads
The stench of sewage by the pavement side
Can no more wake us from our slumber
Then can the sight
Of twisted limbs
And broken smiles
The lies we tell ourselves
The spies we sell ourselves
As we no longer dare to come and see
And so we send to go and tell
Their well pressed shirts and articulation
The earnest eyes
And sombre tone
Of censored souls
The lies we tell ourselves
The spies we sell ourselves
Until we, the west, the spineless spender
We, the west, the arrogant mender
Find we have not far to travel
To rest our feet on Downing Street
To say no more can we stand by
We shall not lie nor have you spy

As for love; a more gracious, passionate, welcoming people I could not hope to meet. Dhaka may be one of the most congested and chaotic cities on the planet; it is equally one of the most vibrant and exhilarating. This country has undoubtedly reached beneath my skin from far flung farmlands to the animated faces of school children in Jaago, complete with their distinctive rhymes and new found command of curly 'c' and the number three. I doubt I will ever experience anything quite as random as my sharing of “duck, duck, goose” amidst great hilarity in a schoolyard like no other.

By the afternoon, I not only struggled with the maths quiz I myself set, I gave up all hope of keeping track of the score. For every time my eye wandered across the hazy goat yard and emphatic horizon from the rooftop classroom, a crafty child would cheekily demonstrate their new found grasp of addition and subtraction. Come the conclusion of our English class, I knew I would find my self dreaming of mother, father, Ann, Pat and their ten hen's eggs. After all, the passage was read to me thirty-five times! I was only sorry that I failed to communicate the proper pronunciation of 'Pat' to any one of them. 'Fat' they insisted, or perhaps they were just referring to the oversized tongue that seemed to be at the root of my poor articulation never more evident than during my attempt to take the register.

For all the impact each of them had on me, I struck a chord with one child in particular. His insistence that every second word of the text was 'mother' proved that he was clearly a young man after my own heart! Before time was called, there was still an opportunity to attempt some Bangla, which was soon to be traded for a touch of Tiree Gaelic. Cue confusion in all quarters, which only served to fuel the laughter and fist jabs that marked this truly privileged experience.

The energy of these children was undoubtedly matched by the spirited volunteers of 'Youth Ending Hunger' in Mymensingh. Their hospitality was second to none, both in our base and their local communities to which we traveled. Their approach to sanitation, health and literacy was shared through dramatic interpretations, talks and music. My only regret was to run short of time for the cricket I had long been plotting with my Bangladeshi friends. It does, however, mean I have cause to return, an option I'm relieved to still have after two weeks of hair width hurtling. There can be little doubt that driving on these roads is an art bestowed only on the bravest and most gifted among us!

There have, of course, been endless other experiences throughout. The sensual onslaught of Old Dhaka; the carefully crafted curries from which the use of cutlery could only detract; the rural agricultural villages in which I longed to stay; the local police, national immigration officers and international diplomats. I was also an honoured guest in the home of a Bangladeshi family. Their hospitality extended throughout the back streets of Dhaka and various places of worship, courtesy of the full local transport experience. I even had the opportunity to try my hand at some manual soil testing along the way.

Yet down a maze of alleyways, in the epicentre of a slum, came the most memorable moment of all. As the sun set on the sandy bank, an atmospheric call to prayer converged with the bare footed human interaction of a beautiful game. I have never felt so far from anywhere, yet never felt so close to home.

Love and rage indeed.

(Writer is a student of Glasgow University and visited Bangladesh as part of the bilateral exchange of the British Council's Active Citizens Project)