A basic instinct

It's hard to say when it will hit you, usually when you will least expect it to. For me it was when I was in Kindergarten in London, with very limited fluency in English. But I knew enough when suddenly in the playground a girl with golden hair who looked almost exactly like the doll I had left at home in Bangladesh, called me 'Blackie' several times and poked me lightly on the shoulder. She wouldn't stop so I slapped her. I was taken to the Principal's room and after a good talking to had to bear the humiliation of the dinner nannies suddenly changing their motherly affection to shaking their heads and saying "Oh what a naughty girl you are." It was bewildering -- the white girl was the one who had made the remark and I had retaliated with a slap -- ahem -- and a few Bangla abuses but they didn't know that -- and I was the one being punished. Where was the justice in that, my outraged soul demanded silently. But what it taught me even at such a young age was that I had to stand up for myself, for the colour of my skin and for the place where I belonged.

This was all the more clear when later I befriended a classmate -- Martin -- he was one of those math whiz kids who also happened to be the most beautiful boy I had ever seen (not that I had a very wide reference point at that age). He asked me where I was from and mispronounced it 'Banglidesh?' I made him say it the right way because I explained, the way he was saying it, it would mean 'froggy country' ('bang' being frog in Bangla). The friendship was doomed to end as his smartness got him a double promotion to a higher class but I soon made other friends -- even the racist Katie. But my best friend was a little Sylheti boy called Monsa (I think it was actually Monsoor) and we were the only two brown kids in the class. But our alliance gave us comfort and courage in case there were other onslaughts.

But racism in those days was very blatant. Many days when my brother and I would walk home from school a pesky little boy would follow us and utter racial slurs -- 'brownie', 'blackie' etc. We ignored it for a few days until one day when my otherwise rather mild-mannered brother, lost it and punched our stalker in the face. I couldn't be prouder of my sibling, especially since the taunting completely stopped after this.

The reason why I am recounting such ancient history is because it has always intrigued me how at certain moments of heightened sensitivity people instinctively hold on to their true identity. I don't even know why I was so adamant to make Martin pronounce my country's name correctly. I don't recall ever really realising that we were refugees in a foreign land, fleeing terror and possible death. Perhaps it was what I had picked up from my parents, perhaps it was something inherent in all of us.

We often talk about patriotism these days and we Dhakaites make quite a fuss about showing it off, wearing the right colour combination on the right day, attending rallies and singing patriotic songs. Which is all very well -- people should celebrate their country's freedom in any way they wish and it is wonderful to see so many thousands of Bangladeshis taking pride in their national identity. But sometimes our fervour to manifest our love for our motherland supersedes the basic premise on which such patriotism lies.

We are not doing our country any favour by being patriotic. We are not more Bangladeshi by tattooing our face with the Bangladeshi flag than the emaciated domestic maid who cleans and cooks for us every single day and never even asks whether she can take the day off on Independence Day. We are Bangladeshi because this is our land -- handed to us by those who selflessly gave up their lives, their limbs, their families and their personal dreams so that we could exist as citizens of a free and independent country. We only have to think of the Palestinians who continue to live in constant fear of being thrown out of their own land. How rare and precious a gift would independence be for them!

As a nation we have made remarkable progress in terms of economic growth and also in some areas of development. But in terms of being united in our determination to make sure that every single Bangladeshi has the luxury of feeling exuberant on Independence Day, we have failed miserably. Our leaders have failed us, mocked our faith in their direction and shamelessly pursued self aggrandisement and material gratification. Some of us have given up and gone to greener lands where basic things like 'life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness' are guaranteed; and what is wrong with that? Others, out of sheer desperation, have risked their lives to go to foreign lands so that they can send money back home, so that their families can survive. So that we can boast about the bulky remittances that boost our foreign exchange reserves.

Those of us who have chosen to stay back or come back -- there is nothing particularly noble or magnanimous about it. We have chosen this because ultimately this is the land that has given us sustenance, acceptance, respect and a sense of identity. Even if the rest of the world rejects us for our jarring poverty, backwardness, insane politics and inability to preserve our natural resources, or because we are 'blackies,'  we can always call one place our home. Bangladesh.

The writer is Deputy Editor, Editorial & Op-ed, The Daily Star.