Nope, not there yet.

I had intended to be back in Bangladesh by mid-September. I have not, however, been able to get a new research visa, for reasons that have not been made entirely clear by the Bangladesh embassy, and I’m still in the U.S. I have been reminded of the power held by embassies, and in this case, foreign ministries.

It’s not my research that worries me so much. It’s the kids at the orphanage that I think of all the time. I have a large amount of donated supplies that I am so excited to share with the kids. And while I know they will have faith that I will return (I’ve returned so many times!), I worry about other things. How will Mohiuddin get extra food? Will Imam try to leave the orphanage again, because he thinks it would be better to get a job (at age 15)?

I want to go back, Bangladesh Embassy.. why are you making this so difficult?

The ‘Critical’ Ones

As I walked out of the UN building yesterday, a man came up beside me and asked, “Are you observing?” I was taken aback by his sudden presence beside me, and even more surprised by the question.  “What?”  He repeated the question, which made no more sense the second time than the first.  Perhaps I laughed a little, and then began to speak to him in Bengali.  The conversation continued in English and Bengali, despite my attempts to continue on my way to my meeting.

“What is your country?” This is a very usual question. “What province are you from?”  Ok, ok, Georgia, no, it’s not California or near to California.  “What are you doing here in Bangladesh?” I gave my standard answer, in Bangla. And very quickly I had a prickly, defensive Bangladeshi man yelling at me about my incorrect pronunciation.  I might have laughed again.  Next, he told me that, as the British are the only ones who know how to pronounce English correctly, the Bengalis know how to correctly speak Bengali.

Yes, he was right.  I pronounced a “gaw” like “go”.  I do this sometimes, but not too often for it to be a pattern.  But I was offended.  Very offended, and angry.  Angry that this strange man had accosted me on my way to an important meeting, angry that he had pointed out a flaw, angry that this awful, gendered situation had happened to me far too often.

I think, in fact, he was as offended by me as I was by him.   That’s what my over-analysis has decided.  I had laughed at him, and he was getting his vengeance.  And it hurt.  My Bangla’s not perfect, but I pride myself in my pronunciation and accent.  Even if it was the incorrect pronunciation, there was no reason to scream in my face about it.  That was just rude.

And we don’t have provinces, jerk, we have states.

Buses and Street Justice

I know that riding a bus in Bangladesh means taking a risk. But beyond the annoyances of traffic and inordinately long waits for ferries, I have never been too worried. Our ride to Khulna was a new experience that I would have rather not had, but it was certainly eye-opening.

We had barely gotten out of Dhaka on Wednesday night when our bus driver slammed on the brakes, throwing all of us forward. No one was hurt, and attention quickly turned to the reason for our stop. A small truck had attempted to cross the road, but had been caught between our bus and another truck to our right side. Immediately, the young college-age boys in front of us jumped up and ran towards the truck, beating the windows of the truck with their hands and shoes. Although it was hard to see from where I sat on the bus, it was apparent that the boys were also beating the truck driver. Once the man had been pulled from the truck, the bus driver intervened and took control of the situation, leading the truck driver to the nearby truck stop to wait for police. The boys who had engaged in beating the truck driver were obviously not enraged… rather, they were enjoying the experience and began to smoke cigarettes outside. Suddenly we all heard shouting, and the boys ran back onto our bus, passing by their own seats and cowering towards the back of the bus.  In the open window to my right, I could see a mob of angry truck drivers and various other by-standers rushing towards the bus, several with lathis (sticks) and one with a metal hook.  It was obvious that they were demanding that the boys who had beat the truck driver be handed over.  Our driver–a cool-headed but assertive man–refused and called for the mob to wait until the police arrived.  In the tense minutes until the police arrived (it really wasn’t that long of a time), I found myself angry, in that way that fear propels anger.  I loudly berated the boys for their childish behavior, speaking in English because my voice and body were shaking.  I was angry that they had acted so ‘bravely’ (like goondas, really), but when it came right down to it, they were just stupid, cowardly children who would beat an unarmed man.  And I was particularly incensed that, in their stampede to the back of the bus, they had left me as the closest target to the belligerent crowd.

In the end, I was perhaps not in such danger.  The crowd knew who they wanted, and once the police came, they demanded that the boys unboard the bus.  After many arguments between both sides, it seems that the boys from our bus offered to pay for hospital fees for the bus driver, and, of course, to pay off the policemen who arrived at the scene.  The boys climbed back on the bus, a little shaken but still brash.  We were far behind schedule, but, since we were on a night bus, it mattered little, and we arrived in Khulna at 8:30 am.

Pictures

If you’ve been only reading the last few entries, do take the time to scroll down to older ones.. I’ve added some pics!

More soon, as T and I travel back to Char Fasson!

A real partner

Yesterday, as I discussed with T the difficulties he will face when he comes to visit me, I realized just how lucky I am to be with someone who is so open to being a part of my fieldwork. Several years ago, a senior (male) professor in my field complained that it is almost impossible for South Asianists to have good marriages, because no spouse wants to spend their time running around (in this case) Bangladesh. Since then, I’ve seen a few (although, granted, only a few) professors who have been able to manage the distance and the difficulties associated with fieldwork in South Asia.

And honestly, asking anyone else to come visit me for two months in Char Fashion would be almost impossible. Living in Char Fashion is not easy, and you certainly don’t have the most basic amenities. But T is so easy-going and so open to new experiences that I know he will fare well, and I won’t have to constantly worry about his level of comfort. The only thing he may find terribly frustrating is the lack of privacy and ‘alone time,’ but I think his sense of adventure will outweigh that in the short-run.

As we sat and talked about our time together in Bangladesh, I felt so happy knowing that I will be able to share my experiences with him. The feeling of loneliness that has already begun to creep in was temporarily set aside. Sure, it will be tough, but we’ll face it together, at least for those few months that he can stay.