More than Mother Earth

Even while the plane was still in the air, preparing for landing, most of the Bangladeshi passengers rushed to unbuckle their seatbelts and scrambled for their carry-on bags. They all wanted to be the first to get their bags out at the gate, the first to disembark, and the first to queue at immigration. Nobody was paying any attention to what the poor air-hostess was trying to announce at the top of her voice, her desperate plea for them to return to their seats and keep their seatbelts fastened until the plane came to a full stop. Her words fell on deaf ears. It was in defiance of all safety rules, as if to declare that now that they were in their own land, they would no longer have to respect the “white man’s rules.” All they had in mind was a race, a fierce and unyielding competition to beat the others, by any means necessary, to get to the gate ahead of everybody else. “Being the first one at the gate” seems to have become a national obsession for the people of Bangladesh, completely unaware that in the process they fell behind almost all other nations of the world.

Three years ago, during my last visit to Bangladesh, I was impressed by the large, new airport building and by the speed and efficiency of the service at the immigration counters. This time, however, things were markedly different. I was standing near the middle of a long queue in front of the immigration counter, holding my “foreign” passport, when a small man in civilian clothes came out of nowhere and grabbed my papers from my hand. Before I could react, he declared in a semi-official voice that since I was a “foreigner”, I needed professional help to fill out the forms properly; he was there for, as a representative of the Government of Bangladesh, to help, free of cost. Annoyed as I was at his not-too-polished manners, I was nonetheless pleased that the Government seems to have gone out of its way to help the non-resident travelers through the rather confusing process of immigration and customs. Until I realized that this clever fellow’s motives were less than entirely altruistic toward the “poor foreigners” as he obviously would like to think of us. In fact, it was more than likely that he was in league with the rest of the immigration officials in the airport building, trying to spot the foreign passport holders and use their well-honed skills to fleece the foreigners out of a few precious US dollars or British pounds. For he not only “filled out” my forms that I had already done myself, but managed to whisk me through the front of the line, ignoring the fact that this was a blatant breach of official rules. Then he got my papers quickly signed and sealed by the “kind-hearted” officer at the counter. Tired and exhausted as I was after a long sleepless journey, I couldn’t help feeling deeply embarrassed by this whole episode of receiving “precious little help” from no less than the representatives of the Government of Bangladesh without even asking for it and in such an irregular manner. But the motive became clear only later, when I was getting ready to leave the immigration doors. That “kind” gentleman stood in my way, almost blocking the exit, and asked in a somewhat demanding tone: “Didn’t you forget something, Sir?” Oh yes, of course, I did indeed. The tips – the ubiquitous tips. Fortunately, I had an extra dollar in my pocket. What I didn’t know, however, was that a dollar was not an acceptable amount anymore at the Dhaka airport. The minimum was five dollars, even for the panhandlers loitering around. I didn’t have a five-dollar bill; I only had a couple of one-dollar bills and a ten dollar one. The clever fellow managed to get the highest value bill out of me.

Three years ago, as I was boarding the flight out of Dhaka airport, I had vowed to myself that it would be the last time I visited my country. Nothing against the country, of course; it was just my own failing health and my inability to stay well for more than a week. It seems my body had a special affinity for all the deadly viruses and bacteria of Bangladesh. In less than a week of my arrival, I find myself coughing and sneezing, or visiting the toilet far too often. My poor sister with whom I stay finds herself running from doctor to doctor, from one clinic to another, trying to find relief for her sick Canadian brother. It’s only near the end of my stay I may start feeling a little better, but by that time it’s time to leave. So, what’s the point of going there in the first place?

And yet, I was there once again. My sons were not too pleased that I had broken my own promise. They pleaded with me to reconsider my “foolish” decision to take the same trip yet again. “For heaven’s sake, Dad, cancel your flight, and spare us from having to worry ourselves about you all the time.” I responded rather mischievously:

“Good, let this be your turn to worry about me. This will be well-earned payback for the years and years of constant worry that I and your mother endured when you were young. We worried because we loved you and you were so precious to us. And now you will worry for the very same reason.”
Then I added: 

“You know why I break my promise again and again? For the same reason – Love. I love my country. The pull of one’s land of birth is a powerful force. It’s like adolescent love—intense and irrational. It doesn’t lead to any logical conclusion; it simply exists, like the center of a vast gravitational field emanating from some unknown corner of the universe. You are completely helpless in its pull. To tell you the truth, my boys, this is the only love that outlives every other love in life – this blind love for your country. All other attachments fade with time, but this one only grows stronger, especially with distance and age. The farther you are from your country, the more fiercely you feel it. Strange, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s hard for you to grasp these peculiar truths of human nature now, but one day you will, as you grow older.”

And yet, I knew all too well that the country I was visiting was not the same one I had once known. The land that was once my playground, with its wide-open spaces for my adolescent adventures, has long been lost. Am I talking about the loss of a land, or the loss of my past? Spring comes only once in a person’s life, right? Everything is colorful at that time. One feels like the center of the universe; everything around them seems to have been put in place just to please them. The world is a huge orchestra playing their favorite music, an endless garden ablaze with flowers of every color and fragrance.

Upon your return from a visit to your country of origin, you are always confronted with one question: “How was it? What do you think about the country?” A mundane question – nothing inquisitive! About the state of our country, my friend, you should know better than I do. It is you who keep yourselves connected to the country through satellite TV stations, so you can watch – day and night – what is going on in that god-forsaken country of ours. Fresh, up-to-date news, if I need it, can be found from you, every hour on the hour. Besides, the purpose of my visit was not to assess the state of the country. I went there to spend some leisure time with my aging siblings – reminiscing about our childhood. I also met with some friends from the past, who are still alive, who have not yet lost their minds or their precious memories. If your question is what I saw in the country, that’s a different matter. The eyes are mine, so what I see with them is strictly my way of seeing – that can be, and often is, different from what you or others may see. We all see the world with a pair of coloured glasses – coloured by our own beliefs and opinions. I always say that people do not see with their eyes, but with their minds. But the reality is that it doesn’t matter what I saw in my country or what I think is going to happen to it in the future. I do not live in that country. I only go there for short visits when the conditions are right for flying, with some US dollars in my pocket. Then I spend a few relaxing weeks eating rich Bangladeshi food with friends and then head home (note that this ‘home’ of mine is not the same as it was a few short years ago).

No, I do not go to see the ugly side of my country – only its polished, flashy face. Years of living in Canada must have given me an extra sensitivity to the heat of Dhaka. But that isn’t really been a problem as my kind hosts have excellent accommodations for me – every room with its own air conditioner or AC. This magical little abbreviated word, AC, I’ve learned, is one of the first words the babies in newly affluent families in this country pick up – sometimes even before they can fully pronounce their own names. So, you see, ensuring physical comfort for an expatriate brother or brother-in-law is not a problem anymore. Everything is there – you just have to ask for it. Western classical – Mozart, Bach or Beethoven? You can get them all in their family collections. You need something from a store? Don’t worry. The chauffer will take you there and carry your bags, whether heavy or light, even if you insist on carrying them yourself. The members of the better-off families in Bangladesh never carry their own shopping bags; that’s the job of the chauffeur or the servant. They don’t open the car door themselves, wash their clothes, hang the laundry, or even change their babies’ diapers. Now tell me, my friend: after living in this environment, how much knowledge about Bangladesh could I possibly have gathered? The wealthy houses there are not much different than those in the West, but everything is. The rest is hell, and that, I’m afraid, is the real Bangladesh. Even in the posh areas in Dhaka city, slums exist side by side with luxury. 

I may recount here an embarrassing experience from my last visit to Dhaka. I attended a family dinner. The host and the hostess were both talented engineers and earned enough wealth to enjoy a high standard of living in an upscale suburb of the city. They can even afford vacations in India and Singapore, or trips to hill-top resorts in the Alps. For them, money has never been an obstacle to living well.
After a hearty meal, we began talking about the weather, traffic, and politics in Dhaka and Ottawa, as well as the deteriorating education system in Bangladesh. Soon the conversation shifted to the topic of Non-Resident Bangladeshis, NRBs in short. It was a buzzing topic because only a month earlier there had been a conference of NRBs from around the world, many of them were regarded as experts in their respective fields. 

The NBR experts flew to Dhaka, stayed in the best hotels the city could offer, and delivered a few precious words that were supposed to magically open the eyes of wretched Bangladeshis and solve the country’s problems. Their discussion, as expected, focused on “expatriate talent” and how that invaluable resource could be used to benefit the country. They also discussed the progress already made that could be attributed to non-resident expertise. Their supercilious conversation droned on until it was interrupted by a young local architect who was just as haughty.

My host suddenly exploded: “You want to know who our best friends are? Who are doing the real sacrifice for their country?”. “It’s those poor, low-educated, migrant workers who are working like slaves in the Middle East and sending us remittances.” 

I was taken aback by the sudden outburst of my host, as though I had been invited there to shoulder the blame for all NRBs. His wife, who had been quiet until that point, looked visibly embarrassed and tried to steer the conversation toward family matters. The change of subject was a relief. I thanked the couple for their hospitality and said good night. 

But the whole episode, unpleasant as it was, kept me awake for most part of the night. I found myself wondering whether, despite my host’s insolence, there was a grain of truth in his words. Is it possible that when we return to our country of origin with full of big ideas about how to fix things, we NRBs actually make the situation worse? Can we really be part of the solution, or are we just another problem, as my host sharply pointed out? Isn’t it true that we NRBs swoop into our “homeland” during the pleasant season, flaunt our Western development theories on national talk shows, and then slip out again as soon as the heat and humidity return?” How many of us can honestly claim to have stayed on for a year or more – as so many Indian expatriates do – to work alongside the masses of our country without seeking any financial reward? I know some do, but they are exceptions. I’m not one of them. These days my health won’t allow me to stay longer, but even when I was younger, I always found other excuses not to.

In an odd way, I feel grateful to my rude young host for the thoughts he provoked. We, the so-called villainous expatriates, may be all talk and no substance, but what exactly are they themselves doing for their country’s well-being? Sure, they have stayed back, resisting the temptation of an easier life in the West. I’ll give them full credit for that. But beyond staying put, what real contribution are they making?

If we can be ridiculed for living so-called comfortable life abroad, why should the privileged class to which my kind host belongs get a free pass? Don’t they deserve at least some of the criticism they throw at us? From what I saw, the amount of luxury goods in the house of my young host, or in any house of his class, easily exceeds anything I can afford in my home in Ottawa, or would ever even want. My place in Ottawa is a hut compared to the mansions they’ve built for themselves. But those mansions, sitting right next to slums, feel like open insults -  stark reminders of how unequal the whole society is. These wealthy friends of mine may have planted their roots in that country, but do they truly grasp what it means to earn a living through hard, punishing work in conditions no one should endure? So, isn’t it just a bit hypocritical for them to play the guilt card with me, lecturing about the suffering of the country’s poor?

Let me be blunt. The real issue is the newly minted class of ultra-rich people that has been emerging since the country gained independence in 1971. And what does “ultra-rich” even mean today? To start with, they’re rich, spectacularly so. Half the time they don’t even seem to know how or from where the money is flooding in, so the rest of us certainly don’t stand a chance of knowing. Second, their children attend English-medium schools, gearing up for “O-level” and “A-level” exams, which are administered not by their own country, but by the old colonial gatekeepers in Great Britain, specifically in the venerable city of Cambridge. What this all amounts to is that these so-called patriotic citizens are grooming their children as export-ready models for the more coveted Western markets, much like the shrimp farmers in southern Bangladesh who reserve their best products for export. Their children speak English with effortless fluency but struggle with Bangla, which is supposedly their mother tongue. And I have yet to hear of a single high-income Bangla family sending their children to a public school where the medium of instruction is Bangla. That, it seems, would be far too shameful an act. Third, at least one member of their family will have a house in the U.S., Canada, or Australia, those blessed lands where money supposedly grows on trees and dreams materialize effortlessly. From what I’ve seen of the wealthy enclaves of Dhaka, I don’t know a single family whose children haven’t already immigrated to the West, or aren’t in the process of doing so.

Back in the good old days, the phrase “upper middle class” meant far more than a higher income. It implied higher education, refined cultural sensibilities, a cultivated taste in art, music, and lifestyle, and, not least, a certain moral standard. Today, of course, these qualities have become optional, nice to have, but hardly required for anyone eager to claim a place among the upper classes. Money alone can now purchase most of the trappings of “education”, “taste”, and “culture”. Higher education itself has become just that: an option, not a necessary ingredient for what passes as real success.

No matter where you look in Bangladesh, problems are everywhere, and arguing over which one is “worst” only distracts from solving any of them. What the country needs now is not more experts identifying problems, but people who actually know how to address them, and I don’t claim to be one of them.
But I’ll humbly submit that I’ve spent my entire life in the field of education, so it may not too impertinent for me to offer one or two ideas on this subject. If this country is ever to see meaningful change, in my opinion, the most urgent transformation must happen in the education sector. The decline in the educational standards didn’t begin overnight; it started right after the decolonization of the subcontinent. Since then, the foundations have steadily eroded. Ill-trained teachers, overcrowded classrooms, poorly written textbooks, and a disproportionate emphasis on religious instruction at the expense of modern scientific learning have all contributed to it. None of these factors have supported the goals of a forward-looking, modern society.

I was born in the final days of British rule and I attended a public school for Muslim students, most of whom came from farming families. There were also a few boys from the families of Nawabs (Muslim nobles of high social standing) who arrived each morning in chauffeur-driven cars. Despite these differences, within the walls of our school we never felt as though we belonged to separate “classes”. One may ask whether we truly received a good education in those government schools. I certainly didn’t emerge as a prodigy, but whatever command I have over the English language came from that poorly funded institution where barefooted boys sat beside well-dressed boys from landowning families. What we had in those days was a balanced education: equal emphasis on both the Bangla and the English language along with a solid grounding in basic mathematics and the sciences.

Today, “good” schools simply mean English medium schools, where parents must spend hundreds of thousands of dollars just to secure a place for their children. I’m told that even getting a toddler into kindergarten now requires an enormous sum, along with a hefty “voluntary” contribution to the school’s general fund.  Thank God I didn’t have to grow up in today’s Bangladesh, because if I had, there is no way my father could have afforded to send me to school, I often wonder what would have happened to me if I were a child today, with my father struggling to support a large family on his honest but meagre income. 

Did I say “honest” income? In today’s toxic culture, that’s practically a joke. We grew up hearing, “Honesty is the best policy”, drilled into our heads like some sacred truth. We also used to love quoting: “Knowledge is power.” Sure! Maybe back then. These days, honesty is the worst policy, a guaranteed path to lifelong poverty. And what about knowledge? All you need is an iphone or a smartphone that everyone carries around anyway. And even then, the real power is not that little device.  It’s in cold, hard cash. The ultra-rich need their phones just to help them count it.

How long can this be allowed to continue? Not much longer, I hope. Something has to change. What we need is nothing short of a complete overhaul. A state that effectively blocks its citizens from realizing their aspirations – regardless of socioeconomic background, ethnicity, or religious identity – and fails to lift its poorest children out of poverty is, in essence, a failing state. Such a state does not deserve a place among the family of independent nations at the United Nations. It pains me to say that my old country, Bangladesh, is now teetering dangerously close to that condition. We must find a way to pull ourselves out of this deep hole. What we need, desperately, is change. Real, radical change.

I’m sure I am not the only one who feels this concern. Many of us have wondered how on earth we allowed our education system to decline so severally? I had the opportunity to discuss this issue with students who are directly affected by this precipitous decline. They have little confidence in the quality of their education compared with that of other countries. The gap becomes even more apparent when they attend universities abroad, in Canada or the U.S. – where they quickly realize they must work harder to catch up with their peers from other countries. None of this is their fault. They have been cheated out of a good, honest education. This new generation holds degrees with little real value. They have no meaningful job prospects at home, nor can they compete in the job market abroad

This is our lost generation – lost because we failed to protect and nurture them when we still had the chance.

What this society needs today is collective effort. In Western countries, it is strong institutions that keep the entire system standing. Almost every great figure leave behind a legacy that gradually evolves into institutions, benefiting entire populations. Legacy alone does not make one immortal; it is the continuation of one’s work through enduring institutions that does. Only then does a contribution move beyond the local sphere and enter the global stage, allowing the initiator to become a citizen of the world.

What Bangladeshi society needs is more outstanding thinkers, inventors, and innovators. The potential is there. Talent, I believe, is distributed evenly across humanity. It is not a lack of talent but a lack of social and political support that holds people back. We need to create an open environment where talented individuals can do their work and imagine a new world for all of us.

(First published in Bangla in 2014. Translated by the author from the original, Shudhu Mati Noy; edited by Ashram for clarity and length)

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