Suddenly my world is bigger. Now it crosses continents, climates, and cultures very different from my own. I am richer for having firmly planted my feet in another part of the world.
I am standing in a palace in the Old City of Dhaka in Bangladesh. Called the Pink Palace by some, it is also known as Ahsan Manzil, “Beautiful Home.” For generations, it was the residence of the provincial governor or “nawab” of Dhaka at a time when the city was part of India and Britain’s colonial empire. This title was passed from father to son, and the ruling Khwaja family invested its personal fortune in furthering education and expanding rights for the Muslim population of what was then East Bengal.
In 1947 India gained independence from Great Britain and the new state of Pakistan was created, uniting the Muslim populations of the western and eastern regions of British India. In 1952, Ahsan Manzil was purchased by the state of Pakistan. Not until 1985, after a devastating civil war which ended in 1971 with the creation of the People’s Republic of Bangladesh, did the palace become a national museum.
As I wander through the home of former nawabs, located at the heart of a crowded, throbbing bazar, I’ll admit I’m not much impressed by the museum’s collections. There’s some furniture from the late 19th century, some silver, some porcelain and local artefacts. Frankly, I’d guess the place was ransacked long ago, the most precious pieces finding their way to museums in Paris, London or New York.
But I’m not here for the collections. I’m here to get a feel for the place. My first surprise, a moment of wonder, is the view of the Buriganga River. It enters my field of vision as I climb the steps of the Pink Palace, making my way between clusters of young men and women who talk and flirt on the steps or wander in the peaceful gardens while outside, the city roars.
This is my first view of the river, of the palm trees lining its banks, of the shallow-bottomed boats that ferry passengers from one bank to the other, of the ferries that will soon pull anchor and travel for twelve hours till they reach the sea, of trucks delivering fruits and vegetables to be sold in market stalls, of the ever-present crowds. The air is hazy, a mix of humidity and pollution.
I’ve been in Dhaka for a little more than two weeks. Upon arrival I was afraid of the crowds, the mosquitos (dengue, zika, chikungunya!), the intense, unstoppable traffic, the people looking at me. It was exotic, almost too exotic. Standing on the steps of the Pink Palace, looking out at the river, I now find the city beautiful and real. I like it here. I’ll be leaving soon but wish I could prolong my stay.
Inside the museum, I stop to look at some old books in a mahogany bookcase. I’m soon joined by a young man. This happens frequently. The people of Dhaka are curious about us “bideshi” or foreigners. He laments that the books are locked in a case. Wouldn’t it be better if people could take them out to read? He is earnest. He wants to get his hands on those books. He is hungry to learn.
I have a flashback to one year ago. I am in a classroom at the university. My students, their eyes fixed on the screen of their phones, are too busy to listen to me. What could an old fogey, deeply versed in literature and history, have to teach these tech wizards? Their agile fingers navigate between apps as they check in on friends or media stars. Compared to Kim Kardashian or a “coucou” (hi!) from a VBF, how can I compete?
Don’t get me wrong. They like facebook in Bangladesh too. High school students surround me. In a country where tourists are estimated at about 60,000 a year, they don’t meet many foreigners. They want to shake hands and take a photo. I’m sure I’ve turned up on many a Bangladeshi facebook page, yet I’m not sure I’d encounter such curiosity and eagerness to learn in Paris or New York.
At the Liberation War Museum dedicated to the memory of Bangabandhu Sheik Mujibur Rahman, the father of Bangladeshi independence, young people come up to me and speak of their love of country, of their pride in the struggle that lead to the break from West Pakistan. They have telephones, but they’re not always on them. They have eyes open to the world.
Is this one of the signs of “old fogey-ness,” blaming everything on “those cell phones”? Perhaps. And it is all too easy to idealize a place one does not know well, like all those Americans visiting Paris who decide they want to live there forever. I’m not ready to settle in Bangladesh, but I do want to return and here are some reasons why:
Young people want to learn and teachers are more important than their cell phones.
Life is hard, bone-tiring, yet people smile and even sing. From my bedroom window, I observe construction workers across the street from the home of my friend Sarah. After a long, hard, dangerous day, they rinse off with a hose, splashing and singing.
People have vitality and want to create. They create art. There’s Tiger Nazir, a painter who gives a prominent place to the Royal Bengal Tiger in his work. Or the 2019 film “Made in Bangladesh” (official trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uCtl_2nIyU), based on the true story of women organizing a union in the sweatshops of Dhaka. They also create businesses, like Sarah’s sister Sharmeen, who is marketing her “Feisty Tiger Hot Sauce” on-line (check it out at https://www.feistytiger.com/ ). They create street food, like the many itinerant cooks who line the sidewalks of the city.
Everywhere people are busy, working hard at hard jobs, fighting for their rights, and in some cases, risking prison or even death.
There are not enough hospitals, infrastructures are lacking, too many people live in poverty, yet in terms of vitality and general good humor, Bangladesh could make a killing exporting some of its optimism to down-in-the-mouth-countries like the USA or France.
Yes, I loved my trip, and next month I’ll tell you about a connection between Schuylkill County and Calcutta, India.
