Is this Bangladesh?
My four-year old granddaughter, Zariya, keeps asking questions all the time. She was born in the States and lives there. Last year, she came to Dhaka for the first time. Before coming here, she could not figure out what Bangladesh looked like. Naturally, she was very curious and excited. At the JFK airport in New York, she asked her mother: “Is this Bangladesh?” My daughter replied: “No, we are not in Bangladesh yet.” Zariya repeated this question wherever they stopped all along the journey, even inside the plane, till they arrived in Dhaka.
At the airport, my daughter told Zariya: “This is Bangladesh and please stop asking me the same question again.” She took her to the washroom but it was not like those in the States. So, Zariya kept on asking questions: “Is this also Bangladesh? Why is it so dirty? Why is it full of mosquitoes?” My daughter, exhausted after a long journey, found it difficult to answer to her embarrassing questions. Obviously, Zariya's first impression about Bangladesh was not very encouraging.
So, I had to put a lot of effort to change her impression. I tried to keep my house as clean as possible. I killed each and every mosquito that sneaked into my house. I took her to the nearby children's parks, lakes and playgrounds. At that time, the streets of Dhaka were illuminated because of an ongoing cricket tournament. At nights, I showed her the colourful lights and the illuminated trees along the streets. Finally, to my great delight, Zariya told me once: “I like Bangladesh.” I asked: “Would you come to Bangladesh again?” She said: “Yes, I will.”
I wonder what impression she would have if she visits Bangladesh now. Surely, she would like to see all the beautiful places she visited last time. She will, of course, be disappointed if I tell her that we can't go out and see those places. Without understanding what hartal and blockade mean, she may ask: “Why can't you go out, Nana? Ma also does not allow me to go out when I am naughty. Are you naughty, Nana? What did you do?”
If she watches on television the two and a half-year old boy, Safir, suffering from burn and pain in the hospital and the torching of buses on the streets, surely she will ask: “What did little Safir do? Who burned his body? Why are people so bad here? Why do they burn buses and cars? Why do they kill people? Is this also Bangladesh, Nana?”
Where shall I find answers to her questions and how shall I change her impression about Bangladesh now?
The writer is a senior nuclear engineer.
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