Afia Jahin is a member of the editorial team at The Daily Star.
How can women travel on public transport without feeling like sub-humans?
It is unfortunate that most people experiencing one failed romantic relationship tend to give up on love altogether. In the process, we also normalise giving less to our current partner.
Why do female sportspeople have to prove themselves “worthy” of the support their male counterparts can take for granted?
I have been deeply, deeply affected by social media sensation Ashraful Hossen Alom’s (mostly known as Hero Alom) rendition of Amaro Porano Jaha Chay (lyrics by Rabindranath Tagore).
How feministic is the female revenge fantasy in films?
What hope is there for a country—soon to become a middle-income one—to be a safe one for its citizens if people are being killed on roads daily, with little intervention from authorities besides what’s on paper?
Why is a man seen as the default protector to a woman? Why do we believe that a woman cannot protect herself—let alone decide when she does or does not require protection?
Often as children, my female peers and I would lament over the myriad privileges our male counterparts enjoyed in society, from being allowed to play for hours in the sun (a tan would not diminish their value as human beings) to going out any hour of the day (with their prime fear being that they might be mugged, not that they might be raped and killed).
If I had to pick only one trait of my own that I admire, it would have to be my ability to adapt.
Advocate Sultana Kamal is a human rights activist and the founder president of Manabadhikar Shongskriti Foundation (msf). In this interview with Afia Jahin of The Daily Star, she speaks about what perpetuates violence against women in Bangladesh, and the steps that individuals, institutions and the state can take to combat it.
The character of Miranda Priestly (played by Meryl Streep, from the 2006 film “The Devil Wears Prada”—albeit exaggerated for dramatic effect—was the boss of all our nightmares.
This is my moment of truth. When last month I got to know that there was a day called World Thrift Day (that is, today), I immediately decided I had to write about it.
Upon reading the news headline for the incident I am about to discuss, I only felt a momentary, dull pain in my gut or thereabouts. Because while it is a shocking incident that would rob you of hope, the elements of the story are all too familiar to us all.
We are all familiar with the sight by now: everyone in a family—adults, children, parents—sitting together, but each concentrating on their personal device, usually a smartphone or a tablet.
It’s part of human nature to favour symmetry, uniformity, and evenness over something that is uneven or “disorganised.”
Weighed down under the stacks of reports about crowding at vaccination centres, shortage of vaccine doses, and the rocky mass vaccination drives, is the story of how a section of Bangladeshi population is suffering from bias and a lack of access to the jabs, leaving them unprotected against the coronavirus.
Against all odds (read: the non-existent movement restrictions and the maintenance of health safety guidelines almost becoming a practice-as-you-please thing), it seems the rate of Covid-19 infections in Bangladesh is finally going down, and hopefully nearing the “safe” and much-desired mark of five percent or less.
People’s tendency to drag back any individual who attempts to break away from dominant social norms or expectations has existed in all units of society since time immemorial. We just have a term for it now that rolls off the tongue easily.
As a child, my weekday dawns consisted of walking five or so minutes to the spot from where my school bus would pick me up.
There are certain topics which, when in the news, garner a lot of attention and opinions from varying perspectives.
The Covid-19 pandemic has undone a lot of progress towards ending child labour, globally. What can Bangladesh do to recover some of that progress?
The internet and its cloak of anonymity seemingly avails us with freedom on all counts. What people see of one’s life on their social media profile/s, for instance, is what they want people to see.
At a time when most people are struggling to choose between life and livelihood, there are members of our society who have been going out of their way to help make life easier for those who have been afflicted by the virus.
The second April of the pandemic is here, and it seems we are back to square one. Just as most institutions were planning to reopen (all of them intending to exercise proper health guidelines, one hopes) after having lost a year to the Covid-19 pandemic,
Think of something you want. Anything. No, really. Be it a set of frosted cupcakes, a piece of jewellery, or homemade sushi rolls.
Enough time has finally passed for us to collectively reflect on how much, and in what ways, the Covid-19 pandemic has changed our usual lives. Students, in particular, have encountered a drastic shift in how they experience their education—and as a result, the internet.
Now that the few crores of Covid-19 vaccine doses are finally arriving in Bangladesh in batches of tens of lakhs (and many more have been promised to be on their way soon), a new challenge has presented itself for those in charge of distributing the vaccines.
How can women travel on public transport without feeling like sub-humans?
It is unfortunate that most people experiencing one failed romantic relationship tend to give up on love altogether. In the process, we also normalise giving less to our current partner.
Why do female sportspeople have to prove themselves “worthy” of the support their male counterparts can take for granted?
I have been deeply, deeply affected by social media sensation Ashraful Hossen Alom’s (mostly known as Hero Alom) rendition of Amaro Porano Jaha Chay (lyrics by Rabindranath Tagore).
How feministic is the female revenge fantasy in films?
What hope is there for a country—soon to become a middle-income one—to be a safe one for its citizens if people are being killed on roads daily, with little intervention from authorities besides what’s on paper?
Why is a man seen as the default protector to a woman? Why do we believe that a woman cannot protect herself—let alone decide when she does or does not require protection?
Often as children, my female peers and I would lament over the myriad privileges our male counterparts enjoyed in society, from being allowed to play for hours in the sun (a tan would not diminish their value as human beings) to going out any hour of the day (with their prime fear being that they might be mugged, not that they might be raped and killed).
If I had to pick only one trait of my own that I admire, it would have to be my ability to adapt.
Advocate Sultana Kamal is a human rights activist and the founder president of Manabadhikar Shongskriti Foundation (msf). In this interview with Afia Jahin of The Daily Star, she speaks about what perpetuates violence against women in Bangladesh, and the steps that individuals, institutions and the state can take to combat it.