Rebecca Haque

Rebecca Haque is Professor, Department of English, University of Dhaka.

Pandemic Nocturne 1: December Dirge

Ask me not of Grief. For I have been burnt by its friendly fire with blood and bits of oozing mortal flesh spun flaky and ashen by its biting cold breath.

Memory

Memory is a winding range Of coniferous mountain pine Catching the fiery light

CONTINENTAL DRIFTER: SOLO TRAVELLER

Today, sitting on my balcony in Dhaka, with my face to the south looking down at the green neighbourhood park, I look back on my

MISTY SWEETNESS

The little girl in the yellow summer frock looks up at the floating fluffy clouds. Wide-eyed, head tilted back, smiling at the gliding, feathery edges of the dense mass.

A grain of salt

Unbearable sticky sweaty subtropical hotness of August. Disgruntled and disgusted at the shocking turn of events following the popular “Quota” and “Safe Roads” movements.

A lament for lost space

Last week, The Daily Star's investigative reportage exposed the work of criminal gangs and henchmen stealing rich top soil from precious arable land to sell to powerful, profiteering brickfield owners.

Shadowtime: Notes on living in two temporal scales simultaneously

Memories of my father are keeping me awake tonight. Two hours to Fajr Azan on the Friday before Independence Day.

A Requiem for February

Pahela Falgun, the first day of spring, did not work its magic of rebirth upon my soul. I felt no quickening, burgeoning re-awakening of the creative spirit in myself, nor did I find it in the natural world around me.

September 2, 2023
September 2, 2023

Pandemic Nocturne 1: December Dirge

Ask me not of Grief. For I have been burnt by its friendly fire with blood and bits of oozing mortal flesh spun flaky and ashen by its biting cold breath.

June 24, 2023
June 24, 2023

Memory

Memory is a winding range Of coniferous mountain pine Catching the fiery light

June 28, 2019
June 28, 2019

CONTINENTAL DRIFTER: SOLO TRAVELLER

Today, sitting on my balcony in Dhaka, with my face to the south looking down at the green neighbourhood park, I look back on my

October 19, 2018
October 19, 2018

MISTY SWEETNESS

The little girl in the yellow summer frock looks up at the floating fluffy clouds. Wide-eyed, head tilted back, smiling at the gliding, feathery edges of the dense mass.

September 7, 2018
September 7, 2018

A grain of salt

Unbearable sticky sweaty subtropical hotness of August. Disgruntled and disgusted at the shocking turn of events following the popular “Quota” and “Safe Roads” movements.

July 3, 2018
July 3, 2018

A lament for lost space

Last week, The Daily Star's investigative reportage exposed the work of criminal gangs and henchmen stealing rich top soil from precious arable land to sell to powerful, profiteering brickfield owners.

March 25, 2018
March 25, 2018

Shadowtime: Notes on living in two temporal scales simultaneously

Memories of my father are keeping me awake tonight. Two hours to Fajr Azan on the Friday before Independence Day.

February 16, 2018
February 16, 2018

A Requiem for February

Pahela Falgun, the first day of spring, did not work its magic of rebirth upon my soul. I felt no quickening, burgeoning re-awakening of the creative spirit in myself, nor did I find it in the natural world around me.

November 30, 2017
November 30, 2017

On the margins of ruin: War and displacement

and clothe and feed and succour the ruined, forlorn Rohingya, I cannot but feel anxious for our own swiftly depleting resources.

August 18, 2017
August 18, 2017

Bangabandhu and the birth of our nation

Incarcerated in the camps in (West) Pakistan after the surrender of General Niazi and the capture of over 90,000 Pakistani soldiers, the Bengali Armed Forces Officers and their families counted the days and months as they eagerly awaited repatriation to their newly liberated motherland.

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