“No brother, things aren’t good. It’s chaos, there’s looting and fires burning everywhere. I need to leave, I need to hide.”
The desperation in Shahdot’s voice, my cousin of an almost identical age, was startling. Over a number of weeks, the intermittent news coming out of Bangladesh, gleaned from family WhatsApp groups and social media, signalled an increasingly dire situation. Listening to Shahdot’s voicemail was jarring, it put paid to the vague notion that everything would be alright in the end, a belief in large part informed by distance.
For those of us living on the other side of the world, but with roots in Bangladesh, the days before the overthrow of Sheikh Hasina’s Awami League government were a period of fevered anticipation. The defeat of a despotic leader by a mass movement led by students, was something that appealed to our value system. Through Western eyes, the downfall of the increasingly draconian Awami League government, would not be mourned. Surely, this change could only be a good thing? Yet, puzzlingly, the voices of those familiar to me, who were in the thick of it, remained timid.
They could already foresee the chaos that was looming. The transition of governments is rarely a peaceful process in Bangladesh. The power vacuum invariably gives rise to lawlessness and the opportunity to settle old scores. That sequence of events was eventually realised, yet no less shocking despite the prediction.
On one of my recent visits to Bangladesh, Shahdot had, in a matter of fact way, explained that regardless of the government’s failings, a new regime would create problems for him. At the time, it was an assertion that I blithely dismissed. I was ignorant about the plight of those far removed from the obvious corruption at the top tier of government, yet still part of an inherently politicised civil society.
Shahdot was one of those people. Like many others in Bangladesh, Shahdot had his own political leanings, which happened to bend towards the Awami League. While he was by no means a card-carrying member of the party, the system of patronage that still operates in the country meant that he was naturally inclined to show support for his local MP. Shahdot knew that in order to get anything meaningful done, political patronage was vital.
Mundane, everyday occurrences that should be taken for granted, such as securing a bank loan for a new business, still requires jumping through several hoops. The support of someone in a position of influence, eases the route through the unfathomable red tape. Perhaps it’s not that different the world over, just more obscured from view.
In Shahdot’s case, a brush with politics also helped pave the way for his career in cricket administration. As a promising fast bowler in his youth, who represented his region in age group cricket, he had built up an intricate knowledge of Bangladesh’s domestic cricket scene. In his thirties, a combination of his local cricket expertise and work ethic saw his career flourish, as he became an integral part of his local cricket association. This period coincided with a return to power for the Awami League and, more pertinently, Shahdot’s local MP had become a director at the Bangladesh Cricket Board. As with many of the country’s institutions, the BCB is far from being impervious to political alignment with the government of the day.
Although Shahdot still experienced the daily frustrations of life in Bangladesh, an unreliable electricity supply and wildly fluctuating food prices, to name just two, he was riding the crest of a wave. While he continued to work hard, the benefits were now more apparent, and his middle-aged existence was comfortable. The scenic local cricket stadium, which had begun to regularly host international cricket, had become something of a playground for Shahdot and his friends, who had also ensconced themselves within the local cricket set-up.
Shabbily uniformed security guards at the stadium gates would offer them a salute as they drove carefree into the ground. It was a place where they would drink endless cups of sweet tea and chew the fat, often late into the night. It was a time when everyone exuded contentment. The top brass of the BCB were happy with the way that Shahdot was managing the local cricket association and its stadium. The local MP, with more than half an eye on his re-election campaign, was pleased that the cricket stadium was attracting plaudits. Then everything changed.
It's difficult to pinpoint exactly when the time was up for former Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina and her government. Indeed, there was a sense that she had managed to ride out the initial wave of outrage, following the brutal crackdown against student protesters. In the days preceding her abrupt fleeing of the country on August 5, Hasina had deployed a range of dark arts in a forlorn attempt to disrupt the protesters and shore up her support. Snatch squads, under cover of darkness, worked their way systematically through Dhaka’s neighbourhoods, arresting those with any loose connection to the protests. By then however, the tide had already turned.
The original demands by the student protesters -- essentially the reform of an archaic system which favoured the privileged few in the recruitment for civil service jobs -- still seems like an unlikely starting point for a mass opposition movement. It was the sheer violence meted out by the police against student protesters, which eventually forced the army to take notice, raise their heads above the parapet and withdraw their tacit support for the regime.
Seemingly, the sight of hundreds, maybe even thousands of students, posing no obvious threat, being shot at point blank range, was enough to make even the most battle-hardened General feel uneasy. The reaction to the student protests was so disproportionate, it had the effect of galvanizing those with long-standing grievances against the government, of which there were many.
The Awami League’s entire belief system is shaped by the fact that they were the party which led the country to independence. They were ostensibly a left-of-centre party with a secular outlook. However, these once-upon-a-time core values, impacted by corruption and hubris, have morphed into something totally unrecognizable today.
Hasina irredeemably damaged herself when she called out the student protesters as “razakars” -- a term loaded with historical insult. It essentially means “traitors,” but it’s an emotive word that specifically relates to those who collaborated with the Pakistan army during the 1971 War for Liberation. As well as the nonsensical nature of Hasina’s argument, when listening back at her remarks, there’s an undercurrent of self-pity and condescension. Hasina’s second stint in office, 14 long years, had the effect of mutating her from a figure of hope to someone who was unpredictable and radiated fear.
Hasina was well-versed in seeking out a photo opportunity that might show her in a positive light. The creation of a personality cult for her and her late father, was one of the hallmarks of her reign. Hasina’s giant sized bespectacled face adorned every government building, and she was often seen at the president’s box, at Dhaka’s national cricket stadium for any Bangladesh victory of note. Sitting alongside the equally wooden former BCB president and Awami League MP, Nazmul Hassan Papon, Hasina’s presence was sometimes given as much airtime as the closing stages of the match being played out in front of her.
Local broadcasters were clearly wary of repercussions if Hasina wasn’t seen to be given an appropriate amount of coverage. The fawning nature of the commentary, which accompanied the live pictures, often bordered on the absurd. It was little surprise therefore that Bangladesh cricket -- its media, players, and administrators -- was so slow to react and speak out about the atrocities being committed against innocent civilians. It was only after Hasina’s private helicopter had swiftly flown her to an unknown destination, ushering her towards an uncertain future in exile, that voices of condemnation were widely heard.
Even then, the language used by the BCB, in its official pronouncement about the turmoil engulfing the country, studiously avoided overt criticism of the deposed regime, instead it preferred to focus on the pain and suffering of families that had experienced loss. Perhaps it was as much as could be expected from an organization that had become chronically depleted, owing to the absence of key post holders. Board directors who were allies of the Awami League followed the example of their leader and fled. Most notably Papon, the buffoonish former head of the BCB, was nowhere to be seen.
The upheaval made Bangladesh men’s Test series win against Pakistan in August, all the more remarkable. The hosts were kind enough to invite Bangladesh over, four days earlier than scheduled, so that they could use training facilities which the volatile situation at home had prevented them from accessing. The irony of Bangladesh’s historical enemy extending a hand of friendship during a time of need, was not lost. In the event, Pakistan’s generosity spectacularly backfired, as their team imploded, allowing Bangladesh’s players a relatively smooth path to victory.
The spectre of Hasina and her malign influence were never too far away. During the First Test at Rawalpindi, Shakib Al Hasan, Bangladesh’s most celebrated cricketer became entangled in a spurious murder charge, relating to the political violence that had taken place in Dhaka. The episode, yet to be resolved, illustrated how Shakib’s decision to become an Awami League MP at the beginning of the year was the worst mistake in a career littered with poor off-field choices. Shakib had already opted for the comfort of the US as his new home, his privileged life allowing him the luxury of emigration. It’s an enviable position to be in, when you can choose somewhere to start again, a blank canvas bursting with opportunity. It’s a situation that few of Shakib’s compatriots are likely to experience.
A couple of months had passed since the students had spurred the country into action, and a semblance of normality had returned to the streets. A new interim government had been installed, it seemed well meaning but impotent. After a majority of police officers had deserted their posts, through fear of reprisal, which were sporadic and severe, there was a slow upturn in the number of uniforms carrying out basic tasks. The bloodletting by mobs against minority communities had also subsided. It was easy to sit in judgement, half a world away, incredulous at how quickly a population’s most base instincts can take over. But then the English summer took a turn for the worse, and riots motivated by racism spread viciously throughout the country, jolting me from my complacency.
Shahdot’s world would never be the same. Along with his friends, he had been summarily sacked from his job with the local cricket association. Their affiliation with the previous government, regardless of how tenuous it was, was enough to justify the cull. Such was Shahdot’s affinity with the local cricket stadium, he was disappointed that the hosting of the women’s T20 world cup had been shifted elsewhere, even though he was no longer part of the furniture.
Shahdot’s other commercial interest, a share in a clothing retail business, had been overwhelmed by the widespread looting. Most of the stock had either been ransacked or rendered useless through fire damage, and the retail unit itself had been requisitioned, as part of a broader non-negotiable reorganization of the local hierarchy. Shahdot’s despondent search for a source of income even led him to list a section of his sprawling family home on Airbnb. The demand was, predictably, negligible. Shahdot was accustomed to the vagaries of life in Bangladesh, and his voice now reflected a weary resignation.
There have been many glib assertions since the events of the summer, about a newly invigorated Bangladesh, a country united by a sense of injustice, forging a new path. Social media clips of students as makeshift traffic police or young people helping to paint damaged buildings, is seemingly incontrovertible evidence. However, the scars from Bangladesh’s summer of tumult, remain at least as deep and wide as the many rivers which meander restlessly through the country itself.
Tawhid Qureshi is a cricket writer and journalist based in the UK, he has contributed pieces to BBC online, Wisden, and The Cricketer Magazine. He also runs the Sight Screen Cricket Journal, his twitter handle is @SightScreenCJ.
