“We’re stuck. We’re stuck between the East and the West. Between the past and the future. On the one hand, there are the secular modernists, so proud of the regime they constructed, you cannot breathe a critical word. They’ve got the army and half of the state on their side. On the other hand, there are the conventional traditionalists, so infatuated with the Ottoman past, you cannot breathe a critical word. They’ve got the general public and the remaining half of the state on their side,” Elif Shafak writes in The Bastard of Istanbul.
I visited Istanbul in 2013, and if ever there was a place where my fragmented identity saw a reflection of itself, it was there.
There are cities, and then there are soul cities. Istanbul, for me, a Dhakaite, is my soul city. In fact, in their being stuck-ness, the split identities, their teashops and glass teacups (ours slightly dirtier and contaminated than theirs), their people so warm and their arms so open, their art and poetry and wonderful awkwardness of the in-between, the cities could be soul sisters.
When three days after the airport attack in Istanbul, while my bleeding heart was still healing, the ugly face of terror showed itself in my Dhaka, it was almost as though, to my greatest horror, my thoughts were being stolen and, somehow, someone had heard my fears and had taken it upon themselves to bring them to fruition.
A friend, Shehzad Arifeen, pointed out in a blog post, this reeks of something that would happen in a European capital, not in a Southern megalopolis. A restaurant with most frequenting customers being diplomats, this was purposefully done to generate shock, to cripple us with fear.
In just a matter of 24 hours, the country changed. There is no denying this. The history of Dhaka will once again be split into a before-and-after timeline.
Until the identities of the assailants were revealed, many of us thought they must be from socio-economically marginalised backgrounds, probably educated at a madrassa.
The revelation of their identities threw all those who are following into a paralysis, as if the shock from the night before wasn’t enough. The identities of the assailants break any stereotypical notions we may have had about which institutes breed terrorism.
I have been working with alia madrasas over the last two years. Whenever I mention this to people of some understanding of this system of education, they will immediately retort with: “But the problem is with the Qawmi sector.” I tire of explaining sometimes, there is no problem within one particular medium of education.
I work with the sector because they have been deprived for a while now; from properly trained teachers, lack of resources, a synthesised curriculum, and suffered the implications of reforms initiated from a top-down approach with little consideration of how they will be accepted on the ground.
But most of all, they suffer from an identity crisis, much like mine, and Dhaka’s and Istanbul’s, the crisis of the in-between; the crisis of not belonging. This crisis is one that’s born out of being bombarded with information and confused ideologies in a fast globalising world where we have many people we know, but few friends.
A crisis born in a world that is increasingly Islamophobic, where Donald Trump leads US election polls, Syria is bombed incessantly under the Obama regime, Britain votes itself out of the EU because “immigrants are problematic,” racism overrides reason, and social media overwhelms you with graphic images of places where Muslim lands are under siege.
And hence, the identity we are forced to resort to, to investigate and protect over and over again, is the one that is most under threat, our Muslim identity.
The recent turn of events has shown, among other things, that there is no room left to turn up our noses and say “not in my home.” Because, yes, in our homes, in our very backyards, we are growing terrorism and it’s feeding off seemingly normal children.
The recent turn of events has shown, among other things, that there is no room left to turn up our noses and say “not in my home.” Because, yes, in our homes, in our very backyards, we are growing terrorism and it’s feeding off seemingly normal children
With no emphasis on teaching them to respect diversity, to empathise, to be inclusive, we are fighting a losing battle on all fronts. Whether our children are studying at English-medium schools, Bangla-medium schools, or madrasas doesn’t matter. Terrorism will find you and prey on your vulnerability and isolation.
And while counter-terrorism acts and policies and strategies will act as good measures in case of further attacks, they will not cut terrorism off from the oxygen that lets it live, human resources. This is a time where we also need to show our vigilance as citizens. If we are to restore Dhaka to its fearless, resilient self, thriving with music, art, poetry, and activism, we must take this on as individuals.
The ultimate stage of psychological evolution in a human being’s life is finding one’s purpose. One is not able to reach this destination without sacrifices made along the way.
Take control of this route before someone else does.
If we are to help our youth reach this stage, we have to paint for them a world with promises and dreams and sacrifices, and we must offer comradeship along the way.
We must talk to our children and more importantly, we must listen to what they have to say. We must teach them the truth of religion and humanity, and not some twisted version of self-loathing, masochistic doctrine passing off as religion.
Tell them stories of empathy and compassion. Watch the news with them, discuss world politics, discuss religion, encourage them to read good books, have proper conversations with them about films they are watching and websites they are on.
Encourage them to engage in helping communities, teach them to volunteer so that they learn the value of giving. Give them spaces that are brimming with creativity, art and culture. Show them beauty.
Most importantly tell them it’s alright to be the awkward in-between, much like our much beloved city. It’s alright to sometimes feel like you don’t belong, like you are a puzzle piece from the wrong puzzle, stuck, out of place.
And it’s alright to have many identities at the same time, be they conflicting. In fact, that is beautiful. This mismatched, uneven, misfit that is your being, is beautiful and you owe nobody an apology for being who you are. You belong.
