On Amazon, you can find a product that calls itself a can of “dehydrated water” -- though the last time I checked, the item was not in stock. That’s a pity, because I was really looking forward to getting myself one, and placing it on my desk so that I might glimpse at it from time to time when hammering away on op-ed pieces such as this one, and finding some much-needed stimulation.
This item, from creative gift brand Witty Yeti, is a gag of course. On the front of the 16Oz can are the promises “Just Add Water!” and “16Oz Can Makes Up Infinite Gallons!” On the back are the all-important instructions:
1. Empty contents into any-sized container
2. Add water to taste
3. Drink then question your life choices
There is also a warning on the label: Final product is undrinkable when frozen.
Like all good jokes, this one is grim and funny in equal measure: Dehydrated water, that is to say, water with the water taken out -- in the other words, the thing in itself taken out of the thing in question. A complete lack of the thing it purports to be, ie no thing. In short: Nothing.
The can is empty. It will not quench your thirst. Parched you are, and parched you will remain. Refresh yourself somewhere else please -- we are merely here for appearances. The economy is growing, inflation is slowing, and the press is here so that the lies keep flowing. Water is what you want, but dehydrated water you shall have.
Truth and insight are what you want from your friendly neighbourhood newspaper -- obfuscation and eyewash you will get. The news and commentary that reach our eyes and ears in Bangladesh in its glossy media packaging are, as much as any uproarious gag item from Witty Yeti, best consumed as black comedy. Opinion pages and special supplements, in particular, should arrive with a warning similar to the can of dehydrated water: Consume only after adding a pinch of salt.
But can you really blame journalists?
The freedom of speech scenario in Bangladesh is a tunnel with no light at the end of it. The draconian Digital Security Act -- which can throw journalists, bloggers, or any unfortunate individual who makes an enemy out of the wrong person (ie someone influential connected to the ruling party) in jail -- is less an actual law and more a mafia-style tool to spread fear and to silence the media. Every case of DSA against some hapless journalist sends a clear message to the rest of the news media community: Toe the line, or else.
The result is a gradual erosion of quality in opinion and feature pages, special supplements, and even the news pages, because news, even hard news, is a kind of commentary in that certain stories are highlighted while others are buried. The selection of news items itself is a form of editorializing, and the editorializing we are left with is one that has already been drained of all nourishment -- the news cannot even bark, much less bite.
The stories and commentaries on offer try to please the powers-that-be (“Padma Bridge is the greatest accomplishment in the history of civilization!!”) but leave neutral readers dissatisfied and looking elsewhere for enlightenment. We are all hungry and thirsty for truth: We wish to see the government’s wrongdoings brought to the forefront, we wish to see the media play its crucial role in democracy by puncturing holes in the government’s propaganda.
Instead, in the guise of news we get glorified PR. We (as a journalist, here I guiltily say “we” and not “they” because I recognize myself as having been part of this PR machinery) play the role asked of us from above, and hide from the truth because we are afraid.
True press freedom simply does not exist in Bangladesh, and for those of us unfortunate enough to have been born with journalism as our passion, as our calling in life, this sloppy and disturbing compromise is something we have to learn to live with. We have, all of us, become masters in the fine art of self-censorship.
The true picture
Here’s the thing: It is no big secret that our economy is a catastrophe. The taka is losing value before our eyes, and the exchange rate to the dollar is the sorriest it has ever been. The banking system has been in shambles for years, and nothing has been done to fix it, or to end the culture of bad loans.
Displays of tweaks and fixes are done where they are not needed, ie regular middle-class citizens are hassled for this or that tax document, while the Olympic-class defaulters and thieves sleep soundly. Jaw-dropping amounts of money are routinely stolen, or they disappear into God-knows-where. Just look at projects which were supposed to cost X crore and now suddenly cost 5X crore. Biman, the very picture of inefficiency and loss-making, is allowed to not only keep running, but even expanding operations, adding flight routes that nobody asked for.
And nobody gets to question anything. Nobody gets to put the government’s feet to the fire. Nobody gets to ask: Why these celebrations, why now? Why all this waste? Why keep the lights on for gaudy celebrations while asking common folks to endure load-sheddings?
If you try to be a brave journalist and really go there, it’s your neck on the line. Is it really worth risking harassment, jail, or your physical safety just to uphold your journalistic integrity?
So again: We toe the line.
And the lies pile up. Our thirst for truth remains unquenched.
In this sad business of journalism in Bangladesh, we all know what dehydrated water is. We have been swimming in it for years.
Abak Hussain is a journalist, and former editor of Editorial and Op-Ed at Dhaka Tribune. He is a director of Talespeople, a creative start-up, and a winner of the Iceland Writers Retreat Alumni Award.
