Like many Bangladeshi women, I was raised to highly value modesty. But somewhere along the line, “modesty” became a misnomer for “meekness,” indicating that a certain lack in oneself warranted meekness to begin with.
The image of a meek woman has always been glorified, both in and outside of Bangladeshi culture. This ideal has resulted in endless stigma for women in both professional and personal matters. There was a certain merit attached to the woman who is, for all intents and purposes, a sacrificial lamb. And a self-sacrificial lamb? Even better.
Despite growing up abroad, I was taught to watch myself through the eyes of another. If I spoke “too loudly,” or dared to make the kind of comment my brother could make with ease, I was told, sharam pao. Often, the mandate of modesty was relayed to me gently. “Amader dhorme…” relatives would start.
The phrase literally means, “in our faith…” but what followed hardly ever had a thing to do with religion.
I found what really dictated these “rules” was culture, Bangladeshi traditions that we stick to. These rules have resulted in generations of mighty matriarchs that, despite being the backbones of their families, are afraid to take up space.
What is our mandate of modesty dictated by?
If you are a woman or woman-presenting, you cannot answer this without acknowledging the male gaze. The term “male gaze” was coined by British film critic Laura Mulvey to describe a pervasive trend in film’s representation of women.
More recently, scholars and cultural commentators have used “male gaze” to refer to a general tendency to centre the heterosexual man’s idea of “what a woman should be,” based on patriarchal tropes, both in and out of the media.
No matter your gender, if you live in a patriarchal society such as Bangladeshi society, you are familiar with the male gaze. Like many of us, I was raised around it.
What this cultivated was a sort of double-consciousness that centred the male gaze and made my own gaze secondary, thus stripping me of agency inside my own mind. I only became conscious of my double-consciousness within the past few years. This happened, and happens to most women, whether Bangladeshi or not (but especially in Bangladesh), extremely early in life. The experience is famously described by author Margaret Atwood in her 1993 novel, The Robber Bride. Atwood wrote,
“Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: Pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
There is something intrinsic to a woman’s experience that is based in and around viewing ourselves as a “someone else” might. Not does, not will, but might. This “might” inhibits one half of Bangladeshi society. The ever-present threat of might dictated how I spoke, dressed, and carried myself from as early as four years old.
And I am an incredibly privileged example. Consider female garment workers in this country. It is evident that they are major contributors to Bangladesh’s expanding economy. But with how these workers are treated in our society, and how they are taught to carry themselves, you wouldn’t think it.
It seems that as a woman, you must always account for how someone might find you unlikeable, unrespectable, immodest, and therefore immoral.
Another example is found in the Bangladeshi diaspora. Divorced women or single mothers are consistently villainized for betraying the male gaze, shunned by Bangladeshis of all genders for employing agency rather than silent submission.
And I must say, I hold true contempt for the argument that this is due to religion. In Islam, the only entity humans “submit” to is Allah. Five times a day, Muslims are expected to bow down before God, not a man. But the reasoning behind the male gaze quickly becomes black-or-white. To not submit to the male gaze’s suggested “modesty,” then, is to be arrogant.
I do agree to an extent -- to over-estimate your own worth is simply embarrassing. But knowing your worth is not the same as over-estimating it. The “sacrificial lamb mentality” is what keeps women across the world from pursuing their studies, applying to coveted job positions, maintaining self-advocacy in their relationships, and even reporting instances of domestic violence. In the latter instance, rejecting the “lamb mentality” can save lives.
That is why I have drawn a clear line between Bangladeshi culture and personal principle. I absolutely adore my culture. I love Bangladeshi music, art, and writers -- my own grandfather, Syed Mujtaba Ali, studied under Tagore and was one of the most influential Bengali writers of the 20th century. I love our flavorful foods, I love our emphasis on community, I love how we influence trends in fashion across the world by simply being us. But changeable culture is not worth livelihoods.
There is a difference between “humility” and “modesty.” One is a state of mind, personally dictated, belonging to me and shared by my own will with others. The other is a performance that centres a stranger’s perspective, making me less of a person.
As a young Bangladeshi woman, I will always commit myself to remaining humble, as a state of mind, as an approach to life, as a connection between myself and others. But I reject modesty, because there is no need to be our own voyeurs.
Deya Nurani is a freelance contributor based in the US.
