Moms, kids, perverts and a Nobel Laureate

---

Sorry it has been so long for an update. The internet seems to almost never work at home and I’ve been so engrossed in my research that I haven’t done much exciting to write home about. Plus, as my mother always told me, if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I’m trying to stay positive, but being in Bangladesh alone is a very different experience than being here with a group of people. I am very isolated, and when I do venture out I’m on the unfortunate end of sexual harassment. There’s something very un-nerving about being here by myself, and I’m constantly on edge, even during the daytime. It’s a bit draining.

My current mood was set two weeks ago on Thanksgiving Sunday when I woke up, took a shower and got dressed. Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? Well, when I took a clean pair of underwear out of my drawer a cockroach fell off them. Not a huge one mind you, but all the same. For those of you who know me well, I’m sure you can hear me saying “seriously?” but in a much louder, higher pitched voice than usual. The last two weeks have been a series of ups and downs since then.

My roommate Arif fell ill with a serious chest infection and has spent most of the last two weeks recuperating (read being spoiled) at his mom’s house. The downside of this is that I’m always alone and bored out of my mind (thank God for pirated DVDs). The upside is that I got to meet his lovely family. Arif has three wonderful nieces who instantly fell in love with me because 1) I paid attention to them and no one else really seems to, and 2) I’m white, just like a princess. One niece, Mayabi (6) was born in Canada, Lizzie (5) was born in the US, and Sammy (4) was born here I think, but they are all living here now. As Arif’s family is quite wealthy, all three girls attend English-medium schools and speak English fluently, which makes playing with them much easier. Their favourite game is brush Aunty Natalie’s hair, followed by show Aunty Natalie how smart we are by spelling out random English words (Sammy is so cute – she is of course too young to spell so she just yells out some random English letters – “listen to me spell eleven - s v t a i n p”), followed by yell really loud to get Aunty Natalie’s attention away from my sister/cousin. They are a breath of fresh air; wonderful little girls so full of life and happy to get some love and attention at a time when all of their parents seem to be on the verge of marital breakdown.

Arif’s mother is also a lovely lady, and is quite a presence. She is a lawyer for the Supreme Court of Bangladesh, an author, a poet, a successful businesswoman, and an unhappy wife with kids who add innumerable stresses to her life. She has taken to sending a car for me every few days so that we can walk in one of the city’s parks to get some exercise, during which time she confides all sorts of secrets to me. I think she is very lonely, but she also has a wonderful sense of humour and great curiosity about life and spirituality, so we have some very stimulating discussions. These walks have certainly made the past few weeks bearable. I’m not sure how Arif feels about his family’s quick acceptance of me into their lives. He says that his mom tells everyone how great I am, and that I am a blessing in all of their lives. I am a wonderful person and very homely. Yes, homely. Apparently it means something different in Bangladeshi English, like the sort of girl you’d bring home, or something.

I have four rules in Bangladesh which usually serve me quite well. 1) Dress appropriately. I could really wear anything I want – in fact most wealthy Bangladeshi women often wear Western clothes – but I find that appearing more conservative is appreciated and shows that I respect the culture while usually earning me respect in return. 2) Whenever possible, eat with my hands, even when provided with a fork. Again, the respect thing. Plus I like to surprise people by the fact that I actually can do it. 3) Speak Bangla whenever possible. 4) Show interest in and play with people’s children. These four things, especially when put together, usually result in mothers, kids and house staff loving me. The other day I went to my friend Sajeda’s house for Iftar (fast-breaking). Sajeda was the first person who tried to make friends with me at BRAC last time I was here. Then she was pregnant with her first child, Ashraf, who is now three. He was quite pleased when I got down on the floor and played smashing trucks with him (which earns me the respect of adults while saving me from having to listen to their conversation in Bangla about me). Ashraf speaks constantly and kept telling me all kinds of wonderful things, I’m sure, and then periodically turning and asking an adult “why doesn’t she say anything? What is wrong with her?” Although he wasn’t able to grasp the concept of me neither understanding nor speaking Bangla, he does clearly understand the concept of foreigner. By the end of the evening he was calling me, without prompting from anyone, bideshi-lala (khala is mother’s sister, or aunty, but he can’t say it so he says lala, and bideshi means foreigener – so Aunty foreigner).

After a few hours of rolling around on the floor with her grandson, I think Sajeda’s mom still wasn’t too sure of me. She is the only family member who speaks no English, so communication between us was limited. I know that Sajeda comes from a very pious family, so I washed very carefully before Iftar and covered my head to wait for the sound of the azan (call to prayer). I could see Sajeda’s mom melt a little. Then, I ate with my hands like everyone else and that she just couldn’t believe. Here I was, a bideshi, in her humble home, with my head covered and eating with my hands! At this point she started hounding Sajeda with all kinds of questions for me, mostly about my family which is what everyone asks about. If I understood the question I would answer in Bangla as best I could, which would garner a big laugh and lots of head-nodding around the table while everyone repeated what I said. It’s kind of like being a baby and everyone getting excited about your first words. “Did you hear that? She said she has two sisters and one brother. Oh, very nice, very good Bangla. Good girl.” Then, as I was leaving I turned to Sajeda’s mom and said “apnake kosto dilam,” which is a very, very formal way of saying thank you which translates into “I have given you much trouble.” Well, at that she flew across the room, took my face in both hands and kissed my cheeks and slapped my back a few times and demanded I visit during Eid. How to win a Bangladeshi over in four easy steps.

Tuesday or Wednesday (depending on the moon) is Eid-ul-Fitre, the most important Muslim day of the year which ends the month of Ramadan. It is sort of like Christmas, with everyone spending all of their time shopping for gifts for family and servants, and stores open until midnight. This, apparently, is part of why traffic is so bad right now. All of the offices are closed this week and all of the foreigners have headed off to sun themselves in slightly more liberal Asian locales. So here I am, the lone bideshi in Bangladesh for Eid. Although I have many invitations to go visiting, I’m pretty sure that by the end of the week I will be bored out of my mind. Of course I have loads of work reading program reports and transcribing interviews, but that is hardly going to cheer me up while stuck in the house for the better part of a week.
So, about this stuck in the house business, let me explain. A week ago I was minding my own business, walking down Gulshan Avenue, when all of a sudden this guy walks past, reaches behind him and grabs my bottom! This was no little accidental brush, but a full-on ass-grab. During Ramadan! (people not only are supposed to abstain from eating during the day, but also from sex or getting riled up in general). I was so outraged I turned and yelled “hey!” and some people stopped and looked at the guy, but he kept walking. Now, some Bangladeshis have told me that I should have gone up and smacked the guy, and I seriously considered it, but then I realized that that action would attract quite a crowd and I would be unable to explain in Bangla why I had just attacked this man. The thought of using hand actions to describe the incident while surrounded on all sides by 100 curious on-lookers who seem to instantly materialize whenever something interesting happens, 98 of whom would be men, didn’t in fact seem like a good idea. So, like any good Bangladeshi woman, I let it go. Since then the rude comments that rickshaw-whallahs yell as I walk past, which I’m very glad I don’t understand the content of, have really started to bother me even more. And to top things off, on Thursday I had a very creepy stalker.

I had no interviews scheduled for Thursday afternoon so I convinced Arif that we should go to the Museum of the Liberation War, which the Lonely Planet says is one of the best museums in the country. This was the first time Arif and I have done anything together aside from going to A&W for hamburgers, and I’m pretty sure it will be the last. As we pulled up in the car I noticed this regular middle-class looking guy stop walking and do a double-take at me. Nothing unusual in that. We paid our entrance fee, went through security (ha! someday I’ll tell you about Bangladeshi security) and went in. Arif went to look at something and I dutifully started at the beginning of the arrows on the floor which lead you chronologically through the rooms of the museum. After a few minutes I felt a presence behind me and, thinking it was Arif, turned to ask him a question. But it was the guy from outside the museum, and he was standing very close to me. So I moved away, thinking perhaps I was in his way. I am so Canadian. But, alas, I was not in his way, I was, in fact, the main attraction. At first he just followed me around, stopping when I stopped, walking when I walked, but generally looking at the exhibits. Then he gradually spent more time looking at me looking at the exhibits. Every once in a while he’d brush past me while leaning forward to look at something, and I would quickly step away. I was starting to get really annoyed, but was determined not to pay any attention to him and let him ruin my museum-going experience. After about 15 minutes Arif seemed to notice the guy and pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to leave. I could feel every ounce of rebelliousness in me prickle and said no, I had paid my 3 taka (0.048 cents) and I had a right to stay.

I went on to the next room defiant. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, the museum staff at this point asked Arif who the guy was with us and asked if I was ok. So now I had creepy stalker guy following me, and Arif and three museum women following him trying to keep an eye on my new friend – quite an entourage. So, I’m walking along and the pictures of the Liberation War are getting more and more graphic – people lying dead with buzzards eating their entrails, women tied up and visibly tortured, children starved to death – and I notice out of the corner of my eye creepy stalker guy “adjusting” himself. Ok, not so unusual for Bangladesh. We all get itches. And then again. And again. Suddenly Arif steps in between me and creepy stalker guy and says loudly “don’t you have to call your husband at 3?” (I don’t know why he didn’t just pretend to be my husband) to which I innocently replied “yes, what time is it now?”. Well, that ruse lasted a minute as creepy stalker guy moved away and then nonchalantly made his way to the other side of me. And then adjusted himself. I have to say, the guy had balls (obviously) to be so blatantly inappropriate while I was with Arif. At that point I decided I had had enough of the Liberation War Museum, quickly covered my head with my scarf to show modesty, grabbed Arif my the arm and said “we’re out of here.” As I turned the corner I saw the three museum staff women casually standing in the doorway blocking creepy stalker guy in the room as we made our getaway. So, while I didn’t quite get my 3 takas worth, I certainly think someone did. And people wonder why there is no tourism in this country.

But it isn’t just sexual harassment that keeps me locked in my room, it is the friendly people that scare me too. The majority of Bangladeshis still have a feudal mentality about relationships, and in fact, feudalism is still widely practiced in rural areas. I’m a rich landowner and you are my sharecroppers. You give me your labour and loyalty, and I’ll do nice things for you like pay for your son’s medical bill. (In fact, just today there is a story in the paper about a rich man in a village who hands out new clothes to the poor at Eid. This morning thousands of poor showed up outside his gate to try to get new clothes and five were killed in the ensuing stampede.) This guy Paul and I were trying to explain relationships to some new foreigners last month and described it like collecting people. The goal of everyone Bangladeshi is to get people. It is kind of like that movie About a Boy where the kid decides that being just him and his mom is no good, you need backup for when things go bad. I can understand this and respect it to some extent. I have people. I have the guys in the phone centre who I go to loyally to get more money put on my cell phone. Every time I go in they kick some unsuspecting customer out of a chair to give it to me. I hand them exactly 600 taka for my phone recharge, and they give me 10 taka back to thank me for my continued loyalty. The manager at the BRAC restaurant often gives me free tea with lunch, and I went to his sari store all the way across town to buy an Eid gift for the maid. People. But then there are the other people….

I was sitting at the tailor’s on Saturday, waiting to pick up a new shalwar kameeze I had bought fabric for. One of the girls at the shop started talking to me, but she doesn’t know much English and I don’t know much Bangla, so it was a struggle. Then she asked for my phone number. This is when I start to get wary. I gave her Arif’s landline because I never answer it and I know Peter, the cook, will take a message. When she realized I had given her a Bangladeshi telephone number she asked for my address and phone number in Canada. I asked her why. She smiled and said “we friends.” Oh no. Now, as a Canadian I find it very difficult to be rude or brush people off. In passing is one thing, like ignoring beggars as you walk by, but I had to sit there waiting in the store with her chatting me up. I really hate to be a bitch, so I wrote down an address. Totally made it up of course, but what does she know? Now while you are all sitting there in Canada judging me for my deceptiveness, let me tell you a story. Last time I was here I met a lovely young girl at an art school. We chatted for 10 or 15 minutes, I took her picture and sent her a copy. She asked for my address in Canada. One of those nice, heart-warming experiences. When I returned to Canada I got a letter from this nice young girl asking me for $10, 000 (dollars, not taka) so that she could pursue her dreams of going to medical school and lift her family out of poverty (poverty my ass, she went to private art classes and was nicely dressed). What’s more, if I didn’t give her the money she would be forced to kill herself in utter despair at not being able follow her dreams. Then there was the guy who helped me find a building as I was walking down the street looking utterly lost. As we were walking he starts telling me he is Christian and how difficult it is to be a Christian in Bangladesh. He asked about me and I, being the polite Canadian, answered all his questions about my family and where I work in Bangladesh. Four months later he showed up at BRAC asking me for $500 because he had recently lost his job and he thought I would be able to help him because he was Christian. I hate to be un-Christian and all but…. Then there are the rare but poignant rickshaw-wallahs who spend the journey telling me about their extreme poverty and their sick children who can’t go to school. Of course I know they are poor and needy and I know that they have very real needs and desires for a better life. That’s why I came, right? But I can’t be their “people”. I can’t be anybody’s back-up. And when someone approaches me on the street and starts to ask me all kinds of personal questions, trying to be my friend, please forgive me for trying to brush them off as politely but firmly as possible. But as every Bangladeshi seems to intuitively know, being nice and polite gets you nowhere, so perhaps I just need to grow a thicker skin and start elbowing people into traffic. Otherwise I’ll keep myself locked in this apartment until the day I go home, because I’ve truly and honestly come to dread any unsolicited conversation and even sneer and groan inside anytime I walk by and someone says “good morning madam” or “your country?”. Does this make me a bad person? Probably.

Ok, so I guess I had more to say after two weeks than I thought. To end on a positive note, I’m sure you all have heard by now that the Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to Prof. Yunus and his Bangladeshi quasi-NGO Grameen Bank. Prof. Yunus has long been a household name in Bangladesh and in development circles, so it is very exciting that he has been recognized for his contribution to poverty reduction and women’s empowerment in Bangladesh and around the world. This is a time of great celebration in Bangladesh. Ever since that auspicious Friday the 13th the newspapers have been filled with articles about Prof. Yunus and huge adds of congratulations paid for by large national and multinational corporations, as well as one by the UN. An article the other day noted that Prof. Yunus’ award has given the country “a much needed confidence boost. After being branded as a poverty-stricken, disaster-prone and with the worst record of corruption, Bangladesh has finally something to boast about.” The article goes on to note, however, that Bangldeshis should not be too proud, for most of them don’t display the kind of moral goodness of Prof. Yunus in their behaviour, and do nothing to help their country so they should not be too quick to share in the laurels. Ouch. I guess we can all take a page from Prof. Yunus’ book.

That’s all for now. Enjoy the random sampling of pictures of my surroundings.

---

Photos

Transporting cows
I have always wanted a picture of some guy walking his cows down the street. This one is funny for me because I am stuck in a traffic jam on the other side of the road. 30 seconds after this picture was taken the light turned green and this road was flooded with cars trying to get around the cows.