Skip to main content

Haunting Echoes in the Night



Yesterday, my city, the place of my birth and childhood, was bathed in blood and tears. Deep wounds were inflicted, during an overnight orgy of brutality and violence, in a stunning degradation of all things sacred we have ever held dear. For 13 hours the nation watched, helpless, petrified, and terrorized.

The victims: They were one of us
Reports that emerged first read '20 foreigners killed in terrorist attacks in Dhaka'. Even as the standoff was diffused, the narrative remained the same - ISIS militants have specifically targeted foreigners in Gulshan area, the diplomatic zone of my city. Its reiterations had reverberated worldwide by last night, when I get a call from a friend abroad. He says 'I am sorry to hear it man. A tragedy. Although it is not a direct tragedy for Bangladesh, really.'

Really? Did it really make a difference? I told him how confused we were all feeling about what had just happened. Does it have to matter that apparently no Bangladeshi's were killed in the attack? Is it not tragedy enough that it is happening at all? That it is in my neighborhood? That my family and friends frequent that same cafe all the time? It would not have mattered, even if there were no Bangladeshis among the victims.

But of course, there were. And they were one of us. We went to the same schools. We have common friends and families. She was a friend's niece. He was my cousin's friend's son. She was an uncle's granddaughter. Whoever I was speaking to, were saying the same thing - they were one of us. And the souls lost that night that had come from foreign lands, who were friends of our nation, and lovers of our people, they were also one of us.

While the reports were pouring in, murking up sentiments by framing the issue as 'foreigners attacked in Dhaka', I was slowly realizing that the cheery notion that it is somehow not Bangladesh's tragedy was a fallacy. The boundaries are no longer clear, the lines are all blurred. Because, if they were not, then maybe Faraaz Hossain (who was given a chance to leave by the attackers, but refused to abandon his foreign friends) would have still been alive today.

The terrorists: They could have been one of us
Yet again, somehow the predominant narrative tends to leave the story too neat to be true. We have seen it before - a sensationalist media pushes a polarized narrative, with distinct protagonists and antagonists, and a picture of the situation often colored by past expectations. It leaves one feeling like the lines are solid, the boundaries are defined - that there is an 'us' and there is a 'them'. But it is when such a tragedy comes home, that you realize, there are no such lines in the sand.

They could have been any one of us. They were born and raised in the same soil that we all did, to parents who could have been just like ours. They grew up the same way we did. They went to the same schools we went to, taught by the same teachers we had. They have celebrated Eid and Pohela Boishakh as we do. And they rejoiced with the whole nation, every time our cricket team has made us proud, when our mountain climbers have conquered Everest, and when our nation brought home the Nobel Prize.

Yet, like a flick of a button, in a chilling example of the fragility of the human psyche, these are the same sons of the soil who decided to defile the womb of their motherland - their sin, else's blood.

The 'Powers': Cowards in the shadows
Ideology is the poison in the mix. While social and spiritual disillusionment of youth, are being used as fertile soil for the instigation of these heinous acts. A combination of ideology and confusion have always been used by the powerful as a means to veer, steer and manipulate the powerless. The plague upon our species now is this insidious evil, falsely couched in the name of Islam. It is perpetuated by an ideology that is essentially anti-human and singularly self aggrandizing. And it has morphed into being in our world today like a mutated cyst, rotting and gangrenous, finding fuel in the sins and mistakes of our species' past.

To those who seek power through the blood of innocents - you will not win. Allah, in whose name you commit your sins, has placed us on this earth to transcend our bestial natures and to embrace our angelic. Your program is essentially a call to return to the animal. It is born out of hate, cowardice and a fundamental fear you have of facing the real reason why you are on this earth. From where I can see, you are standing directly in conflict with nature's intent for our species. To that end, your enemy is not the West. It is nature itself.

Echoes in the Night:
We need to smarten up, very very fast. The species is suffering from a crisis of consciousness.
Every human being is born into this earth to make sense of life as a whole, and their own life as a part of it. Each one of us go through our own spiritual crisis and confusion in one way or another. But when evil begins to manipulate the spiritual confusion of our kids for its own gains, we must begin to take seriously our role in the spiritual growth of our children.

It is no longer enough, to simply repeat vacuous words from the holy books to them, to simply comply with the societal contract of having a religious identity. We can no longer ignore the need for spiritual guidance that we all have. Neither can we simply pretend to meet that need by making our kids go to the mosque, read the Koran, not have sex before marriage, not be gay etc. We need to take responsibility for our actions and our words. We need to stop lying to our kids, to use the fear of hell to scare them to submission. And most of all, we need to admit to them the truth that we ourselves are afraid to face - the truth that nobody can and will ever understand with certainty the mystery of life, the planet and the universe. Not us, not them, and especially not those who perpetuate these attacks on humanity.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Reality and Fiction: Collective Hallucinations

This is a story set in my city, Dhaka, when one autumn day in the early '90s, hundreds of people gathered outside Dhaka Central Jail in protest. They were seeking to stop the hanging of a man who was apparently on death row, within the premises. However, the problem was, the man was not in the jail at all. In fact, he never existed. When I was 8 years old, Bangladesh was a country of 120 million. Dhaka was a city of 7 million. And we all had 1 television channel we could watch - Bangladesh Television. Back then, a TV was a matter of novelty. And coloured TV sets were only the luxury of a select few in Dhaka. It was a time when people across the country were crowding around the one television set in their villages. Congregations formed inside lone huts juiced up by a stolen power line, where scores of people would gather to watch the entertainment. The magic box would bring us a select range of programming - from the state-scripted nightly news, to heavily censored 80's Ame...

Linked But Not Tainted

F: I could accuse you of the same fault Terence, of sweeping generalizations and knee jerk aversions. T: As is your prerogative of course. But do tell more. F: Your constant tirade against modern science and rationalism , bears within it many contradictions you know. It seems like your demonization of science is solely calling for the glorification of the irrational. How can that not be anything but simply reactionary? T: Granted. I do have a particular bent for the irrational and absurd . And I do seek out and revel in finding the edges of the impossible , the improbable , the unexplainable , and to some the indigestible . But, the way I see it, I am simply tooting for the underdog here. Don't you think the irrational deserves a mascot too, like science is for the rational? F: But don't you find that to be quite myopic, un-ruminated? T: Rationally, yes. Irrationally, well.... F: Now that is just aversion! T: Okay. You got me there friend. But my reverence for ...

A Dream About Death

Last night, I had a dream, in which death was not what it seems. I saw a world in which the deceased, instead of diminishing completely at death, appeared to remain in some form within this reality plane. They could be seen, as they had been until the moment of death itself. They could be spoken to and heard, even touched and held, as if they had never left. Yet, this state of post-death non-being, this abstracted state of in-between, lasted only some time, maybe a few days or a week at most. After which, the deceased slowly faded away, not to be seen, heard or touched again.  I received no indication, in my dream, as to the exact nature of what this phenomenon means. Was it that the deceased actually remained on earth, even in a physical form, for just a little longer? Or was it more likely that it was an edifice of their former being, created out of their memories that dwelled in the collective minds of those who knew them? Were these memories somehow ossified into existence, as ...

Kafka in Berlin

In Berlin, you can actually feel the air fossilized in its history. While one can argue about the phenomenological contradictions inherent in that, the sensation of it is undeniable. The city has seen itself as the focal point of geopolitical watersheds that have shook the foundations of human civilization in the last few centuries - blinding flashes of human achievement, alongside some of the darkest moments of human history. Keeping aside the subjective judgments on these historically gargantuan episodes, Berlin has been "the time" and "the place" of immense significance, many times over. I had heard that the Germans loved their beer. But their newfound pride in their wine was news to me. Therefore, although I found it strange to be having the grape brew one evening in Berlin, Professor I. F. was a man of very specific tastes - namely vino rojo. Sitting on the window ledge of a spacious apartment in Wedding, we had been mumbling through the didactics and reveri...