As we stepped out of our ancestral home for the last time, we were greeted with fierce heat and masses of dust. The Bangladeshi sun showed us no mercy as we grudgingly hauled our 20-something luggages ointo the rented van. This was it; it’s really happening. But it felt like any other day in our little village. We were perspiring and breathing heavily, especially my dad, who had pools of sweat on his bald head. My mom fanned her face idly while my little sister stood as if she would faint from the suffocating heat. Her face was pale, but I was unsure if it was from the weather or nervousness. I, on the other hand, could not wait to go. I felt the blood pumping in my ears as I sprinted back and forth from the familiar dirty doorstep to the rented van, carrying as much luggage as I could. My father smirked and called me his little man, but I only scoffed. 

   The day dragged on. When we reached the line at the airport, the airline lady gestured to the other airlines staff while they discussed our passports— probably about how ridiculous my sister looked in her passport photo with her white powdered face. I winked at my sister while she groaned, rolling her eyes. “She has to look beautiful, like the white people in America,” my mom had said. I got away with my normal appearance after I promised my mom that I will apply some Fair and Lovely cream, which I never put on. My little secret, I smirked, imagining my mom’s shock if she found out. 

   While chewing her gum obnoxiously like the Americans on TV, the airlines woman with the stitched-on eyebrows told us nonchalantly, “You cannot go. You cannot board this flight.” With a wave of her hand, she assigned Death to us— death to our new life in the land of opportunities, death to a life of dignity and safety. It’s over; this can’t be happening; how?!

Slowly and simply, she said that our passports will expire before the 6 month rule. What 6 month rule? I felt like screaming. This is outrageous, unfair, ridiculous. Unjust!— unjust!* But the lady calmly said, “No problem. Come back tomorrow with renewed passports and you can board the next flight.” We stared at her with the false hope we were too afraid to let go of. I nervously peered at my dad’s face— his usual smile melted off his face like rubber, and instead there was the weary face of a man burdened with trying to give his family a new life against this cruel world. His face had more wrinkles and dark spots than I could remember. He slowly nodded as if taking it all in. My dad never argued; he always accepted his fate. But I was completely forlorn. My heart sunk to the deep abyss of my empty stomach. No words came out, but my thoughts buzzed at suchin such speeds that it felt like my brain’s little workers were in a state of chaos. All I could think about were my dreams of a new life— they were flying around like dragonflies but I could not grab them. 

   I wanted to stay and argue with her that this was unfair, that we sold everything for this trip; desperately tell her that she must understand as a fellow woman that I can no longer stay here because of my “used goods” reputation. But we walked away without another word. 

   I reached hysteria, joking that someone must have done black magic to us because they were jealous we were off to America. I made everyone nervously laugh, but I felt myself breaking into a thousand pieces. My father must have noticed, because he smiled at me whilst closing his tired eyes and nodding. My mom and I exchanged looks of doubt, but I weakly smiled back at him. He said, “Do not worry, my shuna*. Trust in Him.” 

   Trust in Him? I was slowly brought back to reality. Eight years ago, I experienced a miracle. When I was eleven, my family and my cousins’ families were stranded in the forgotten

country of Bahrain. Our flight was cancelled, and without another flight within that day, we would miss the time to do the pilgrimage in Makkah, Saudi Arabia. My dad trusted in God and gave away all eighteen of our passports to a stranger without consulting anyone. The stranger guaranteed he would help and he rushed away. While we angrily blamed my dad for his naivete, the stranger came back with exactly eighteen seats for the next flight to Saudi. God is real. 

   Maybe this was another test from God; I had to trust in Him. From Osmani airport to our home to the rickshaw ride to the passport agency, that was all I had: God. I left my dreams in the air, knowing God was holding them for me. You gave me life and an aspiring spirit full of hope and fear, for You are our Protector.* When we stopped at home, I took off my Western clothes and put on a black cotton salwar kameez with embroidered pink flowers and glanced at my anxious face in the mirror before rushing outside to the rickshaw. 

Paint a portrait of her, 

Capture her frown for she has lost faith in her Self as well as in others. 

Capture her scars for she has been to the battlefield, 

Which society created especially for her kind. 

   A daughter born, a burden conceived, a dowry accumulated. Her skin isn’t fair enough, scrub it till it’s raw. Her manners aren’t submissive enough, hit her till she learns. Doesn’t matter if she cries; her tears will always continue in this corner of the world.*, said the village people, but my father never listened until the incident compelled him to leave. Was it my fault he taught me to speak up against injustice?

My dad urged the rickshaw driver to go faster. The cacophony of men honking and cursing made me feel dizzy; they made our Bangladesh unsafe “for young women like myself”. As we passed the massive green hills and soaring green trees under the lazy orange-pink sky, I noticed the colorfully adorned beggars crouching on the dirty road and counted my blessings. Maybe this isn’t so bad. But my heart refused to believe that. It was mentally preparing for the worst— our flight tickets gone without a refund and no way of buying more tickets to NY. Still, seeing these rejuvenating scenes of green, my homeland, as I fondly called it before the incident, made me want to believe that everything would be fine and that I could start my life over where no man knew me and sneered at me with evil thoughts. 

I understood the sex and forbidden nights, 

Of the wounded society, 

The hunter is swift as the lightning 

What is called, the clever crime. 

I saw the misery of failed and exploited women.* 

   When we reached the passport agency, everything went smoothly. The kind government workers sympathized with us after hearing our distressing tale and let us skip the line. There is something special about acts of kindness in times of trouble. My dad nudged me, “I told you to trust Him, didn’t I?” I turned away and hid my smile. I looked towards my mom and my sleepy sister— we shared a smile of strength, of hope; this was our little victory, with God’s help. 

   With passports in tow, we set out into the tranquil night. It reminded me of the nights my dad would carry me on his shoulders as we wandered lazily in our ancestors’ footsteps and the

smell of fresh tea leaves would cling to us. We would listen to the soft hums of the cicadas and I would smile up at the glowing stars; I used to believe they were created only for us. Back then, my village was a place of wonder. Back when my older brother was here to protect me, back before the incident occurred, before I became a bad woman. I miss my carefree childhood. 

   The soulful voice of the muazzin* echoed in the cool night air, waking me up from my painful thoughts, and we asked the rickshaw driver to stop at Shah Jalal mosque. The entire village was silent. 

As I stood shivering slightly and mindlessly gazing at the baby blue porcelain Mughal tiles, I noticed an old fakir* woman standing in the corner. I would not have bothered, but I remembered the way my mom deifies the elderly, so I walked towards her and offered some coins. With her dirty white sari wrapped closely around her small body, she gazed at me with her ancient eyes. They were dark, obsidian eyes like mine— found yet searching, big and soulful, holding the world within them. Our society ostracized her kind. Will God deny her too? 

   Her wrinkled brown face beamed up at me, and my heart felt whole. It felt like our souls met before. Her soft hands reached up, not to take the coins but to pat my head, as she said, “My granddaughter, I do not need money; only Love. But I am fine just here, admiring the works of man for the praise of God in the heart of Bangladesh, my ancestral homeland. Nothing can take me away, not even the hypocritical society. I am fine just here.” 

   I realized then that the glory of Bangladesh was right in front of me— in the dark but faithful eyes of this woman— and it was far greater than any of society’s flaws. At that moment, God handed me back my dragonfly dreams, and they bled red and green*.

​

---

​

*Unjust!— unjust!- phrase from Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte 

*shuna- means precious in Bengali 

*You gave me life and an aspiring spirit full of hope and fear, for You are our Protector.- from a song by Sami Yusuf called “Faqir” 

*in this corner of the world- title of a Japanese animated movie 

*I understood the sex and forbidden nights, 

Of the wounded society, 

The hunter is swift as the lightning 

What is called, the clever crime. 

I saw the misery of failed and exploited women.- from the Bengali poem “Rupsa is the name of a river” by Somdev Chattopadhyay 

*muazzin- someone whose job is to do the call to prayer at the mosque; usually this call to prayer can be heard by entire neighborhoods in Muslim countries 

*fakir- beggars, but some are not ordinary and considered strange and other-worldly *red and green- colors of Bangladesh flag; red for the blood of sacrifices of its people, and green for its nature/ trees