All Asians Debate Tournament: Part 1 ~Dhaka Calling
As a reward for her high ranking in last year's CCTV English Speaking Competition, my student, Ashley, was given a choice to go to Malaysia/Singapore for touring or Dhaka, Bangladesh for the 15th annual All Asians Intervarsity Debate Competition. I was immediately inclined to visit Bangladesh. For most people, there is little reason to visit this small, developing nation squeezed between the giants of China and India. However, from my perspective, it was not only an opportunity to connect with the culture and tradition of South Asia as a whole but also a chance to learn and understand the sensitivities of a new nation-state, to see the realities of a struggle for stability, and to learn from a people different than myself. Indeed, being an international debate competition, students from all over Asia would attend. It is these types of international forums that foster a type of educational growth a homogenous group could never dream of. I was eager to participate.
So when Ashley, said she too wanted to go to Bangladesh, I was quite happy. She herself seemed interested in using this opportunity to grow in knowledge and character instead of simply a fun trip out (though the trip would certainly be fun no doubt). This made me even happier.
It was settled then, on May 7th our Foreign Language and Teaching Research Press (FLTRP) group over 20 participants flew out from Beijing Capital Airport into Zia International Airport in Dhaka. Upon our arrival we were welcomed by students of the hosting institute, North South University, with great enthusiasm and care. Even so, the slow and somewhat disorganized culture of Bangladesh also made an immediate showing. We sat and waited to be picked up by our chartered buses for about two or so hours. In fact, there would be many more experiences of waiting to come.
Leaving the airport was quite the experience in and of itself. When the buses had finally arrived our hosts lined us up carefully and, in single file line, were led out of the airport through the parking lot onto several slightly run-down, red, buses. The entire process felt like a military operation with security guards standing every 10 or so meters of one another. What made me especially uncomfortable was that we were being escorted with such careful precision primarily because of the small gangs of street children and poor surrounding the airport (as far as I can tell.) The children glared at us with bright eyes and wide open smiles, hands outreached in a posture of professional child-actors seeking both Academy awards as well as money for food. The old men and women, on the other hand, carried a sort of glazed over look, as if . If anything, they followed the lead of the children who seemed far more confident in their interactions.
Once aboard the children grouped up in front of the windows vying for our attention. They waved their hands at us, smiled and shouted, as if encouraging us to come down and play. Some of our students snapped some pictures, initially waved back with their own smiles, but soon grew weary of their antics. They simply would not leave. With time, the children took on new personalities to capture our attention. One child sat down cross-legged, imitating a posture of prayer and meditation for a few seconds. He followed this by crossing himself in the manner of Catholics and lifted his hands and eyes to the sky like a Spirit-touched Christian Evangelical. When these antics failed to draw us back to them, the boy suddenly turned angry, his eyes furrowed and his finger pointed and wagging at us in accusation as if we were committing some sort sin by ignoring him. He held his hand out stiffly, his eyes filled with disapproval, demanding our attention. Up to now I had quietly watched the young man, a heart full of conflicting emotions. Only after pulling the curtains across the window did the children begin to scatter playfully and curiously. There was nothing for us or them to see now.
As the bus pulled out of the airport we were treated to boxed Bangladeshi snacks of curried meat wraps and potatoes. The bus was well air-conditioned (freezing in fact) in comparison to the blankets of humidity piled one atop another outside. Comfortably boxed in, we drove south into the city center, all of us glued to our windows in curiosity, wondering what life outside was really like in this obviously poor yet lively place.
I write about the above anecdote specifically because it was my first impression, and everyone knows that it is the first impression that is never forgotten. Even so, the first impression is not always the final one, but it is often a prologue, something to foil everything else against.
After a week and a half, my impression of Dhaka and its people is a simple but strong one. Here is a proud and ever hospitable people seeking to make a meaningful and positive impression of their motherland, especially when international media typical frames Bangladesh as a materially impoverished, naturally cursed, and politically corrupt land. Here is a people who hold great pride in their nation’s unique independence and potential role in the world, but one that also humbly acknowledges and regrets its ever visible weaknesses.
Throughout our time, our hosts made every effort to give us the very best, as is typical of many Asian cultures. We stayed in the best hotel, partook of the highest quality buffet meals, were even escorted by security guards across streets for our safety and care. Even the Head of State, Honorable Chief Advisor Dr. Fakhruddin Ahmed welcomed us at the competition’s opening ceremony. The media reported on the debate tournament regularly, showcasing the fact that many of Asia’s youngest and brightest had come to their homeland (Ashley even had her photo taken and displayed on one morning paper). Throughout the week we were treated to a bazaar’s worth of late-night DJ parties, rock bands, and cultural shows. We were given access to Dhaka’s blooming best in both modernity and tradition.
Despite their best efforts however, this was no polished tourist machine. The cracks were many and obvious. Uncertain and undependable schedules gave way to long hours of waiting in rooms or buses with no idea of what to expect next. horrendous Traffic jams in one of the world’s densest cities only made matters more complicated as venues for debate were littered throughout the city. All this multiplied by ferocious heat and humidity often gave way to complaints and grumbling. Even when outside, the rows of idle security guards (sometimes armed!) gave an uneasy atmosphere that any self-directed exploration of the city was discouraged. So instead, many hours were spent on buses or in waiting rooms staring outside at the crowded streets filled with rickshaws, cars, and oceans of people. It was a constant reminder of our status as privileged guests set apart, removed from seeming messiness of everyday life.
After a week, the first impression at the airport proved to be a pattern for the atmosphere as a whole. We were given the best the city could muster, and as such I am flattered and humbled. Even so, we were also carefully looked after, sometimes like children, in relation to the potential disarray that lurked outside the windows. This was not without reason. The week of our stay student riots had broken out somewhere in the city after a student was killed in an automobile collision.
I only had one free day to explore the city in my week and a half given my responsibilities as both an adjudicator and a coach. During the short nine or so hours I had I greedily tried to drink of the Dhaka’s authentic spirit as much as possible. What I found was not only messiness (though it did exist), but a vibrancy of life. Any potential worries brought on by earlier circumstances faded in the face of real interaction with many of the locals, especially in Old Dhaka. In this old city area by the river filled with humble mosques, dirty markets, and narrow streets, the people greeted us with genuine care and interest from playful school children to older tradesmen. I will never forget the humble young man who willingly escorted me through Old Dhaka’s many crowded alleys, who sat me down in his textile shop for milk tea and conversation, and even called on another local friend’s car to personally drive us to visit the National Parliament building. Nine free hours was far too short. I would have loved to engage more deeply had I the chance.
Yes, there is much to worry about in a space as messy as Bangladesh. You may have your camera or money stolen, you will probably be ripped off and overcharged (I was both in food and transportation my free day out =P), at worst you could be caught near or in a riot or traffic accident, there are many things to be careful about. Yet many of these things, I submit, are products of a fear of the poor, a fear of the messy and the different.
But more than this, there is much to learn and wonder at. In my final, humble analysis, Dhaka and its people remind me of the very best a developing space can offer: the rich and humble sense of warmth, hospitality, and care lost by most developed nations. From the hosting institution of the tournament to the everyday locals, rich or poor, you find a heart-felt sense of welcome. Even getting lost becomes an opportunity to experience the depth of Dhaka’s hospitality when locals take extra time to walk you themselves to your desired destination.
I end this section with a poem by one of Bangladesh’s most famed poets, Shamsur Rahman. I picked up a collection of his poems from the hotel bookstore the day before we left. To me, there was no better way to understand the spirit of a nation than through the words of their poets. As a native of Dhaka, surviving its many revolutions and transformations, Rahman offers in words and expressions I could never even hope to understand fully no matter how long I might stay in Dhaka.
Even so, my week and a half long stay has been just enough to catch a very small glimpse of the city Rahman lived and loved. It is a tragic view, but one born of a natural care and pride.
Here, I am the tourist, and for a short while, Dhaka held out its wizened hands to me.
THIS CITY
by Shamsur Rahman
This city holds out a wizened hands to the tourist,
wears a patched kurta, limps barefoot,
gambles on horses, quaffs palm beer by the pitcher,
squats with splayed legs, jokes, picks lice
from its soul, shakes off bed-bugs,
This city is a cut-purse, scoots at the sight
of a policeman, looks about with eyes like the flaming moon.
This city raves deliriously, teases with riddles,
bursts into lusty song, sheds the sweat
of its brow on its feet in tireless factories,
dreams at times of cradles,
ogles the pretty girl standing quietly on the verandah.
In scorching April or monsoon-drenched June
this city puts its mad shoulder to the wheels
of pushcarts, makes for the brothel at nightfall,
burning with desire to celebrate the flesh,
This city is syphilitic, it tosses and turns
between the white walls of a hospital ward,
This city is a suppliant at the pir's doorstep,
wears charms and talismans
on its arms, round its neck,
Day and night this city vomits blood,
never tires of funeral processions,
This city tears its hair in frenzy, dashes its head
on the walls of dark prison cells,
This city rolls in the dust, knowing hunger
as life's solitary truth,
This city crowds into political rallies,
its heart tattooed with posters.
becomes an El Greco reaching for lofty azure,
This city daily wrestles with the wolf with many faces.
posted by Unknown @ 12:42 AM
<< Home