I am Like the Living Dead!
Taslima Nasreen
Where am I? I am certain no one will believe me if I say I have no answer to this apparently straightforward question. They may believe what they wish, but the truth is I just do not know. I do not even know how I am. Sometimes I even appear to forget my own existence. I am like the living dead: benumbed; robbed of the pleasure of existence and experience; unable to move beyond the claustrophobic confines of my room. Day and night, night and day.
This did not begin the other day when I was bundled out of Kolkata. This has been going on for a while. It is like a slow and lingering death, like sipping delicately from a cupful of slow-acting poison that is gradually killing all my faculties. This is a conspiracy to murder my essence, my being, once so courageous, so brave, so dynamic, so playful. I realize what is going on around me but am utterly helpless, despite my best efforts, to wage a battle on my own behalf.
I ask myself: what heinous crime have I committed? Why am I here, in this singularly unenviable position? What sort of life is this where I can neither cross my own threshold, nor know the joys of human company? I am being persecuted because it was felt that the right of others to express their opinions was more legitimate than mine. To disobey the powers that be is to court public crucifixion. Yes, I am a victim of this new crucifixion: is the nation not a witness to my suffering? Does the nation not witness my immense suffering, the death of my hopes, aspirations, and desires?
How can I — a powerless and unprotected individual — battle brute force? Come what may, though, I cannot take recourse to untruth. What have I to offer but love and compassion? I have never wished ill of anybody. Call me romantic, but I dream of a world of harmonious coexistence free from the shackles of hatred and strife. In the way that they used hatred to rip out my words, I would like to use compassion and love to rip the hatred out of them.
Certainly, I am enough of a realist to acknowledge that strife, hatred, cruelty, and barbarism are integral elements of the human condition. This will not change; such is the way of the world. I am an utterly insignificant creature: how can I change all this? Yet, I had imagined Bengal would be different. I had thought the madness of her people was temporary. I had thought that the Bengal I loved so passionately would never forsake me. She did.
Exiled from Bangladesh, I wandered around the world for many years like a lost orphan. The moment I was given shelter in West Bengal it felt as though all those years of numbing tiredness just melted away. I was able to resume a normal life in a beloved and familiar land.
So long as I survive, I will carry within me the vistas of Bengal, her sunshine, her wet earth, her very essence. The same Bengal whose sanctuary I once walked a million blood-soaked miles to reach has now turned its back upon me. I find it hard to believe that I am no longer wanted in Bengal. I am a Bengali within and without; I live, breathe, and dream in Bengali but, bizarrely, Bengal offers me no refuge.
I am a guest in this land, I must be careful of what I say. I must do nothing that violates the code of hospitality. I did not come here to hurt anyone’s sentiments or feelings. Arguably, I came here to be hurt. Wounded and hurt in my own country, I suffered slights and injuries in many lands before I reached India, where I knew I would be hurt yet again. This is, after all, a democratic and secular land where the politics of the vote bank implies that being secular is equated with being pro-Muslim fundamentalists.
I do not wish to believe all this. I do not wish to hear all this. Yet, all around me I read, hear, and see evidence of this. I sometimes wish I could be like those mythical monkeys, oblivious of all that is going on around me.
Is daring to utter the truth a terrible sin in this era of falsehood and deceit? Do not others tell the truth? Surely they do not have to undergo such tribulations? Why do I have to undergo such suffering? Is it because I am a woman? What can be easier than assailing a woman?
I know I have not been condemned by the masses. If their opinion had been sought, I am certain the majority would have wanted me to stay on in Bengal. But when has a democracy reflected the voice of the masses? A democracy is run by those who hold the reins of power who do exactly what they think fit. An insignificant individual, I must now live life on my own terms and write about what I believe in and hold dear.
The way in which I was turned into a political pawn, however, and treated at the hands of base politicians, beggars belief. For what end, you may well ask. A few measly votes. It is I who have suffered. I am the only victim of this great tragedy. The force of fundamentalism, which I have opposed and fought for very many years, has only been strengthened by my tragic defeat.
This is my beloved India, where I have been living and writing on secular humanism, human rights, and emancipation of women. This is also the land where I have had to suffer and pay the price for my most deeply held and fundamental convictions, where not a single political party of any persuasion has spoken out in my favour, where no non-governmental organization, women’s rights or human rights group, has stood by me or condemned the vicious attacks launched upon me.
This is an India I have never before known. Yes, it is true that individuals in a scattered, unorganized manner are fighting for my cause and journalists, writers, and intellectuals have spoken out in my favour. I do not know whether they are familiar with my work or not, indeed if they have even read a single word I have penned. Yet, I am grateful for their opinions and support.
(The writer is a well-known Bangladeshi author living in exile in India) (IANS)
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This was publish from a Assam daily pro hindu news paper .
Taslima Nasreen
Where am I? I am certain no one will believe me if I say I have no answer to this apparently straightforward question. They may believe what they wish, but the truth is I just do not know. I do not even know how I am. Sometimes I even appear to forget my own existence. I am like the living dead: benumbed; robbed of the pleasure of existence and experience; unable to move beyond the claustrophobic confines of my room. Day and night, night and day.
This did not begin the other day when I was bundled out of Kolkata. This has been going on for a while. It is like a slow and lingering death, like sipping delicately from a cupful of slow-acting poison that is gradually killing all my faculties. This is a conspiracy to murder my essence, my being, once so courageous, so brave, so dynamic, so playful. I realize what is going on around me but am utterly helpless, despite my best efforts, to wage a battle on my own behalf.
I ask myself: what heinous crime have I committed? Why am I here, in this singularly unenviable position? What sort of life is this where I can neither cross my own threshold, nor know the joys of human company? I am being persecuted because it was felt that the right of others to express their opinions was more legitimate than mine. To disobey the powers that be is to court public crucifixion. Yes, I am a victim of this new crucifixion: is the nation not a witness to my suffering? Does the nation not witness my immense suffering, the death of my hopes, aspirations, and desires?
How can I — a powerless and unprotected individual — battle brute force? Come what may, though, I cannot take recourse to untruth. What have I to offer but love and compassion? I have never wished ill of anybody. Call me romantic, but I dream of a world of harmonious coexistence free from the shackles of hatred and strife. In the way that they used hatred to rip out my words, I would like to use compassion and love to rip the hatred out of them.
Certainly, I am enough of a realist to acknowledge that strife, hatred, cruelty, and barbarism are integral elements of the human condition. This will not change; such is the way of the world. I am an utterly insignificant creature: how can I change all this? Yet, I had imagined Bengal would be different. I had thought the madness of her people was temporary. I had thought that the Bengal I loved so passionately would never forsake me. She did.
Exiled from Bangladesh, I wandered around the world for many years like a lost orphan. The moment I was given shelter in West Bengal it felt as though all those years of numbing tiredness just melted away. I was able to resume a normal life in a beloved and familiar land.
So long as I survive, I will carry within me the vistas of Bengal, her sunshine, her wet earth, her very essence. The same Bengal whose sanctuary I once walked a million blood-soaked miles to reach has now turned its back upon me. I find it hard to believe that I am no longer wanted in Bengal. I am a Bengali within and without; I live, breathe, and dream in Bengali but, bizarrely, Bengal offers me no refuge.
I am a guest in this land, I must be careful of what I say. I must do nothing that violates the code of hospitality. I did not come here to hurt anyone’s sentiments or feelings. Arguably, I came here to be hurt. Wounded and hurt in my own country, I suffered slights and injuries in many lands before I reached India, where I knew I would be hurt yet again. This is, after all, a democratic and secular land where the politics of the vote bank implies that being secular is equated with being pro-Muslim fundamentalists.
I do not wish to believe all this. I do not wish to hear all this. Yet, all around me I read, hear, and see evidence of this. I sometimes wish I could be like those mythical monkeys, oblivious of all that is going on around me.
Is daring to utter the truth a terrible sin in this era of falsehood and deceit? Do not others tell the truth? Surely they do not have to undergo such tribulations? Why do I have to undergo such suffering? Is it because I am a woman? What can be easier than assailing a woman?
I know I have not been condemned by the masses. If their opinion had been sought, I am certain the majority would have wanted me to stay on in Bengal. But when has a democracy reflected the voice of the masses? A democracy is run by those who hold the reins of power who do exactly what they think fit. An insignificant individual, I must now live life on my own terms and write about what I believe in and hold dear.
The way in which I was turned into a political pawn, however, and treated at the hands of base politicians, beggars belief. For what end, you may well ask. A few measly votes. It is I who have suffered. I am the only victim of this great tragedy. The force of fundamentalism, which I have opposed and fought for very many years, has only been strengthened by my tragic defeat.
This is my beloved India, where I have been living and writing on secular humanism, human rights, and emancipation of women. This is also the land where I have had to suffer and pay the price for my most deeply held and fundamental convictions, where not a single political party of any persuasion has spoken out in my favour, where no non-governmental organization, women’s rights or human rights group, has stood by me or condemned the vicious attacks launched upon me.
This is an India I have never before known. Yes, it is true that individuals in a scattered, unorganized manner are fighting for my cause and journalists, writers, and intellectuals have spoken out in my favour. I do not know whether they are familiar with my work or not, indeed if they have even read a single word I have penned. Yet, I am grateful for their opinions and support.
(The writer is a well-known Bangladeshi author living in exile in India) (IANS)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
This was publish from a Assam daily pro hindu news paper .