House arrest

Back in Dhaka though this is not the same city I left some weeks ago. 

I arrived to a depressed, wounded place.

Dhaka is still bleeding after the July 1. terror attack where 20 people were killed in a most brutal way.  The attack was targeted at foreigners and secular Bangladeshis. Consequently, the security measures here are really, really strict now.

This is a klondyke for barbed wire sellers, surveillance equipment business and security companies. Dhaka is full of green police uniforms, patrol cars and even police boats.

The city cannot be safer than this  but still all foreigners are grounded. Many embassies and foreign companies have made spouses and children leave Bangladesh.

At the moment there are two places where one is allowed to go: work and home. And the transfer between these destinations has to be done by car, preferably with dark tinted windows. Irrespective how ridiculously short the distance is.

So, at free time the options are to stay at home, be at home or alternatively remain at home. 

In our case the house arrest has so far been easy since we moved to a new apartment and settling down always takes some time. 

But in the long run I will probably be an expert on strange tv-shows, bad films and marginal sports broadcasts.

More seriously, the situation is not good. 

People are afraid and suspicious. Since the attack was carried out by young men, even Bangladeshis panic whenever a group of youngsters with backpacks enters a cafe or a store.

But life goes on and my house arrest is really a minor thing compared to the hard life so many people here lead. People endanger their lives every day for very little money. These young men install air condition units to a new building. No security measures here. 

Joining hands

Thousands of kilometers and several times zones away the agony is excruciating. The  tragedy is Dhaka feels unbearable even in my home country where I arrived on Friday afternoon.

Every Friday I used to go to Holey Bakery to buy misty rolls and sticky buns for lunch. Every now and then I sat down at the cafe and didn't have to order because the staff knew that I would have green tea and a sticky bun.
I would enjoy my snack, the beautiful surroundings and the friendly service. Watch kids play outside, admire the stylish locals and greet the more casually dressed foreigners.

And I will keep on doing all this, at the Holey Bakery in Dhaka.
My thoughts are with the victims, the wounded and their loved ones.
But also in the future.
This is the time to show that good is stronger than bad.
There is place for versatility, free thought, liberal ideas, different religions or no religions at all.
There is place for respect and love for each other.

I reach out my hand, please take it. Do the same to the person next to you.

Vegetarian blood in the sunset

6.50 pm. Or round there. Finally.

The daily fast is over and people can start eating.

Ramadan has so far been a very intense experience. Especially for a person who doesn't fast.

Many of my colleagues join me for lunch. They sit and watch me eating while they are enjoying (or suffering)  their 11 or so hours fast. Day by day their cheeks are hollower and hollower, their eyes softer and softer, 

First the setting was very embarrassing, but they insist that they get extra points by not eating while others are doing that. 

Maybe I can get  bonus by offering an opportunity to temptations?

I have learnt to love the time just after the sunset. The normally so overpopulated, crazy, busy, sickly overactive city is empty, dead, desolate. 

For fifteen minutes.

After binge eating starts the shopping. It is just insane. Think of Christmas shopping, multiple it with a billion and you are in the Dhaka Eid shopping spree.

Bangladeshi people are extremely generous, and holiday shopping is a serious sport. The prices are higher than normally, the quality of the products lower, service is an unknown factor. But people buy gifts to family, friends and relatives like crazy.

No shame to ask for gifts either. The staff in our building started to remind us of the time of generosity for a while ago. One is expected to give to money to everybody from the newspaper boy to the security guy. Or course we do it. In the bigger picture, gifting also keeps the economy rolling.

Now a couple of weeks vacation ahead. 

In August we have been in Bangladesh a year. I thought that it would be a natural time to stop writing about my experiences as a newcomer. Maybe it is not. In Bangladesh every day is an adventure, a place for an eternal fledling.

The pictures in this posting are - again - a random selection.

This is also the season for fruit. One of the most extreme things is Bangladesh's national fruit, Jack fruit. Already as a "baby" is looks - well - strange, as a ripe fruit it is almost gross. Jack fruit can weigh up to 35 kilos. Cutting a jack fruit looks like slaughtering a plant. With the smell of vegetarian blood.

Street cafees are hidden behind plastic walls during the day. Out of sight, out of mind.

 

The diplomatic quarters of Dhaka is home for many things - like cows.

Bikinis and binge eating

"Earthquake secure, full generator back-up, 24-7 security", the broker shone like the infernally hot sun in Dhaka. 

"The servant's room" he presented proudly a minimal room with a hole in one end of the space - the bathroom. Staff are supposed to to their business (whichever) standing.

Once in a while I have a vague feeling that I'm starting to have an idea of Bangladesh. But no, I bump to cultural differences every day which makes me more and more confused.

House hunting here focuses on slightly different criteria than I am used to. Not so many words of quality materials,  beautiful finish or practical layout. But the brokers are as eloquent as anywhere. One promised - without a blink of an eye - that his building would tolerate a 12 magnitude earthquake. The construction must be quite solid since the most severe earthquakes have been just under 10 magnitude.

While most  of Dhaka's inhabitants live cramped and saddenly many without basic amenities, the wealthy part of the city (ours) is full of expensive, oversize apartments.

Our present apartment is so big that the first days I really had to concentrate to find my way to the outdoor. 

Presently we also have - at least in theory - security. Our gatekeepers are experts in sleeping while standing. Our front desk man reads and chants loudly the Quran all day long and doesn't like to be disturbed. No blame on the poor guys. They are always at work and earn next to nothing. During ramadan they are also hungry all the time.

Ramadan dominates life now. Naturally, since more than 90 per cent of the population  are muslims.

People eat their main meal while I'm sleeping tightest round 3-4 am. After sunrise they eat or drink nothing, not a piece of snack,  not a drop of water. Smoking is not allowed, nor is sex. 

Just before sunset everybody rushes home like crazy for Iftar, the meal after sunset. The traffic in Dhaka is always chaotic but these days it's a honking, dusty, hot, impatient, irritable hell of non-moving vehicles. 

The long hours without food and water must be really hard for the body but I'm afraid the real danger is the daily binge eating in the late hours of the day. The typical Iftar food must make any ambitious nutritionist change careers. Think of all fat possible and pair it with sugary sweets and you have the perfect sunset menu.

This is also mango time. I had barely tasted a mango before moving to Bangladesh. Now I could live on banglamangoes. 

It's getting really, really hot here but the weather has no impact on the local dress code. Women are covered irrespective of temperatures. No light summer dresses, no spaghetti tops, no shorts. 

A couple of weeks ago I visited a water park in Chittagong. Fully dressed people enjoyd swimming, ocean wave pools and water slides. Fortunately, saris were forbidden.

And yes, in August we are moving to a new, smaller apartment. 

"He no come to office yesterday?"

Nine months down in Bangladesh, time for a little sum-up.

Best: 

Temporary job.

I am inifinitely grateful for a six months' position until the end of August. Being busy has given a new, wonderful dimension to everyday life here. An air-conditioned office, meaningful work and a very modest salary are a true blessing.

Worst: 

Missing home.

Especially during high holidays I really wonder what I'm doing here on the other side of the planet where almost everything is different from my traditions and values. Why am I not taking care  of and sharing joys and sorrows with my family and close friends at home. 

Frightening:

Recent thunderstorms have been crazy. Lightning has killed more than 80 people this year. 

Saddening:

Local election violence. More than hundred have been killed in election clashes.

Worsening security situation, terror, increasing intolerance. Escalating political violence.

Dangerous:

Police is supposed to get harder on people who drive on the wrong side of the road. Dhaka's overcrowded roads and streets are an open invitation for all kinds of creative and dangerous solutions in traffic. More than 1100 people have been killed in traffic from January to April.

Embarrassing:

Still no knowledge of Bangla.

At the same time Bangla-English has become far too attractive to make oneself easily understood. I was rather shocked when I heard myself asking: "He no come to office yesterday?"

Still not ready for Wimbledon. How can it be so difficult to hit a ball over a low net? Fortunately, my husband now shares the humiliation of under performing with me.

Irritating:

Our apartment - so old and worn that even the lizards have arithritis and grey beard. Only cold water available.

Dhaka is full of new apartments, one of them will hopefully be our new home soon. 

Charming:

A horizontal, swinging head movement of the local people. I don't know what it means or how they do it (I have practiced it for hours in front of the mirror - with no luck), but  I simply love it.

Touching:

The resilience of the ordinary people. Most people work so hard, they earn so little but they are so kind. 

Motivating:

Yoga, zumba, bokwa, pilates, whatever. I bring my decaying old body and enjoy. There is not much else to do in Dhaka so sweating in a small room with strangers is one of the best things I know.

The pictures this time are cellphone shots. Dhaka's streets are like huge potato fields these days. The sewage renovations are supposed to be ready soon.  Bangla soon.

I stopped eating fish when I understood where the local fish comes from. 

The essence of terror

Just as Bangladesh started to feel secure again, we are experiencing a new and bloody wave of terror here.

Last fall foreigners were  the target of the terrorists. Now liberal Bangladeshis are the prey.

Last week three people were killed because one of them loved music (he was a professor), the other two worked for human rights (they were gay). 

Yesterday a Hindu taylor was killed for derogatory Muslim comments four years ago.

All recent killings and numerous previous ones were conducted by assailants cutting their victims' necks with a machete. 

Extremely brutal and cruel. 

After the attacks, the killers just disappear in the busy streets or nobody sees them in the empty streets.

Extremely strange and scary. The essence of terror.

I talked to a local person who is really afraid.  This person represents many of the Bengalis I know and like: they are liberal, have traveled widely, educated, are not extremely religious.

My acquaintance is now afraid of walking in the streets, has stopped posting on Facebook and beefs up security measures at home and at work.

I have a feeling that in Dhaka's streets there are more and more women totally or almost totally covered. A burkha could save my acquaintance's life but kill her soul.

Tragedy and happiness

Even people who know little of Bangladesh will probably recognize the words Rana Plaza.

I was one of them. 

Three years ago a building where your and my t-shirts were made, collapsed. More than 1100 people died, 2500 were injured.

Rana Plaza became a symbol of the price of the cheap clothes that we buy. I knew little of Bangladesh at that time and considered to boycott anyting made in Bangladesh.

Now I know better (at least I hope so) and would not boycott these products though the life of most Rana Plaza victims is still unbearable.

I have met some of the survivors. They are unbeliavable: so much energy, so many ideas, so little bitterness.

The garment industry provides over 70 per cent of the total exports in Bangladesh. Four million women sew t-shirts. These women work hard and earn close to nothing but at least they have the opportunity to make some money and maybe some time  they can sell their expertise for more complicated tasks than the simplest garments.  You and I must be willing to pay a little bit more for their work.

Eventually they can send their kids to school for a better future.

On this note, living in Bangladesh has given a new dimension of being happy. 

There is so much poverty, so much misery, so much inhumanity.

 Whenever you open a newspaper you are confronted with the most awful stories of gang rapes, killings, revenge, incurable sicknesses, poverty, frustrating inequality.

Still, people tell all the time that they are happy. They actually look happy. One of my readers commented on this (thank you!). People here have the talent of being happy for elementary thing and they actually show that. 

The other night we met a man who was washing himself and his clothes in the middle of the main street, Dhaka's Fifth Avenue, and was happy. He was happy and showed it. A good lesson for the most of us.