Disturbing the Peace

“They took away our peace,” my mom said as we walked back from the mosque. “Shanti niyegese.” We have been going for the tarawih prayer that takes place during Ramadan almost every night, but especially since tonight was presumed by many to be the holiest of nights, Laylat al-Qadr. “I used to feel such peace coming to pray at the mosque, and now…” she trailed off.

Just as the last set of prayers (10 sets of 2 rakaahs) was about to start, the imam announced that there was an “incident” at the Carrollton mosque where brothers and sisters were forced to stay inside…potentially a hate crime. That last bit caused a stir and rippling gasps with what, I imagine, were flashes of images and stories most of us had seen of buildings vandalized with xenophobic smears, angry protesters turning violent at the assumed breeding grounds of terrorists. Carrollton is only about 20 miles away, well within the metroplex. It was an attack on our brothers and sisters, potentially loved ones, and it could have easily been us.

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This on top of the armed hostage situation that shook up Dhaka just this morning, and is in fact ongoing. The one that, apart from scores of isolated, brutal assassinations (read: hackings) of controversial bloggers and religious minorities, was unprecedented. Around midnight, a group of attackers stormed into a popular bakery in the diplomatic zone of the city, taking a number of patrons–including many foreigners–hostage, and throwing grenades at the police.*

As one security expert on CNN would explain and certain friends confirmed, however, it was not a surprise. Trouble has been brewing just under the surface for years, and recently the bubbles have been beginning to break. Despite the government’s denial of any big league terrorist presence in the country, Bangladesh has been known as a regular pit stop for the likes of Al-Qaeda and its millennial startup, ISIS, with its own local chapters of each; not to mention incredible tension between the opposing political parties tinged with religious extremism.

I know that bakery. Holey is a sleek yet cozy gem in a city that is still trying to get a solid footing in Western/European dining and coffee culture, beloved by expats and locals alike. I was just there. Or at least it feels like it, now a whole year ago since I worked at BRAC for my practicum–during Ramadan no less. Friends and I would treat ourselves by cabbing all the way there for one of their delectable (cringe, but most appropriate adjective) pastries at expat prices. Gulshan, the residing neighborhood, is known to be the most well-off and safest in the city. My parents were relieved that I was stationed there of all places in Dhaka. So many late nights buzzing around in rickshaws from houses, parties, salsa class, live music, restaurants. Just like this night.

Facebook feeds bludgeoned with shock, disbelief, desperate prayers, reeling…pain at recognizing that living in the city “won’t be the same” after this.

I’m not exactly the most orthodox Muslim, but I do experience a sense of calm and peace praying in the soft-open room, moving in unison and shoulder-to-shoulder, letting the ground absorb all tension with every bowing touch of my forehead.

Extra holy nights mean extra (long) prayers, but we decided to go home for the last part. It didn’t seem likely that our mosque would be victim to an attack any time soon, and several friends stuck around (I wanted to try out the extra set for once), but hearing about Carrollton just ruined the mood and made my mom restless in a way she said would spoil her undivided attention to God.

The “they” that tainted our peace tonight are the ones that claim to be batting for our team, ridding the world of corruption for heaven on earth. These are not good people, let alone good Muslims. How can they justify being so when they deter observers from the mosque and drive some to tone down their practice so as not to attract attention; oh, and the whole “killing one equates to killing humanity” part of the faith they consistently neglect…during the holiest time of the holiest month (twisted extra credit?!).

I would like to say that love and humanity will overcome, that this evil can’t last; I pray for lack of any other viable option to change things. But right now, at the risk of letting the terrorists win, I am struck by the consistency with which fear, violence, and ignorance trample any flowers that threaten to bloom.




*Since this was initially written, the outcome of the attack was the death of 21 hostages including native Bangladeshis, police officers, Italians, and Japanese patrons. Cause of death: not being able to recite part of the Qur’an, a fact that shatters my heart. More wrenching is the fact that one victim who was initially allowed to go, Faraaz, refused to abandon his friends whose dress was considered ‘too Western’. That is true heroism that terrorists cannot comprehend. 

Travel Log

The B-Sides: Part 2

Another girl at BLC also blogs but doesn’t have enough time to compose long posts, so instead she tries to write a single sentence about something, about her day that stuck out to her; an event, a feeling, a realization, anything. Taking up on that idea, an irregular series of snippets from my day-to-day.

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Sunset on the BRAC HQ rooftop. Skyscrapers and slum dwellings.

Trying to hold on to the feeling of walking through the rain… the absolute downpour that makes any attempt at maintaining dryness–an umbrella, a rain jacket– laughably futile.
I don’t like the idea of getting wet; I like to watch from my bed inside instead of welcoming the rain with open arms.
I finally had to abandon my umbrella when the gusts of wind proved to have more power over it than I did. As I, begrudgingly, stopped fighting the rain, I came to accept it, and then appreciate it. In between blinking to keep my contacts in, the palm(?) trees leaned subordinate to the wind the sky a flat slate gray rain pelted in steady diagonal sheets. My clothes drenched and I laugh to myself at how I was trying to avoid puddles just minutes ago.
Slipping on a dirt path and landing on my tailbone rerouted me home. But the walk back, I resisted the storm just enough to avoid being blown away; otherwise, I was immersing myself into the surroundings and stopped caring about how my clothes and hair were plastered on to me, soaked in what is likely to be acid rain, that I was wet.

I keep looking to the sky, desperately trying to absorb, to observe; find now that I am soaked, it isn’t so bad.

The mine gets a little emptier as another person leaves

Last night.
We peaked.



Partner in crime

Partner in crime

Goodbyes are a natural fact of life, but this was one of the harder ones. The cheese factor is extreme, but it’s another example of how ‘the universe’ can concoct connections we wouldn’t have come across in other situations.

They say “be yourself,” but sometimes I feel that’s a lie.

The happiness of no hangover and feet aching from dancing all night

Can check “coming home barefoot” off my list

Finally, the kind of day I’ve been hoping to have during this internship all along: sat down with the supervisor to go over my assignment, promptly received the necessary documents, and had a pleasant chat with a co-worker; overall, feeling like I’m being taken seriously. Too bad it had to come just as I’m about to leave this place.


Some chill after a full two days of endless drinking and movement. Spent quality down time with certain people and we wonder, why couldn’t this have happen anytime before in these 3 months? Departure time keeps getting pushed back, but I’m not complaining.

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Somewhere near 5 am from a porch near Srimongal. Site of jaw drops, laughing too loud, and the finale of nearly 36 sleepless hours.


The last sunrise in Bangladesh, and by far, the best. Revelations, reflections, and beauty beauty beauty, through endless shisha on the porch amongst the forest…I couldn’t ask for a better, more appropriate end to my time here.

Oh My Dhaka…and all your contradictions. I will miss you more than I could have imagined.


A last note: I keep catching myself with the realization that identifying myself with the native culture has caused me to be less forgiving of said culture and the people, more than I would be in a setting more alien to me. For example, I find it so irritating when locals pepper expats for pictures; but don’t I also take pictures of people and scenes that find different and fascinating? I feel embarrassed if someone says or does something silly or tacky, feel a need to apologize on their behalf because I see it as a blow to my image…when that is unfair to both parties. They are an individual in their own context and conduct, just as I am my own, even if we share a similar heritage; shame or discomfort is a product of context that isn’t always shared.


Field Visit: Jirani

After too long, I finally went into the field to observe a few of the play centres BRAC IED’s early childhood development team is piloting. Two of the program planners and I visited three centres in Jirani, a town just outside of Dhaka city. The road was rough. We started at 7 AM to beat rush hour and reached the site over two headrattling, bodybreaking hours on clay/dirt roads bumpier than a teenager’s face.FullSizeRender (15)

The set up is basically the same for all play centres: tin shed roughly 10 x 7 x 8 feet (I have terrible space perception) with four corners, or “worlds”: Color World, Book ”, Dream ”, and Mother’s Lap. Inside walls are decorated with garden scenes cut out of paper, paper animals and shapes hanging from the low ceiling, along with any other flourishes the play leaders come up with.

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Ma’er Kol (“mother’s lap”) nap corner

It’s hard to be cynical when you see a bunch of 3 year-olds singing in a conga line around the classroom. Sure, this could all very well be a show put on for the supervisors, exaggerated to prove efficacy; but I would like to think that I could read genuine content in the faces of the mothers when they say the centre is a better alternative to the kids doing nothing at home and good practice for when the kids have to go to school later on; hear sincerity in the play leaders when they say that really, they just love playing with kids and again, it provides a job alternative from sitting at home; it’s also pretty tough to get a bunch of 1-3 year olds to do anything you want, let alone ‘act’ active and playful.

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1 to 3 year olds session. Mothers at the back with the littler ones; play leader leading; bigger ones watching me watching

When I asked which activities the children liked to do most at the first centre, a play leader said rail gari, the conga line game, because they could choose where to go with the imaginary rail train. Often times, the young woman said, the children would pick places they didn’t get to go in real life, like their grandparents’ house, uncle’s house, or to the market when it was time for Eid. That gave me both sad and warm fuzzies.

Challenges faced include explaining to parents (and kids) that the centre is strictly meant for play and not a space for formal education because the kids don’t need that kind of pressure just yet, that play offers a unique curriculum for early development. Kids want to bring other books to read but are limited to the set that BRAC has assigned (which I agree should be allowed).

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En route to the second centre

We were too late to catch the play sessions in the next two centres so my co-workers stuck to touching up decorations and advising the play leaders for the upcoming visitor. The second centre especially, though was impressively done up by the play leaders themselves, with hardly any instruction from HQ. One of the young women was largely behind this and clearly enthusiastic about her position. She excitedly explained to me how she loves playing with kids because she feels like a kid herself, so who wouldn’t want to have job where you just get to play?


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Travel Log

Old Dhaka Revisited

Eid in Bangladesh essentially shuts the country down for 4-5 days; and I mean shut down. The roads are virtually vacant and most shops and restaurants are closed as hundreds of people go back to their hometowns or just relax during the few government holidays available. While it offers a much welcomed break from work, it can also be hard to find ways to fill in the free time when there’s hardly anything open. This Monday was the last official vacation day for half of the BLC (housing) group that stayed in Dhaka for Eid and, being disappointed by a closed bakery the day before, I was hopeful but weary that today would be more fruitful. So we ventured into Old Dhaka to explore its narrow alleyways as that part of the city is kind of in ruins itself. Honestly, I thought I saw whatever there was to see the first time some of the girls and I took a small tour of the area and wasn’t sure of what to expect. Happy to say that I was proved wrong.

Ahsan Manzil aka Barbie's Bangladeshi Beach House

Ahsan Manzil aka Barbie’s Bangladeshi Beach House

Ahsan Manzil (aka the “Pink Palace”) was used as the point of reference for the CNGs, but to our surprise, the site was actually open (we failed once before and it was expected that Eid closures were still in effect). The structure was built in the late 19th century and was home to the Nawabs, or rulers, of Dhaka, at one point the center of trade and political power in East Bengal and Assam province. It’s hard to say just how pink the palace used to be, but more recent renovations have rendered the building a subtly striking pinkish coral color that really stands out from the old beige of the surrounding streets, more so against the gray sky that threatened rain all day. Inside is a museum providing the history of the home and reconstructed rooms where one can imagine local royalty from the colonial area dining around the elaborately set long table, or entertaining guests with tea and chatting on plush cushions in the formal living room. Luckily, the rain decided to pour while we were inside, and we could watch it fall looking out of the wrought iron windows. It all emphasized how closed the active chapter of the palace’s history was.

It's raining, it's pouring, nanabhai is snoring

It’s raining, it’s pouring, nanabhai is snoring

The view from the front of the building includes the Buriganga river so we made our way closer to it. Once there, we saw row boats willing to take visitors around the water and agreed on taking a ride. I couldn’t contain my excitement; this was something I’ve been wanting to do since I got to Bangladesh and after one of the guys did so already. For almost half an hour, we sat peacefully on a shallow wooden nouka (“boat”) as a gentleman gently rowed us past the palace we explored moments ago. You can imagine what life must have been like in the Manzil’s hey-day: strolling around the palace grounds, watching the fishermen and tradesmen row across the river, maybe taking a ride yourself. 

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Then, an improvised adventure letting random alleyways take us where they will. And somehow, they took us to church. An Armenian church, or rather, the Armenian Church featured in almost every tourism guidebook. It is a medium-sized gold-embroidered white building with what reminded me of Spanish-influenced missionary architecture. After the initial shock of what we stumbled upon, we walked to the entrance where a man welcomed us inside even though we were technically past normal visiting hours. Right as you enter, there is an open courtyard riddled with tombstones–many with uniform white crosses, others with personalized marble plaques honoring the deceased. Beyond that lies a garden and the house where the caretaker and his family live. According to Mr. Ghosh, the incredibly warm and talkative caretaker, this church, built in 1781, has been under his family’s care for almost 80 years, even though they themselves are Hindu. From what Savannah and I gathered, the family has had a very close relationship to the Armenians who settled here years ago (garment factory owners?), but most of the Armenians have since moved away.

The most peaceful graveyard I've ever visited

The most peaceful graveyard I’ve ever visited

He opened up the inside of the church and turned on the lights to reveal an aisle of pews leading up to an altar of lamps and paintings of Jesus, all below a high-vaulted ceiling from which small fans and lamps hung down. Mr. Ghosh continued chatting with Savannah and showed the baptism room to the left while Stephen leafed through one of the Bibles. I joined Carly and Dorothy sitting in the pews and tried to absorb the feeling of the church: it was beautiful in its well-crafted simplicity, decorated but not gaudy, a sense of open space yet smallness that asked for quiet observation. Apparently service is only held on special occasions as there isn’t a large enough Christian population around for regular use.

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Space and solitude

We stayed at the church for some time, and as it grew darker outside, Mr. Ghosh offered to walk us to a mosque nearby. Maghrib time was minutes away when we arrived so we decided not to disturb the prayer and looked on from afar. Finally, it was time to head home. The ride back was pretty quiet from what seemed like exhaustion given the jam-packed day we had. I am content.

Alouise said, and I readily agree, that you don’t need to go outside (Old) Dhaka to enjoy a vacation. It deserves a second, third, fourth visit, with historical sites I was unaware were so close to home. While I desperately hoped to get out of here for the few days we got off, I am grateful to explore a side of the the city that I had not appreciated before.

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Travel Log

Sylhet: A Break from the Noise

Tea gardens

Tea gardens in Sylhet

Color: Green
Word: Lush
Mood: Peaceful
Sound: Rain

If it wasn’t clear enough from my last post, Dhaka is rather… rambunctious. Don’t get me wrong, I really am enjoying my stay here and all the activity around definitely keeps you on your toes. But you realize just how loud it is when you take a trip a few hours (or a 30 minute plane ride) north to Sylhet. Think of it as Dhaka’s more reserved, naturally prettier countryside sister. The most distinguishing features are the acres upon acres of beautiful tea gardens sourcing the country’s tea addiction.

Both my parents– and the majority of British Bangladeshis, as Lonely Planet is quick to point out– hail from this district, so it’s a requisite stop for any trip to the motherland. The intense pride of being Sylheti can be akin to considering oneself (me) Texan first and American second for a lot of people and the dialect is quicker, sharper on the tongue (and, I think, more fun) than “proper” shuddho Bangla.

The overall contrast of the place is clear as soon as you step out of the plane: the runway is essentially a dirt road surrounded by, like everything else there, forests. Driving to your house, the worst traffic ‘jam’ here beats most good days driving through Dhaka.

I had a leisurely five-day getaway during which my mother and I mostly stayed home with my aunt and cousin. Each day consisted of the four of us waking up for sehri* around 3 AM, waking up a few hours later and reading or watching TV if the satellite dish worked, until it was time to go out for the day. I was usually awake before everyone else so I’d have a few quiet moments to myself, watching the rest of the neighborhood slowly wake up, too. Monsoon season was still in full swing so sheets of rain would fall almost like clockwork throughout the day. The windows and doors are always open, letting the outside air roam around the apartment. No WiFi, no problem. I’ll admit I tapped into my data a few times for email and Facebook, but otherwise it was a pleasantly tech-free zone. Nice and quiet.

The first site to visit was my maternal grandparents’ home in Kanishiel, a village about 45 minutes outside Sylhet town. The trip took us through narrow dirt roads that kept getting narrower–but still allowed two-way traffic for CNGs and wide-load trucks alike–flanked by trees on either side to create a canopy of leaves overhead. Sylhet as a whole can be considered rather rural, but this place was even more so. Long stretches of green fields dotted with homes and local mosques. I’ll save the details of this trip for another post.

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The hills are alive…with the smell of cha-a-a

Of course tea gardens were on my must-see list so we visited three on the third day. The gardens are comprised of rolling hills carpeted with tea plants, with stick thin trees shooting up sporadically. I’m at a loss to describe the scene other than green, green, and more lush green. A few women tea collectors were working the fields and made it very clear they didn’t want their picture taken, so I got their hats instead.

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Accidentally snuck a glimpse at another collector. Can you spot her?

Where's Wahida

Where’s Wahida

Nearby the last garden was an eco-park. Right upon entering the park is a playground where–mother and daughter, adult and young adult–we all transformed into giddy six year olds. Raisa and I jumped onto the oversized swing while my aunt and mom hopped up and down the see-saw. It was a hilariously happy sight.

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You’re as young as you feel. Pictured: 6 years old.

The rest of the trip was mainly spent visiting relatives and shopping. We had developed a cozy, carefree little routine in Sylhet. I’d miss taking our meals together, walking around town with Raisa, our moms reading the newspaper at the table together. It was hard to say goodbye to my khala and Raisa not knowing the next time I’d get to see them when my mom and I finally had to leave. An hour later, we were back in the chaotic grind of Dhaka. To anyone who is in, or thinking of travelling to, Bangladesh, you do not want to miss Sylhet. Here are a couple more pictures to round it out.

This guy likes it here

This guy likes it here

In Kanishiel near my grandfather's home

In Kanishiel near my grandfather’s home

Travel Log


New Market: it hits you in the face.

New Market: so…much…stimuli.

In the (butchered) words of one of my fellow ex-pats, Dhaka can be mentally exhausting.

Stay here for a few days and you’d be hard pressed to find a better description.

Noise. There is constant noise, mainly transportation based–car horns blaring in perpetual traffic, rickshaw bells brringing as they squeeze through seemingly impossible spaces. And so…many…people. 14.4 million people with almost 1,000 coming in every day*, go figure. The idea of sonder** in a place like this shortcircuits my brain.

The traffic is a severe test of patience as half a kilometer can magically turn into a 2 hour commute by car, both ways. There really should be a “work-from-car” option and I guarantee you, productivity levels would be through the roof.

Walking can be faster, but you’re still dodging cars, CNGs and rickshaws because, hey, there’s no sidewalk. More blaring horns and ringing bells telling you to move out the way–backways, sideways, all ways.

One of the stops on a recent trek throughout Old Dhaka was New Market, an open-air market packed with booths and stalls selling anything and everything from clothes to stationary to luggage to books, vendors beckoning to our predominantly caucasian group with “Hello! Hello!” After almost an hour circling around the dizzying layout, we awaited our driver outside one of the entrances.

Just standing there: touching shoulders with traffic, stoic in the waves of people pushing past in either direction, sweat rolling down our faces…there was no room for reaction; you can only stand as all the stimuli smack you in the face simultaneously.

All this, paired with alternating bouts of fiery heat and sheets of rain– it’s enough to opt out of venturing out of your AC oasis of a room altogether. Even my relatives who actually live here and have to face these elements everday are drained from the burden of it all.

Despite all that, I am still itching to get to feel out this place. I’ve got about two months left here and I’ll be damned if it’s spent all in my room. Fortunately, as we ex-pats make more connections with the locals, the options to go out are increasing.  And I guess you can kind of get tune out the noise after a few days…

*A tidbit from my roommate–I believe it. 

**In short: the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own; a semi-madeup word, but it is my favorite. 

Travel Log

First Impressions

Current mood: dazed, dizzy, and utterly dope. As much as I'd like to take credit, this is actually a baby picture of one of my cousins in Dhaka.

Current mood. As much as I’d like to take credit, this is actually a baby picture of my cousin, Rimo,  in Dhaka.

Basically my mood since I’ve first arrived: dazed, dizzy and postively dope. Collecting my initial thoughts, here are a couple yays and nays:

Nay: heat that cooks you from the inside and leaves you dripping sweat, more suitable for rotisserie chicken

Yay: apparently that climate also makes this mishtimaash– literally “sweet month” due to the mass ripening of fruits such as guava, jack fruit, lychee, and most importantly MANGOES

Nay: the kind of pushiness hospitality that urges you to take more food while your mouth is full

Yay: food so good you’ll be taking seconds and thirds (fourths, no judgement) on your own

All in all, I still don’t believe that I’m really here right now. I walk the streets and witness my surroundings, not fully comprehending that this is essentially my home for the next 3 months; subconsiously registering everything as more temporary than it really is. As the jet lag wears off and I form a routine with work, I’m sure the surrealness of my situation will wear off. Until then, see: above face.

* A little background on what I’m doing in Bangladesh in the first place: I will be spending 3 months working with BRAC, one of the world’s largest NGOs and national powerhouse, in their Institute of Education Development on a project working to incorporate play-based learning for young children through the Early Childhood Development department.