Today marks 39 years since Bangladesh declared its independence. I wanted to post a poem I wrote about my little sister (the younger twin) and her curiosity about the Bangladeshi Language Movement and Liberation War in general. This past February 21st was the 58th anniversary of the Language movement, and she watched a historical program with my mother on this date as she sat on the floor creating her Japanese cartoons. Her questions and innocence (along with the irony of the fact that Bangla will probably be lost during her generation) inspired this.
Queens, New York City. February 21st, 2010.
A nine year old girl sits
on an oriental rug in the living room,
empty printer paper and anime
sketches scattered about the floor
with littered pens, black and blue.
Her name is Naurene:
"woman of honor; light."
In the dim evening, her mother watches television
where film-grain images, four decades old
are broadcast in black and white.
They are images of men-
Men in loincloths, with bayonets
Men shamed, naked, proud
Men Hindu, Men Musulman
Men lifeless, tangled, in rotting masses
Men in marches, men with signs
in a tongue Naurene cannot read
Men barely of age, as valiant as Men
at their graves
and the graves of their severed children
All gone too soon.
"Who are they?" she asks in Bangla,
shading a white
hollow; a reflection of light
in the eye of her Manga character.
They are the meek; the Shaheed*
of dreams they never saw, and they died for you.
They died for you, Naurene,
and they did not know your name.
*Arabic for 'martyr' (literally, 'witness')
could not have been said better...it is so important for all bangladeshi's living abroad to know and understand where we come from and respect all the men/women who sacrificed themselves so we can proudly call our country bangladesh and call ourselves bangladeshi. This really touched my heart nupur. I hope this inspires others to want to learn more about themselves, their culture, their language. :)
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