For as long as I can remember, my parents have instilled in me to carry my identity with me, no matter what part of the world I find myself in. When referring to identity, this primarily means my nationality and ethnicity. My mother has told me again and again, to remember that I am a Bangladeshi, that I am a Bengali. I did not disagree with this belief, and I would still say I have listened to her. Wherever I have gone, I’ve sung the songs of my mother tongue and worn the clothes I have seen the women around me wear all my life. However, I am a bit confined within the borders of being a Bangladeshi. Sometimes, I feel more confident in my femininity when I wear a shalwar kameez or a saree, but most of the time, I cannot get past how much our traditional clothing, which we take so much pride in, enforces the strict gender norms that our culture relies so heavily on. The definition of identity that the generations before mine have is drastically different to the definition that my peers and I have. Our selves comprise of components beyond our nationality or ethnicity, without denying their existence.
This is a difficult wall to look beyond for the larger population, as so much of our history has been marked by the fights to feel secure in these aspects of our identities. Colonial powers not only threatened to tear us from these parts, but also reduced us as a group to just these aspects of self. My grandparents, who saw the Liberation War first-hand in 1971, are not particularly trying to adopt the Western individualistic mind-set that sees identity and the self as synonymous entities. According to them, identity is collective and reliant on where you are and who you are surrounded by. An individual is mostly perceived through collective categories, such as gender, ethnicity, religion, and social class. My parents have been part of the generation that has experienced the birth and growth of a young country, and have been more exposed to ideas from the outside world. Still, for the most part, they share the same outlook as the previous generation, sometimes even more strongly, as they feel a sense of responsibility to hold on tightly to the culture and country that their parents fought for. The gap in viewpoint starts with my peers, as we have a different understanding of what culture and identity mean. I see both as ever-changing beings, and being direct reflections of people at a specific time, rather than being static or fixed.
As I’ve seen three generations of people deal with the effects of colonialism differently, I’ve seen the impact such ideas have on individualism and sense of identity. The shift of importance away from these characteristics is feared, as a diverse identity is not a concept that we have ever been familiar with.
The struggle of accepting and existing within a multifaceted identity is seen vividly in Shehan Karunatilaka’s novel, The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida. Here, the protagonist is a gay, atheist, morally grey, Sri Lankan photojournalist. All the individual aspects of his identity mentioned above are, in some ways, in conflict with what it means to be a patriotic Sri Lankan in the time that it is set in (or even now). His existence as a person from a mixed Tamil and Burgher background is confirmed in a subtle manner in the story — through his surname. His name, which is a linguistic entity, acts as a marker of a crucial part of his identity. The author uses this aspect to comment on the larger conflict at hand, the civil war between two ethnic groups — the Sinhalese and the Tamil. One of the biggest points of conflict in this war is language, and this is one of the many cases in the region where language has been used as a tool for oppression. Having seen how language has shaped people’s identities to a negative extreme, it is difficult for me to feel “proud” of this one aspect of myself that I have simply been born into, that I have no control over. Thus, I find existing as a multifaceted individual to be something to take more pride in, as I believe it to be a form of resistance towards reductionist attitudes towards South Asian selfhood.
To Resist
Still, it is not without reason that my parents think the way they do. Their existence has been shaped by resistance. They have felt firsthand the effects of having won the battle to speak one’s own language, and have lived in a country defined by this victory. The Language Movement of 1952 is regarded as one of the starting points of the fight for independence. The birth of our nation is intrinsically tied with a singular language and is owed to the resistance shown by people who were brought together by a shared identity. The people long for unity, and they believe that linguistic coherence can help hold together a fragile nation.
“Desh” means country in Bangla. Bangladesh quite literally translates to Bangla country. Thus, Bangladesh’s self-image relies on its linguistic pride. However, the homogeneity that is implied through the name gives a false impression of the people,
and ignores the part of the population that may identify as Bangladeshi, but not Bengali. Though the country is said to be “monolingual,” there exist different ethnic groups such as the Chakma, Marma, and Garo communities.
Linguistic minorities are rarely heard in the conversation surrounding the Bangladesh identity, simply because the vocabulary around it is not inclusive enough. Languages that do not have a written script are often put in the category of a “dialect,” reducing their importance.
By disregarding spoken forms differing from the “shuddho” or “pure” Bangla from the statistics of linguistic diversity, the monolingual identity of the country is defended. The greater population has a desire to maintain, and more alarmingly expand, this omogenous identity. This has caused a monolingual curtain to be drawn on all matters of the nation. Systemically, Bangla is taught as the first language in all public schools, taking away the opportunity for those of other ethnic backgrounds to speak their mother tongue. The irony is plain, but somehow not apparent to the majority of the country. While we uphold the victory of the Language Movement, we fail to feel national pride by using language that celebrates linguistic diversity. This othering of the non-Bengali population that occurs in the Bangladeshi society is shameful on its own grounds, but especially ironic considering we pride ourselves on fighting for the right for one to speak their mother tongue. We have resisted so strongly against injustice that we have held on to resisting any sort of change that may seem threatening to our so-called homogeneous nation.
Change
A language is a carrier of history, tradition, and values of the people who have spoken it. The reliance of cultural preservation on language makes this form of expression an especially fragile one. I feel this fragility constantly at home, as people desperately cling on to the language, rejecting any change that they feel, in fear of erasure. A shift in vocabulary that has a taste of the English-speaking world due to globalisation is seen as a threat rather than a natural path of evolution. The insecurity regarding the loss of Bengali culture is not completely unjustified, as it has been seen historically that the extinction of a language can result in the loss of the culture and identity of those who speak it. The timeline of Bangladesh – from colonisation, to internal conflicts, to independence, did not allow our people to have the privilege to discover and establish what our cultural identity is. Rather, it forced the population to settle on one agreeable description of our culture, which might not even be true to the way the greater society would like to live their lives anymore. This lack of a strong foundation to build upon has resulted in a divide within the country’s population. One side consists of people who are strict and stubborn and believe that purity of the language will bring stability to our culture, while the other side is consequently repelled by this attitude and turns to other extreme modes of self-expression that reject the Bengali identity as we know it. Bangla has stood as a testament to a language’s resistance and survival against attempts of erasure, but it has not been a good example of a language that has embraced change. It leaves its speakers in an uncomfortable limbo between preservation and transformation.
Translating Myself
As I am writing this piece, I have had the chance to think deeply about my relationship with my mother tongue. It feels a bit funny to discuss and make critical opinions on the politics surrounding the Bangla language, while not even writing in the language itself. During this reflection, I have realised, or rather actually acknowledged, that I am able to express myself more profoundly and critically when writing in English. Though contradictory, I cannot deny that this is what feels the most authentic to me.
Both these languages make up my inner thoughts, and I am in a constant state of translation. Often, it is a struggle, as indicated by when ‘like’ becomes the most used word in my vocabulary. I find myself thinking in one language but having to push the words out in another, and realising that they don’t retain the feeling I had intended.
However, when I speak my mother tongue I feel vulnerable, to an extent where I am almost childlike. Yet, when I write it on paper in its proper form, the tone and emotions feel so far removed from me that it is strange to call it my first language. The conflict arises when I try to separate my thoughts and emotions into the two boxes of the two languages I know best. I have realised that it is impossible to split myself between these two tongues. It is a lot more liberating to imagine that these two speeches make me as a whole, and the different versions of my identity get to exist within them. Instead of choosing or refusing one, I feel the two inherently different scripts going hand in hand to complete the breadth of my selfhood.