Iffat Nawaz

Iffat Nawaz is a Bangladeshi American living in the DC metro area. Her writing career started through her concentration in English during undergraduate years at the University of Maryland.

She has a column in the Daily Star Newspaper of Bangladesh, the column is titled “Under a Different Sky.” Under a Different Sky talks about American/Bangladeshi dreams, the dilemmas, the accomplishments, the phases and faces of living Under the American sky and being a Bangladeshi.

Iffat Nawaz's Essays

I sat around with a few more of my kind (in this case I mean Bengali and democrat), some of us are eligible to vote and some of us aren’t, but even the ones who are not eligible to vote are as proactive as the rest. My immigrant friends are strangely not scared anymore of their H1 or F1 statuses; they are not frightened of being deported, they don’t feel that their voices should be muter because the color of their passports are still green. I don’t give credit to the current government for the courage of my friends, it’s not by encouragement of the current regime that my friends are expressing their true thoughts; it’s out of fear, fear of another four years of bloodshed and indirect dictatorship that my friends speak out.

I was never into politics, I can not dissect political theories and agendas, I don’t have in depth knowledge about the senators’ past, present and future goals, the parliaments’ biases and I don’t know who runs who, and who is whose real boss and who has the last word.

So it scares me when someone like me starts to get political. You know someone like me, who is happy with switching the channel during news for some fluffy comedy in HBO. Someone like me who denies the darkness of each moment in someone more unfortunate’s life so she can go on with her online shopping spree a few times a month to make her feel finer. Someone like me who grew up in Bangladesh seeing below-standard and tasteless political battles and therefore labeled politics all together a game of dirty minds. It scares me...

When I sat with my politically aware friends to watch the Friday night debate last week, I wanted to keep my mouth shut, I didn’t want to slip and say something miserably dumb, I wanted to understand, which also kind of scared me, as in my previous life I never cared enough to understand such matters. While my friends laughed at every mispronounced word by Bush and at his unprofessional interruptions, I joined them. After a while that seemed repetitive to me, I think one can take it for granted that Bush will forever keep mispronouncing words, act irrational and dance around questions never answering most of them unswervingly or obliquely. There is no need to put him down more; the man has done a great job of that himself.

The reason I sat there last Friday was because I wanted to sense the aura of a different kind of promise. Something more than Bush’s condescending tone, the tone which always sounds like he is not talking to the American population but to a bunch of 1st graders, I wasn’t there to listen to Kerry’s dexterous remarks and see his sparkling white smiles. I was not there to experience a blame game, a game of pointing fingers and marking the fool. I wasn’t there to listen to old and new facts and figures which already have been released and announced. I wasn’t there for evidence, I was there to believe, I wanted to believe in something I haven’t heard before, I wanted to hear a promise that wasn’t made up in the name of competition, which wasn’t a come-back out of intimidating resentment.

Many words flew, many assurances tried to sit deep into the hearts of all who needed a bit of hope. But my perfidious heart, the flimsy, distrustful, skeptical one just doesn’t want to believe. It still dwells on the hope of something better, it waits for the blame game to stop and sincerity to flow, it doesn’t understand that a synonym for “debate” is “contest,” and in a contest winning and loosing is the focal matter, and often it’s easier to win by making your contestant look foolish and disable than reaching out and making heartfelt promises.

I know who I will vote for, there is no question about that. But even now knowing which side I belong to, I still wait to hear that certain echo of a promise born from sincerity free of dirt and propaganda. The promise that will not make me switch sides but will make me a strong believer of where I stand.

The high school I went to was attended mostly by Caucasian population, among them I always got a special superficial attention, the Princess Jasmine among thousands of Cinderellas. College broke that status of mine instantly. There I was merely another brown girl who acted too white. There was a huge South-east Asian population, Indian and Pakistani, and my features were half as sharp compared to the tall Punjabis and blue-eyed Kashmiris to be noticed, the most I could do is blend in with them to be the average Desi girl.

In the beginning I kind of liked the mélange but I never really got accustomed to it. See an 18-year-old girl never wants to be classified as "one-of-them" she always wants to be "one-of-a-kind" and to be categorized with a huge sect I was to say the least very disappointed.

And the disappointment was also regarding another part of my identity. The identity that still classified me as a Bangladeshi. If I didn't specify where I was from everyone from this side of the world and even some non-Bangladeshis thought I was just another Indian. Which was not a terrible thing, but my Bangladeshi identity was never direct enough to be revealed, unless I spoke out. And often I choose not to speak out, after all who ever heard of Ms. Bangladesh winning the Ms. Universe competition, and how many Ms. India's have bagged that special acknowledgment?

Strangely us Bangladeshis living abroad possess a sixth sense about detecting each other's origin. Even though a lot of our appearances are similar to South-Indians, carrying an all in all rice-and-daal-consuming-look, a Bangladeshi can always spot another fellow Bangladeshi in a room full of Desi faces.

Anyway, that was not my problem. My problem was the fact that I was no longer feeling as special. I wanted to be recognized. Sure I could do it through some other talent of mine, but it was much easier to get appreciation and recognition through physical/superficial beauty, it had faster results, popularity and attention was easily achievable with an eccentric, exotic, stunning look. So being just another half-insecure and shallow college girl I looked for a way out of the classification and a way into the world of glamour and recognition, to be apart.

So it came to me. The answer was FACES. It was a fashion show organized by the Asian association of our university. This fashion show was sponsored by big brand name companies to show case their clothes only in Asian bodies, their objective was to cover their quota of minority activity for the year as well as advertise their clothings. They knew the young Asian population would jump at the chance to be models at this fashion show.

So I went to audition. Nervous but also confident, I knew no other Bangladeshi was auditioning to be a part of this pretence, and I could be the minority among minorities which would give me a better chance to be a model flaunting my face in FACES. I knew the Asian Organization would think twice before getting rid of me, they would want to show their race equality by having at least one token Bengali.

I was right, they picked me, three hundred some Asians had auditioned, more women than man, out of that the judging committee had picked 25 to-be-models. I was the only Bangladeshi (surprise surprise); there were two other brown toned faces with me, one Indian and one Pakistani.

I walked wearing the brand names in petite sizes, my face was now known, among the thousands of others I was one of the 25 special Asian models, I would be remembered, even if it was temporary, maybe for a few months, few days? Still… I felt like I arrived where I wanted to…using Bangladesh's name.

If you are thinking this was a story full of enchantment and pride you are wrong. This was a confession. A declaration of guilt to a terrible mistake I had committed while I was 18. For my selfish benefit I had used the name of my country, of its people, my intention was not to represent them, it was only to represent me, the brown wanna-be-exotic, attention crazy Bengali girl. And now as I sit here, not as stunning and attention crazy, I seek forgiveness. My country's name is being used and abused everyday by many self-claimed patriots, I am not a patriot, I am just another Bangladeshi girl who made her mistakes and now claims to know better.

Outside, people in their winter clothes, back to full sleeves and turtle necks, walk by up-to-date with fall fashion. The sweater that I bought at an off-season sale with an unbeatable price finally gets to hug my body, I walk out to be one of them, trying to overcome the depression of the coming winter with stylish winter clothes, the clothes which we feel so enthusiastic to wear during the first few semi-cooler days.

As the winter gets graver, the corner of our eyes frequently touch the bright summer clothes and open-toed sandals peaking out from the back of the closet to give us some hope; optimism from sunflower prints and magenta hues. Some people suffer from symptoms of depression during the winter months, with symptoms subsiding during the spring and summer months. Of course the smart psychologists have identified this as a sign of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). SAD is a mood disorder associated with depression episodes and related to seasonal variations of light.

I wonder sometimes if I have SAD, and how sad it would be if I was diagnosed with this particular disorder. Sure, it would provide me with an excuse to remain cranky and grumpy during the winter months, but the attachment of a disorder while defining my personality really would hurt my Bengali mind. Because like most Bengalis I find words like disorder, counseling, psychologists terribly offensive, and I would rather be diagnosed with a major case of denial than a definite mental disorder. But the matter is not so light; winter in North America for me poses all kinds of definite threats. Not just me, think of all those September babies who were born, nine months from the cold December, how many of them were conceived out of the joy of Christmas and new year's eve and how many of them were conceived from mere frosty boredom and loneliness…

I guess those are the kinds of data that will never be collected and documented, it will only circle around my twisted world of random thoughts. But just to set the records straight I have nothing against September babies, I get along great with Libras and Virgos amuse me… But seriously have you thought about it? Why are all the major holidays during the winter months in America, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas and New Years? Why is it that the colder world has to act extra hard during the winter months to make a show of joviality?

We have to be showered with Christmas presents and consume lethargic food like huge turkeys to keep us sedated. We are even given bonuses at work during winter months, the only time employers give away free money (how unnatural is that?), Christmas bonus, Christmas parties, even an after-Christmas 70% markdown in stores…why do we deserve so much during the winter months, to keep us from which sudden SADness?

I remember as a child I would draw a very frequent picture out of imagination and glimpses from animation shown on television, the sketch was of a snow man and two little kids proudly standing next to him. There were unnaturally huge balls of snow falling from the sky…every time I finished drawing the picture I sighed regretting living in snowless Bangladesh.

I guess it's the affect of my age, or SAD or my terrible snowman drawings which never got appreciated much, that have lead me to dread the winters in America. And now, living in between summer and winter, this Fall I am falling again in the arms of short days and long nights and a bitter Bengali mood.

We got there late so only caught glimpses of performances by New York's talented drag queens, they sang and danced and astonished me by being more feminine than myself and the girl next door. They had almost perfect bodies, great make-up; I was awed to see how much effort was put into their appearances.

I looked around to see who and what was there, and the faces around me represented all classes, genders, races, ages and types. Some danced swinging their hips and middles, some stared greedily at the male dancers, debating if they should go near to give money or watch from far, men protecting men, women dominating women and men holding onto their naïve shy ones. I stared shamelessly at all who were around, sometimes my mouth would open a slight bit with awe and surprise. Thinking how different one acts in a half dark room full of hyped crowd and alcohol, how open some feels with others with similar sexual preferences men over women or vice versa, all were showing their biases and directly acting on it. I thought how people's sexual preferences can become such a business. Giving people of all ages a chance to come out of the closet, forgetting their personas kept as fake masks for the outside world, and really being genuine and true to themselves, no matter how against the social norm that might be.

And as far as social norms go, who am I to define that anyway? The norms change at the speed of light now days, what was politically correct yesterday is very politically incorrect today, so I kept my mouth shut and eyes wide open to learn the norms and I admit, I did feel a bit left out. It was late, a little too late; cutting through two dark-haired women with locked hands and eyes I was under the New York sky where two lights shone dimly, lit from ground zero. It was September 11th 2004, the city was now calm, breathing a smidgen of New York air I tried to fill my twisted inside and feel the impact of 2004's September 11th on my Bangladeshi-Muslim heart. A few clouds glided away, the shining lights cleared the shadows… I walked on.

In this world with its heterosexual front the word homosexual holds too many taboos and open ends. Or perhaps it doesn’t, and it is my mere close mindedness which still makes me look up when the word homosexual is mentioned, not out of disgust or disapproval, only out of Bengali curiosity. I find it amusing that the word heterosexual by its sound appears more progressive and full of option than the word homosexual which sounds more mono, single, closed. Yet homosexuality is what requires breaking of the monotonous tune of traditions and opening a new set of options.

Being brought up surrounded by sets of made-up standards and with a perfect history of heterosexual background, my eyes kept on touching the older dancing gay men in the room. The men who could have been my elderly co-workers, the men who could be professors at universities and colleges teaching the History of Civilization or Philosophy of Biology, the men who I bump into everyday at grocery stores. They were so common, the average faces I bump into living my ordinary life. They were not flaming with the stereotypical definition of being gay, they were like me, and you and like any other individual claiming their confident sexuality. These men were homosexual, out of the closet and exultant, even if their “coming-out” was just a temporary incident, mostly taken place in the middle of a Saturday night, by dawn they would return home to act and be like “one of us”…because they are…

I believe it's the glitches of our hearts, the unconditional love of our pasts which make us remember these unnecessary digits, I trust that our logical brains try extra hard to discard unneeded scraps but the illusion of the past wins every time keeping those figures almost intact.

I believe the same part of our hearts which conserve the unnecessary digits also fight and preserve the taste and flavor of Bangladesh for Bengalis living abroad. It accumulates the aroma and aura which are long gone but their shadow imprints are still hanging behind… Bangladesh and its illusions…hallucinatory images that keep it beautiful enough to crave but not enough to run back to.

When I ask others living under this red, white and blue sky what they miss the most about Bangladesh, most of the time they tell me about their longings for certain people who are no longer found in that same form or they talk about experiences which are not possibly creatable again. For example when I look through my own heart to remember what I miss most of what I left behind, I instantly get reminded of my fascination with Dhaka afternoons, I can just close my eyes and see myself, with a full stomach and half tired eyes, sitting in some corner of our home, reading Ashapurna Devi or Leela Majumdar, curled up and comfortable, enjoying every word, every ray of the sun, and some hidden freedom of being the only one up during our home's afternoon naps. I will never be able to find those afternoons, I no longer enjoy Leela Majumdar's "chotoder golpo," our house is no longer in the same shape, the members have decreased among the years, afternoon naps are replaced by Zee TV's day time movies, and if by any chance I was lucky enough to go back to the same surroundings I would be the first to fall asleep taking my rightfully deserved afternoon nap, no books or rays of sun will interest me, even if I was offered a whole jar of achar with it…

A close friend often talks about their village in a corner of Netrokona, which he has left behind, he talks about the smell of the soil and force of the wind, with teary eyes he often ends with a song "Sagor kul er Naiya re opar belai majhi kothai jau…" singing to that anonymous boatman of Bengal cruising along Brahmaputra in the oddest of hours towards an unknown destination…this is what Bangladesh means to him, that is what calls him back (when it does), but in reality will the smell of soil take over the smell of pollution and politics…will he ever see his Sagor Kuler Naiya, his self-built hero of Bengal, a delirium created from fragments of his childhood and fragments from random seemingly related images and ideas…

I often wonder if it is Bangladesh or our childhood/early adulthood that we miss the most. Is it the contentment of our youth, the age when we day dreamed and believed it… Is that what we miss or the beauty of monsoon and heavily crowded streets?

The cruel brain cells of mine want me to believe it was all an illusion, our love for Bangladesh is tangled and confused with the memories of our childhood, we long for Bangladesh the same way any other human being long for their bygones. If we the Ex-patriots never left Bangladesh we would still miss those days we had left behind, the better days, the past, the clean slates of being young in a less complex world.

I have a lot of discarding, erasing and untangling to do between many twisted images unique to Bangladesh and some just unique to childhood-happened-to-be-spent-in-Bangladesh, when I am done I shall write down how much I really do long Bangladesh minus the love of "long-ago"s, and store it in one of my brain cell to be remembered for ever.

Last updated: October 2004