towers was a symbol, a gesture of rage, frustration, attention seeking, whatever you may want to call it. A statement to say that if you continue to humiliate us, we will find devastating ways to retaliate.’
‘But lives were lost,’ I argue. ‘Innocent people killed. That’s not symbolism. It’s murder!’
‘Aren’t innocent lives lost in Palestine? Isn’t that murder? Don’t tanks and jet fighters kill civilians anddestroy buildings? Well, such damage can be done to the West as well.’ He looks at me defiantly. ‘A moral stand is not the sole right of white nations. We constantly hear about a just cause. What cause is that? The freedom to exploit underdeveloped countries? Strip African nations of their precious minerals and stones? Keep Palestinians poor and on their knees? Support corrupt regimes in the Middle East? Export the Coca-Cola culture everywhere?’
Evidently with great success. I point out that most of us were drinking Coke at lunch.
He looks displeased and mutters, ‘That’s what brainwashing does to people.’
‘Including you?’ I immediately regret uttering the words. Ma will hear about her rude and upstart son who demonstrates no respect for his elders.
Uncle Rafiq walks away.
I N THE END I find it easy to talk to Alya. In conversation, she looks directly at people’s faces, as though trying to figure out the discrepancies between what they think and say. I doubt if Alya can be easily intimidated. She gives me fascinating insights into the changes here, especially the freedom that women are beginning to enjoy.
‘But only in Dhaka and Chittagong?’
‘Yes, but at least it’s something. Women hold important government posts now, and the private sector employs them more readily. There are professionals and businesswomen.’
‘Different story in the villages?’
She nods ruefully. ‘Too much ignorance and gender bias. Rural life is strongly influenced by fundamentalist mullahs—’ Alya stops and laughs at my dismay.
Still, she intends to set up more factories and shops in some of the smaller towns and villages. ‘I’ve a ten-year plan. Give country women the capacity to earn and they become confident. They find collective strength and a voice against the feudal system that’s still in place. Gradually the mullahs will be challenged.’
‘That may not be wise.’
‘Without risks, there won’t be changes.’
I feel Alya’s infectious enthusiasm, a genuine belief in what she proposes to achieve. We talk about the factory she’s built in Manikpur.
‘Your uncle was reluctant to sell the land,’ she recalls. ‘He probably felt that his revered image as the super-rich God-figure in the village was at risk.’
‘No one’s super-rich in our family any more,’ I snort. ‘But my uncle has always fancied himself as an imperial figure of rural authority.’
‘He’s built a…well, shall I say, a large and unusual house.’
The guests begin to drift away.
Alya gives me her card. ‘Perhaps you might like to browse in one of my shops. If you have time, you could also visit the village factory.’
‘Yes, I’ll be visiting my uncle.’
She offers to drive me to Manikpur, if I choose to go on a day when she makes one of her regular visits to the factory.
M Y BEDROOM IS soulless. It offers me all the sanitised necessities and luxuries of modern living. Telephone and fax machine. A computer and printer. Satellite TV. A stereo and a stack of CDs. The furniture is expensive and has recently been polished. A desk and a swivel chair. Aerogramme and items of stationery. A new pair of leather sandals and a starched cotton dressing-gown. The en suite is stocked as if it were in a five-star hotel.
I sit and think of Alya’s commitment, but I know my admiration is tainted with jealousy. She has a sense of direction, a purpose which energises her. She’s the kind of person who guides her own destiny. This makes me reflect on the narrowness of my perspectives. I’m drifting
‘But lives were lost,’ I argue. ‘Innocent people killed. That’s not symbolism. It’s murder!’
‘Aren’t innocent lives lost in Palestine? Isn’t that murder? Don’t tanks and jet fighters kill civilians anddestroy buildings? Well, such damage can be done to the West as well.’ He looks at me defiantly. ‘A moral stand is not the sole right of white nations. We constantly hear about a just cause. What cause is that? The freedom to exploit underdeveloped countries? Strip African nations of their precious minerals and stones? Keep Palestinians poor and on their knees? Support corrupt regimes in the Middle East? Export the Coca-Cola culture everywhere?’
Evidently with great success. I point out that most of us were drinking Coke at lunch.
He looks displeased and mutters, ‘That’s what brainwashing does to people.’
‘Including you?’ I immediately regret uttering the words. Ma will hear about her rude and upstart son who demonstrates no respect for his elders.
Uncle Rafiq walks away.
I N THE END I find it easy to talk to Alya. In conversation, she looks directly at people’s faces, as though trying to figure out the discrepancies between what they think and say. I doubt if Alya can be easily intimidated. She gives me fascinating insights into the changes here, especially the freedom that women are beginning to enjoy.
‘But only in Dhaka and Chittagong?’
‘Yes, but at least it’s something. Women hold important government posts now, and the private sector employs them more readily. There are professionals and businesswomen.’
‘Different story in the villages?’
She nods ruefully. ‘Too much ignorance and gender bias. Rural life is strongly influenced by fundamentalist mullahs—’ Alya stops and laughs at my dismay.
Still, she intends to set up more factories and shops in some of the smaller towns and villages. ‘I’ve a ten-year plan. Give country women the capacity to earn and they become confident. They find collective strength and a voice against the feudal system that’s still in place. Gradually the mullahs will be challenged.’
‘That may not be wise.’
‘Without risks, there won’t be changes.’
I feel Alya’s infectious enthusiasm, a genuine belief in what she proposes to achieve. We talk about the factory she’s built in Manikpur.
‘Your uncle was reluctant to sell the land,’ she recalls. ‘He probably felt that his revered image as the super-rich God-figure in the village was at risk.’
‘No one’s super-rich in our family any more,’ I snort. ‘But my uncle has always fancied himself as an imperial figure of rural authority.’
‘He’s built a…well, shall I say, a large and unusual house.’
The guests begin to drift away.
Alya gives me her card. ‘Perhaps you might like to browse in one of my shops. If you have time, you could also visit the village factory.’
‘Yes, I’ll be visiting my uncle.’
She offers to drive me to Manikpur, if I choose to go on a day when she makes one of her regular visits to the factory.
M Y BEDROOM IS soulless. It offers me all the sanitised necessities and luxuries of modern living. Telephone and fax machine. A computer and printer. Satellite TV. A stereo and a stack of CDs. The furniture is expensive and has recently been polished. A desk and a swivel chair. Aerogramme and items of stationery. A new pair of leather sandals and a starched cotton dressing-gown. The en suite is stocked as if it were in a five-star hotel.
I sit and think of Alya’s commitment, but I know my admiration is tainted with jealousy. She has a sense of direction, a purpose which energises her. She’s the kind of person who guides her own destiny. This makes me reflect on the narrowness of my perspectives. I’m drifting
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