We are seriously ill. No local remedy is working. All sorts of wise medicine men are coming from far and wide across the world to cure us. Some are crossing the Atlantic, some from around the Alps, and some from the banks of Volga, Ganges and Huang Ho. Each one has a different prescription. Some are experts in allopathy, some in homeopathy and then there are the ayurvedics. There are even the unani healers. The patient is floundering under the flood of medicines. But the medicine men are not going to let go so easily. Cure the patient they will.
Everyone in the world is concerned about us. We should be thrilled. We are like the enchanted cow that everyone wants to milk. The youth who would once fill the air with resounding slogans for revolution, call for the collapse of capitalism and an end to imperialism, today have no faith in local cures. Some of them now look East, some look West.
When the country was freed from British domination, we conjured up all sorts of tales of betrayal. We happily thought they had used all sorts of plans and strategies to keep us under their control for 200 years. While we would rend the skies with our slogans of non-cooperation, home rule, self rule and independence, the rules would sit by the Thames and say – they haven’t become fit enough to rule themselves. We didn’t like hearing such words. Our poet protested:
‘Who wants to live bereft of independence, who does?
Who will wear the shackles of slavery, who will?’
After so many, many years, did it not strike us even once that the words of the British would ring true? Have we been able to walks without leaning on the stick of others? If we are able, why do we need medicine men from overseas to tend to our afflictions?
There is a matter of age. There is the age to start school, the age to start working, the age to get married, the age one turns to faith and religion, the age to meditate and so on. But leaping into anything before reaching the right age can create all sorts of problems. Neither the body nor the mind can take it. That’s the state we are in.
UNICEF has declared at childhood is up till 18 years of age. Many accept this and many don’t. But then again, many can’t shrug off their childhood even at 40, 50 or even 75. They remain infants. We see many old children around us. It can be amusing at times, but irksome too. It reminds us of how the British once had observed – these children are not ready for independence as yet.
We love children. We see them as innocent angels. But there are some who want to remain children all their lives. That is a problem. Much that a child says is undecipherable. Then suddenly they come up with a gem of wisdom! We pinch their cheeks indulgently, squealing in delight. The child enjoys itself. We have many adults who fit this bill.
Our elders struggled, demanded and fought to usher in Pakistan. For 23 years from then, all we heard was – Pakistan is a nascent nation. At the headquarters Ayub Khan declared, we are not fit for the British style of democracy. The people have not learnt how to vote properly. We need a democracy suitable to our climate. So he came up with his Basic Democracy. Many of us were not pleased.
Ayub left and then so did Pakistan. We achieved independence. We were determined that now we would have democracy. But wait, what did we hear! Socialism was a popular word back then, on everyone’s lips. There was a buzz all around – no foreign ‘ism’ for this land. There would be a socialism suitable for the climate of this country.
A new slogan emerged – democracy of the oppressed. Not all agreed. Some wanted scientific socialism, some wanted people’s democracy, and some came up with neo-democracy. It was an outburst of phraseology. We came up with all sorts of rhetoric, hardly even understanding what we were saying.
Our leaders are rushing around like race horses, but people from other lands ride on their backs. The question is, will the race be won by the brawn of the horses or the brains of the riders!
General Zia came up with another phrase – development democracy. We are still on that path. There is development galore. There are roads, bridges and skyscrapers all over. Back then were was a flurry of canal digging though water wouldn’t enter many of the canals. Now grand buildings are shooting up, offices, hospitals. But these lie vacant year after year. There are culverts, but no approach road to cross them. We see so many culverts, in paddy fields, in gardens, everywhere.
The general public is still not prepared for democracy. That is why the wise cast the votes of those who do not understand. The simpletons do not have to take the trouble and come all the way to the voting centres. Why should they go? Development is taking place anyway.
There is no need to spend millions on artificial lakes in the cities anymore. A few hours of rains makes all the roads into lakes. We see this scene regularly on television, in the newspapers. Dhaka and Chattogram look like Venice or Amsterdam then. There was a time when Barishal was referred to as the Venice of Bangladesh. There are so many Bengalis in Italy now. They can now day Venice is the Dhaka of Italy. We now are waiting for the people of Oxford claim their university is the Dhaka University of the West.
Election times are here. The countdown has begun. There are five months in hand at the most. Everyone has the common question – what will happen? They come up and whisper into the ear – what’s up? So much curiosity, so many questions! Our minds are swinging like pendulums – to and fro, to and fro. Who knows where this will stop. In the meantime, diplomatic emissaries are flocking in from all over the world. We have no idea what interactions take place. The newspapers and television come up with all sorts of reports and analysis. One emissary comes on the heels of the other, from different countries of the world. Our leaders are rushing around like race horses, but people from other lands ride on their backs. The question is, will the race be won by the brawn of the horses or the brains of the riders!
There are around 150 days left to go. The slope is becoming more and more slippery by the day.
* Mohiuddin Ahmed is a writer and researcher
* This column appeared in the print and online edition of Prothom Alo and has been rewritten for the English edition by Ayesha Kabir