I often recall an incident from my childhood. There was a young girl, a college student, in our neighbourhood, whose mesmerising voice had spread across the entire district in a way that everyone agreed she would one day become a great artiste. She regularly took part in major divisional-level events. Because of her studies and her musical commitments, she led a busier life than other girls and boys. She received more attention than others as well.
At that time, she fell in love with an eligible young man, a student at an engineering college, from a “respectable, cultured” family next door. For his family, it was as if the sky had collapsed. The boy’s father flatly refused to accept a “singer” as his daughter-in-law. The stubborn young man, however, would not give her up. The whole neighbourhood got involved in their conflict, some supporting the boy others the girl.
Eventually, the father relented but placed one condition, she must give up singing entirely. She could no longer perform at any event.
They got married. But after that, she never sang again, not even humming to herself. People in the neighbourhood whispered for a while, and then forgot it completely. Because, people in this country have always been indecisive about the indispensability of creative people in the society. So everyone simply thought maybe what happened, happened for the best.
Yet when I look back, the small-town world I knew in the early 1990s felt somewhat different. Life seemed calmer. At dawn, we girls, draped in long scarves, and the boys wearing caps, would line up at the neighbourhood grandmother’s house to learn the Qur’an. In the evenings, we practised the musical sargam notes with harmoniums. The neighbours would listen and know exactly which child in the area sang well. Families and communities had a genuine inclination toward culture. In those days, if someone in a small town was a good artiste, everyone around would know and admire them. The sound of the harmonium floated through many homes in the morning and in the evening. Someone somewhere would always be practising music or painting.
College and university students formed theatre or recitation groups, discussed society and the country, and pledged themselves to social reform. We younger ones dreamed of becoming like them. Now wherever I go, to my childhood neighbourhood or to other towns for work, I can’t remember the last time I heard the sound of a harmonium.
As I grew up, I realised that creative cultural practice in our society has always been associated with the word ‘disgrace’. Despite that, we continued our childhood practices of song, theatre, and recitation. When our neighbourhood sister’s marriage ended her musical life, we didn’t understand then that, one day, all of us would face the same choice between music, theatre, or ‘respect’. My childhood friends all chose respect. They became physicians, engineers, homemakers, business person, government officials, teachers… I chose the disreputable path, I began studying theatre.
Once I was admitted to the Department of Theatre at university, I quickly realised how little value this education held. The admission process reflected the same. Those who failed to get into other subjects would take up theatre, music, or film. This rule was not made by the illiterate, but by intellectuals, intellectuals who wasted much brilliance establishing this rule. That is why theatre, music, film, and dance remain the most neglected subjects in every university. They are like poor, ‘uncultured’ relatives in a family, ones you can neither embrace nor cast away.
But why can’t these intellectuals see the obvious truth that the merit of a truly creative person cannot be measured against any other? Thousands may become brilliant physicians, but not all will be Anton Chekhov. Not every engineer becomes Badal Sircar nor everyone with the talent to become a bureaucrat can become Shahidul Zahir. Not every creative person becomes great through their work, but every great artiste stands on the collective labour of countless creative souls. The state’s discriminatory attitude disrupts that path.
This prejudice against art has always existed. The state has always feared artistes and tried to suppress them. On the other hand, the uncertainty of artiste’s life, coupled with fundamentalist aggression and intimidation, has eroded common people’s love for art.
After the recent uprising, the state of art and culture in Bangladesh has now become clear now. It seems as if its true picture has been stripped to its skeleton. On one side are the privileged, power-aligned artistes who thrived under the former regime and now lament, floundering as they look for ways to profit from the chaos. On the other are the once-hidden fundamentalists, emboldened now, trying in vile and blatant ways to wipe out cultural practices altogether. They want to eliminate music teacher's posts from schools. Frightened, many artistes have withdrawn from public life.
Nowhere in the world has the path of art ever been smooth or strewn with flowers. No artiste or work of art has ever achieved greatness while sheltered under the shadow of state power. When there is no other way, artistes must make efforts in different ways on their own
However in the post-uprising Bangladesh, there should have been a revolution in the arts. People were supposed to speak freely through songs, plays, and poetry. Together with everyone, we were supposed to search for our own language of art. We were meant to trace the roots of the culture of living that has evolved in this region over centuries and create a new artistic identity.
For a few months, such discussions did take place. But it’s strange, now there is only bottled-up anxiety and despair everywhere in the cultural field. As if there is no way forward, there’s no work nor discussion. Most artistes have withdrawn to their homes, waiting for better days.
Occasionally, they peek into Facebook, venting their frustration instead of creating, hoping that someday the good days will return so they can step out again with confidence. Meanwhile, the hardliners continue to impose various obstacles, intimidations, and even direct attacks. There is no response or remedy from the state. The state, as always, continues to play the same role.
The creative sector remains the most neglected. The budget has been increased only nominally, barely a thousandth of the total budget. Institutions like the Shilpakala Academy and other government cultural bodies have been rendered almost dysfunctional, riddled with corruption and mismanagement.
In the new Bangladesh, where freedom of expression was meant to flourish, some plays are now being subtly banned by simply denying them access to performance halls. There are no new initiatives, no state sponsorship for quality artistic creation, and no genuine intention to build a cultural resistance. In small towns and villages, there are no initiatives to inspire the new generation toward creative pursuits.
As I walk down the streets or scroll through social media, I see only expressions of aggression, hostility, anger, and violence, this seems to be Bangladesh’s prevailing rhythm today. Even Edvard Munch’s artwork ‘The Scream’ falls quite short in expressing our existential anxiety. Our existential anxiety is now far more grotesque and terrifying. The same feeling runs across the entire country.
In the land of jari, sari, and bhatiali, there seems to be no grace, no tenderness, and no melody left. Young teens are getting involved in heinous crimes like murder while drug abuse is also on the rise. They recognise nothing beyond black and white. The number of people suffering from mental disorders is increasing. Anxiety and despair is consuming people. In our own opinions, we have all become rigid fundamentalists.
How did we, as a nation, end up here? What steps is the state taking for humanistic development, for the betterment of our way of life? These are known truths, yet it’s important to say them aloud. Because the culture that sustains our daily lives and the culture of our creative expression are deeply intertwined, you cannot separate one from the other.
If no other path is open, the new generation will turn violent, like the young man from Sirajganj, capable of slaughtering even his grandmother without hesitation. Because, while we wait for better days, the self-seeking opportunists are at work, slowly consuming young, impressionable minds gradually, devouring them completely.
Nowhere in the world has the path of art ever been smooth or strewn with flowers. No artiste or work of art has ever achieved greatness while sheltered under the shadow of state power. When there is no other way, artistes must make efforts in different ways on their own, to work four times harder in such times. For every obstacle that arises, there must be found twice as many ways to overcome it, collectively. Because this is the battle for existence and history has proven that the weak ones do not survive the fight. So my friend, ‘traveller on the path of light, this is night, do not stop here… (Hey Alor Pothojatri, E Je Ratri, Ekhane Themo Na…).
* Mohsina Akhter: Actor and director; founding member, Spardha: Independent Theatre Collective.