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May, 2007 @newagebd.com Main Page « Front Page « Metro « Business « International « Sports « National « Editorial « Op-Ed « Home « Timeout « Letters «

LOVER OF LEAVING La Belle France Gypsy Meye Why do I think of lost love so much more now than before? Is it the isolation of travelling that allows me the luxury (the torture) (the lazy sentimentalism)? At first I attributed it to being surrounded by the French. But I was only in Paris for three days. Did I have to remember unrequitedness every redeye moment?    While flying to Charles de Gaulle airport, I struggled through a copy of Le Monde, and confirmed that my French is intolerably bad considering I studied it to fluency, albeit 15 years ago. I chucked the paper as I left the plane and eagerly sought out my cousin who’s been living in the outskirts of Paris for about five years. She and my dula bhai were picking me up and taking me to see their gorgeous little daughter whom I've been dying to meet.    We were just about to pull out of a parking spot, when a huge black van pulled up blocking our path, and half a dozen black vested Forashi police jumped out and surrounded the car. They immediately separated us and started asking questions. My US passport was soon extracted and examined. This little blue book has not always served me well in the past. In Tunis’s Mediterranean port they found the combination of my Nigerian birth, Arabic name, American passport, and Bangladeshi good looks to be wholly unbelievable and insisted I produce my "real" passport. This time, it appeared my blue jeans and blue hair was the right combination to dissuade further questioning.    However, my poor cousin, dressed in a lovely shalwar kamiz unfortunately obscured by a puffy down coat, was so nerve wracked by the experience that she couldn't speak French properly. I was then pulled into her line of questioning to ostensibly translate their awkward English questions (about her visa, legitimacy, and papers) into my (crap) Bangla.    We found out late into ze affaire that there is some illegal private taxicabbing going on, and we had parked inconveniently close to the taxi area. Once they determined that we were related and legal and so on, they let us go with an unsatisfying ‘desole’.    What’s interesting is that the whole time I had disturbing thoughts of being hauled off and decitizenised and so on. And my cousin and dula bhai, while upset and frazzled, were not afraid, at least not in that vein. Strange, no? Are American civil rights in such dire straits that I am ready for the worst any moment? It might seem so.    After this, we got lost for an hour (probably because of the frazzlement), and then jammed in traffic for another hour and half, and the normally half hour journey took almost three. I was hating France by the time we got to my cousin’s home. But then my niece came running, and her forthright Frengla language and shy hugs instantly made everything better.    Although I only had a couple of days in Paris, I managed to pack a lot in with my girllove, Ela, who had just moved to Paris to be a big shot scientist. She took me to a Berber cabaret, after which we walked like 100 miles around northern Paris looking for a dance club. Harder than it should be, no? After sitting on multiple sidewalks, eating chocolate, and drinking Cote du Rhone (they come in perfect personal sized bottles), we crashed an all Ivory Coast underground party, and then finally found our destination. I don't remember the name of the club now, but I do remember that we got into the massive venue without paying the 25 Euro cover. (Playing cute got us to the front of the queue. Stealth got us past the bouncer.)    The live Moroccan band playing was fabulous and Ela and I let loose. We both love dancing and unless we find better partners than the other, we’re perfectly happy alone together. However, because boys are the same the world over, we weren’t left alone for long. We were soon surrounded and one persistent lanky Moroccan came up too close behind me. I’ve developed this defense mechanism in the form of my purse which I wear as a fanny pack to keep away the rear attacks. Unthwarted, the boy reached around and grabbed my crotch. Needless to say, I was disgusted, and horrified. If that was where he went first, what was his next move going to be? I didn’t want to find out, and without thinking through this (guys, you can cover your eyes), I turned around and gave him a straight right punch to his balls. Not that hard, because I know you all are sensitive there. Plus I’m left handed. I was holding back. He didn’t. He caught me up by the throat, which sucked. I’m strong, but he was much taller than me, and so probably stronger. During all this, an even bigger crowd had developed around us.    Ela told me later that she was getting ready to fight. She’s even stronger than me, so it wouldn’t have been pretty. Luckily for all of us, the guy realised he was losing some serious face by pushing a girl around, and so he left muttering some unintelligible taunts.    All these shenanigans kept us out till 6:00am. The next morning, ok, afternoon, we went running around the Eiffel Tower, walked through the Luxembourg Gardens, had yummy crepes, saw crazy art in the Pantheon, and prayed for peace in St. Etienne’s Church.    I'm back at Charles de Gaulle airport, waiting for my flight to Dhaka.    I have that faintly nauseous feeling you get when you haven’t slept enough (and when you're about to start a brand new life). GREY MATTER Demolish, in the name of thy lord Tanim Ahmed The people of Bangladesh ushered in a new era on Janurary 11 when Iajuddin’s prompter behind the screen changed. Gone were the days of the uncouth Mukhlesur Rahman, gone were the days of having to put up with an entirely clueless and uncoordinated council of advisers none of whom knew what was about to happen the next day before the chief adviser made his announcement upon the advice of his masters.    In came Fakhruddin, all prim and proper, with a fresh set of advisers along with the much more presentable spokesman from the media world. This government was not going to be as clueless as the previous one. It would cleanse the society, politics and the rotten system. And only after necessary changes had been made, would there be elections.    Had any other regime, especially a politically elected one, taken up a similar assignment, it would have been at its wits end as to how to go about its mission. Not Fakhruddin’s military-backed government though. There was no scope of confusion for Fakhruddin or his advisory council since their backers in uniform had the bright examples of similar operations set by illustrious generals previously. They knew exactly how to cleanse the country and set about it with an iron resolve. There might have been hint of the military’s leaning for the literal but they were not about to be bothered by such trivialities.    Thus began the drive to demolish dirty, rotten and smelly slums off the face of this metropolis. But for these squatters this city would have bee so much more beautiful. Besides these were places where there was drug trade and all kinds ‘anti-social’ activities as they often say in the media. But then some people, a crazy bunch no doubt, pointed out to the incredulity of most others that not all poor people were thieves and criminals. Apparently some of them even tried to wash themselves now and then! But the government had set its sights on a cleaner society. There would be much greenery and open spaces where the slums were and so the silly suggestions from the crazy bunch were ignored and on went the demolition.    The men in uniform also had a point to prove. The bloody civilians always made fun of them for not being too bright. So this time they had done their homework and the eviction drive would be complete. There would not be any scope for a single dirty person on the face of the capital. It was not enough to destroy their shelters but their livelihoods would have to be destroyed as well. Not even Fakhruddin’s former employer, the World Bank, or its comrades in arms, the International Monetary Fund or the Asian Development Bank, among strong sponsors of Fakhruddin’s uniformed power base, could have come with a programme that ensured such swift elimination of the dirty periphery—urban or rural. And so began the hawker eviction drive, which was quite successful in their objective.    Just when everything was going rather well and there were congratulations all around, another bunch of people got it into their heads that the drive was to recover government land. Everything came crashing down when a twisted quarter of the people got it into their heads that the eviction and demolition should include nice and strong buildings that were built illegally or do not abide by the city corporations building code. The martial men finally came to their wits end. It was one thing to demolish rickety slums spewing out slime all the time. But it was quite something else to break down perfectly good beautifully made strong buildings. So most stayed quiet and the authorities were made gyrate about a possible demolition of the Rangs Building which many claim was built blocking a thoroughfare.    But most of the people actually missed the noble intent behind the eviction operation. The uniformed men were modestly quiet instead of hammering it into the heads of those people that the drive was entirely for cosmetic purposes. They did not give a damn about illegal structures. What mattered to them was whether the building was big and beautiful and whether the people in it were clean. It is all the better that the issue of IDB building housing the offices of the multilateral organisations, or the BGMEA headquarters on the canal at Karwan Bazar, has not come up. And rightly so. Legal or not, their business looks clean and must stay. After all this is a cleansing operation.