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Reminiscenses of an expatriate

As I return now for the umpteenth time when I feel a lot more advanced in years and life, carrying my devastating load of personal tragedy I attempt to reanalyse my images and memories in the light of all the queries that take hold of me.

Raina Moinuddin Abu Zafar
I always came back to Dhaka, year after year, taking a breather from my much extended expatriate existence, clinging on to my precious, preserved memories of yesteryears way back in time and a lifestyle which used to be. It never ceased to amaze my acquaintances (here and abroad) how I failed to see the changes (some drastic ones) and attitudes that represent the city of today: the city with its fast growing areas, breaking down of facilities and security, roads paved with stones and pits, the harsh faces of poverty and competition, the hordes of masses and incompatibility of people and ideas bursting forth
in violent confrontations!
Perhaps my images of the same city contrasted with those of the others as a way to "cocooning" myself in the bubble of a past time and cherished memories that always spelt "home" to me ... the home I continued to return to (or attempted to return to) throughout the life I led and still lead
as an "expatriate” in several cities of the world; perhaps, my return was to catch remnants of some shining elements of my life that revolved around the memories and relationships that used to be a part of my developing life in Dhaka, crisscrossing ages, experiences, and, finally, steps leading to the present, and yet another trip to my city. So I would prefer to live in my world of the past and see only what I wanted to, and that reflected my images of home that I would cling to and carry back to my other life in a foreign country. I guess, I wished to live (as so many other expatriates) in the past to enrich my present in the face of adversities and criticism from the many others in competition even though my family and I lived a good, successful life abroad with plenty of recognition in our own rights.
As I returned every year, I would pull the veil of memories and expectations over reality ... unconsciously ... perhaps to retain the facade of what I expected to be or as a sort of willing things to be. Was I till then a romantic or an escapist... wishing what I visualised far away from home to be real? Did I paint real life to be what I related to in my moments of expatriate life and my discussions with my expatriate acquaintances, students, colleagues ... holding up images behind rose-tinted glasses (?) of simplicity, perseverance, modesty and nature in all its unadulterated abundance ... of modest great men and women, hard working common people and richness of literature and arts ... of satisfaction in spite of poverty, ethnicity and pride in heritage and folk lore, of respect for talent, honesty and merit, in spite of differences, of creation and generosity as means of national stature? I think I described a nation that stood united in spite of diversity in all walks of life and beliefs ... of lush fields, wide open skies, and modest statures and expectations, pride in self and simplicity, and modest people with great gifts to give and share ... of a nation thriving in itself and its people. This was the city that was, and still existed, in me within changes of development over the years.
Yet, as I return now for the umpteenth time when I feel a lot more advanced in years and life, carrying my devastating load of personal tragedy when the stark and hurting realities of life remove expectations and break the imagination into shattered pieces of fact, I attempt to reanalyse my images and
memories in the light of all the queries that take hold of me. The depth of reality is harsh and hurting: is reality more real and the "rose" of my tinted glasses less pink, do they show the paths less strewn with pure crystals of true happiness and peace? Are there darker sides lurking beyond the bright lights and modern edifices of growth and change? Is the pride and joy of the bright youth striding ahead in success and achievement real and lasting? Is there reality in the shadowy images of a better future?
Why do these questions haunt my thoughts and overshadow many realities? Am I being influenced by the actions and feelings of the many people who talk to me ... of people looking for other pastures? People who have become disillusioned or disappointed? People who would rather be in my position as an expatriate to so called lands of plenty and peace?
For once, I attempt to sit outside my self-made cocoon, look around me and wonder if the city, the home I want to return to, actually has the daunting, dark, hidden places of secret trysts and acts, of restless, sad, desperate souls and terrified whispers. Is the land too overcrowded and are the clear, open skies dwindling and overcast?
The writer is Assistant Professor, Imam Mohammad bin Saud University.