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The reluctant immigrant
AS I woke up this morning in my McLean, Virginia home, slightly jet lagged, I suddenly felt an urge for a cafe latte. More than the latte it was a longing for the familiar smell of freshly brewed coffee, the whistling sound of the espresso machine, and the pleasure of sitting outside the coffee shop and
sipping the frothy liquid with relaxed relish. But, as I pulled my car into the parking lot of the neighbourhood Starbucks, I was overcome with a sense of unfamiliarity. 1 dismissed it as a normal outcome of my long vacation in Dhaka and being spaced out after crossing a 10- hour time zone! But the feeling persisted. When the girl at the counter asked me for my order, I hesitated and stuttered because I couldn't remember that a small latte was called "tall”! I must have done this a thousand times - then, why the confusion?
I sat alone with my coffee and reflected on my return home and my rather prolonged holiday in Bangladesh (or should I say my other home?). I have never understood why each time I come back to the United States I feel disoriented as if I need to reinvent myself. Having lived here for years I am past the initial period of shock when an immigrant still feels alien. I am no longer struck by the novelty of the glitz and glamour or the efficiency of the developed world where things work with near clockwork precision. Neither am I at a stage where I am anxious to preserve my own culture because I am now confident that 1 am in no danger of losing it. In fact my diverse cultural experiences have provided me with a comfort zone in both social settings.
Yet this nagging feeling of not being rooted persists whenever I come back from one of my Bangladesh trips. The first thing that hits me is the deafening silence of the American suburbia compared to the high noise level on the other side. There is also a sense of loneliness, and being alone is not something that we South Asians can cope with for long.
As I enjoyed my coffee basking in the warm glow of the bright and crisp day, my thoughts turned to the delightful coffee interludes with my friends in Dhaka. These were memorable times full of joy and a spirit of camaraderie. We were unperturbed by the noisy chatter at adjacent tables or the fact that we had braved long hours in traffic to get to the rendezvous. The nostalgia brought beautiful memories of the unwavering support of friends and family through trying moments, their unexpected visits breaking the solitude of lazy afternoons and the relentless questions from my grandchildren on anything ranging from oceans to space to why grass isn't red!
I acknowledge that many of these memories are colored by the lens of romanticism and love. Otherwise how can one overlook the harsh realities of Bangladesh? The injustices one faces in daily affairs, the dearth of integrity in simple business dealings, the frustrations encountered by talented people who fail to meet their expectations due to lack of money and clout. Even the food one consumes is adulterated by businesses that want to make quick bucks knowing full well that they are slowly poisoning millions of adults and children. But the errant rich and well-connected are rarely punished in a country that is beset by widening income inequality and crushing poverty.
Yes, as much as I love you Bangladesh, I find it hard to live with you because I am scared. I fear that 1 will either become someone who will be persistently angry, protesting against the failures of the establishment to punish the culprits who are desecrating the society and the nation. Or I might just become immune, living a sheltered existence, bribing my way to make my life easy and eventually transforming into one of "them."
I concede that America has its problems and its share of corruption and injustice. But it still provides an opportunity for everyone to "be" what they want to be. 1 often feel vulnerable, even fragile here - since the fault lines of my two identities have never been cemented well. But I also know that this country allows me to keep my emotional ties with my roots as well as preserve the core values of both my identities. I might always be slightly dislocated or displaced in this society but I have the freedom to tell the many untold stories about my native country and its people without sugar coating the truth and hiding my real self.
Perhaps that is why, despite the emotional struggle, I have consciously chosen to oscillate between my two worlds!
The writer is a renowned Rabindra Sangeet exponent and a former employee of the World Bank. E-mail: shiftingimages@gmail.com