Author: Taslima Nasreen
Publication: The Times of India
Date: February 10, 2008
URL: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/Opinion/Sunday_Specials/Special_Report/Banished_within__without/articleshow/2770240.cms
Introduction: Despite threats, attacks and
enforced seclusion, Taslima Nasreen refuses to leave the country she calls
home. Writing exclusively for Sunday Times, the Bangladeshi writer argues
that her struggle is also a test case for the very idea of India
Although I was not born an Indian, there is
very little about my appearance, my tastes, my habits and my traditions to
distinguish me from a daughter of the soil. My father was born before Partition;
the strange history of this subcontinent made him a citizen of three states,
his daughter a national of two. In a village in what was then East Bengal,
there once lived a poor farmer by the name of Haradhan Sarkar, one of whose
sons, Komol, driven to fury by zamindari oppression, converted to Islam and
became Kamal.
I belong to this family. Haradhan Sarkar was
my great-grandfather's father. Haradhan's other descendants obviously moved
to India either during or after Partition and became citizens of this country.
My grandfather, a Muslim, did not. When I was a child, the notion of the once
fashionable pan-Islamic theory was exploded by East Pakistani Muslims fighting
their West Pakistani co-religionists. Our struggle was for Bengali nationalism
and secularism.
Even though I was born well after Partition,
the notion of undivided India held me in thrall. I wrote a number of poems
and stories lamenting the loss of undivided Bengal, indeed undivided India,
even before I visited this country. I simply could not bring myself to accept
the bit of barbed wire that kept families and friends apart even though they
shared a common language and culture. What hurt most was that this wire had
been secured by religion.
By my early teens I had forsaken religion
and turned towards secular humanism and feminism which sprang from within
me and were in no way artificially imposed. My father, a man with a modern
scientific outlook, encouraged me to introspect and as I grew older I broke
away not just from religion but also from all traditions and customs, indeed
the very culture which constantly oppressed, suppressed and denigrated women.
When I first visited India, specifically West Bengal, in 1989, I did not for
an instant think I was in a foreign land. From the moment I set foot on Indian
soil, I knew I belonged here and that it was, in some fundamental way, inseparable
from the land I called my own.
The reason for this was not my Hindu forebear.
The reason was not that one of India's many cultures is my own or that I speak
one of her many languages or that I look Indian. It is because the values
and traditions of India are embedded deeply within me. These values and traditions
are a manifestation of the history of the subcontinent. I am a victim of that
history.
Then again, I have been enriched and enlivened
by it, if one can call it so. I am a victim of its poverty, colonial legacy,
faiths, communalism, violence, bloodshed, partition, migrations, exodus, riots,
wars and even theories of nationhood. I have been hardened further by my life
and experiences in a poverty- and famine-stricken, ill-governed state called
Bangladesh.
The intolerance and bigotry of Islamic fundamentalists
forced me to leave Bangladesh. I was forced to go into exile; the doors of
my own country slammed shut on my face for good. Since that moment, I sought
refuge in India. When I was finally allowed entry, not for an instant did
I think I was in an alien land. Why did I not think so, especially when every
other country in Asia, Europe and America felt alien to me? Even after spending
12 years in Europe I could not think of it as my home.
It took less than a minute to think of India
as my home. Is it because we, India and I, share a common history? Had East
Bengal remained a province of undivided India, would the state have tolerated
an attack on basic human freedoms and values and the call for death by hanging
of a secular writer by the proponents of fundamentalist Islam and self-seeking
politicians? How would a secular democracy have reacted to this threat against
one of its own? Or is the burden of defending human and democratic values
solely a European or American concern?
The gates of India remained firmly shut when
I needed her shelter the most. The Europeans welcomed me with open arms. Yet,
in Europe I always considered myself a stranger, an outsider. After 12 long
years in exile when I arrived in India it felt as though I had been resurrected
from some lonely grave. I knew this land, I knew the people, I had grown up
somewhere very similar, almost indistinguishable.
I felt the need to do something for this land
and its people. There was a burning desire within me to see that women become
educated and independent, that they stand up for and demand their rights and
freedom. I wanted my writing to invigorate and contribute in some way to the
empowerment of these women who had always been oppressed and suppressed.
Meanwhile, a few Islamic fundamentalists in
Hyderabad chose to launch a physical attack on me, motivated by the desire
to gain popularity among the local masses. This is the manner in which Islamic
fundamentalists in secular India are attempting to entice poor, uneducated,
uninformed Muslims while simultaneously looking to solidify their votebank
within the community. After hearing of the incident in Hyderabad, fundamentalist
leaders in West Bengal, where I live, became so excited that they wasted no
time in issuing fatwas against me.
Students from madrasas who did not even know
of my existence joined the fray. They knew of my 'blasphemy' without having
read a single one of my books. How did they know? Because their leaders had
assured them I had made it my mission to destroy Islam. Therefore, it was
their individual and collective responsibility to protect and preserve their
faith. Can one find a more perfect example of brainwashing? While their knowledge
of my work may be infinitesimal, their knowledge of Islam is equally so and
they have turned their faith into a commodity for their own base ends.
Almost 20% of India's population is Muslim
and, unfortunately, the most vocal representatives of this considerable community
are fundamentalists. Educated, civilized, cultured and secular people from
the Muslim community are not regarded as representative of the community.
What can be a greater tragedy than this?
A greater tragedy, arguably, is that I may
have to endure in progressive India what I had to endure in Bangladesh. I
live practically under house arrest. No public place is allegedly safe for
me any longer. Nothing is above suspicion, not even the homes of friends.
Even stepping out for a walk is considered unsafe. It is felt I should spend
my days in a poorly lit room, grappling with shadows.
Those who threaten to kill me are allowed
to spew their venom. They have tacitly been given the right to do whatever
they desire, from disturbing peace with their demonstrations to terrorizing
the common man in the name of faith. Those who oppose them and their unholy
brand of communalism, those who take a stance against injustice and untruth
are silenced in invidious ways.
I am warned both implicitly and explicitly
that, for example, a fundamentalists' demonstration is about to take place
and it would be best for all concerned if I quietly left the country. Of course,
do return by all means, but only when the situation has calmed down, I am
advised. But will the situation ever calm down? For the last 13 years I have
been waiting for the situation to calm down. I was told the same thing when
I left Bangladesh to go into exile. I refuse to leave because to leave would
be to accept defeat and hand fundamentalists the victory they have always
desired.
It would spell defeat for the freedom of expression,
independence of thought, democracy and secularism. I simply refuse to allow
them this victory. If they are eventually victorious, the loss will be as
much mine as India's. If India gives in to the fundamentalists' demand to
deport me, the list of demands will become an endless one. A deportation today,
a ban tomorrow, an execution the day after. Where will it cease? They will
pursue their agenda with boundless enthusiasm, knowing that victory is certain.
And, of course, the secular state and its secular custodians will bow down
to their every whim and fancy. Giving in to their demands is not a solution
and any attempt to appease them makes them even more dangerous and pernicious.
Even in my worst nightmares I had not imagined
that I would be persecuted in India as I was in Bangladesh. Persecuted by
the majority in one and a minority in another, but persecuted just the same.
The bigotry, the intolerance, the death threats, the terrors: all the same.
I often wonder what good it would do them to kill me. The fundamentalists
are very well aware that it may bring them some benefit but will do nothing
for the cause of Islam. Islam will remain as it has always remained. Neither
I nor any other individual has the ability to destabilize Islam. The face
of fundamentalism, its language and its intentions are the same the world
over: to grab civilization by the scruff of its neck and drag it back a few
millennia, kicking and screaming.
My world is gradually shrinking. I, who once
roamed the streets without a care in the world, am now shackled. Always outspoken,
I am now silenced, unable to demonstrate, left without the means of protesting
for what I hold dear. Film festivals, concerts and plays continue around me
but I cannot participate. I spend my existence surrounded by walls: a prisoner.
But I refuse to acknowledge this as my destiny. I still believe that one day
I will be able to resume the life I once enjoyed.
I still believe that India, unlike Bangladesh,
will triumph over fundamentalism. I still believe that I will find shelter
and solace here. The love and affection of Indians is my true shelter and
solace. I still believe I will be able to spend the rest of my life here free
of worries. I love this country. I treat this land as my own. If I were to
be ejected from this country, it would amount to cold-blooded murder of my
most cherished ideals, perhaps a fate far worse than I could meet at the hands
of any fundamentalist.
I have nowhere to go, no country or home to
return to. India is my country, my home. How much more will I have to endure
at the hands of fundamentalists and their vote-grabbing political allies for
the cardinal sin of daring to articulate the truth? If the subcontinent turns
its back on me I have nowhere to go, no means to survive. Even after all that
has happened, I still believe, I still dream, that for a sincere, honest,
secular writer, India is the safest refuge, the only refuge.
