Rain and riots

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect upon my arrival back in Bangladesh. Having enjoyed the luxuries of the West for an entire month, I feared it might be hard to get back into the swing of a chaotic, sweaty, gourmet-saladless life. Fortunately, I haven’t really have time to worry about these minor concerns of my own, as more pertinent national concerns have stolen the spotlight.

First it was floods. Granted, in my neck of this molding concrete jungle, there isn’t much flooding no matter how hard it rains. And it has rained hard. Not those nice brief 20 minute showers I experienced in Africa, where the sun came back so quickly one easily forgot the downpour within minutes. No, South Asian monsoons involve perpetually gray skies and seemingly endless downpours that make the world beyond one’s window disappear entirely.

I have yet to witness the physical effect the monsoons have had on the areas that have been hardest hit. I have only seen photos and read stories about the suffering of people who have been displaced or affected by widespread disease. I have however witnessed the effect that flooding has had on even the driest corners of the country: inflation. Prices have skyrocketed in the last few weeks, devastating huge numbers of people who live day-to-day on earnings that were just barely enough before prices shot up.

As tragic as the floods ares, it is also true that they are nothing new. While they are devastating, they are unfortunately not surprising to a country of people who go through this annually.

Along with the all too familiar rain, Bangladesh recently faced another all too familiar problem: riots. I was on a bus back in from a field visit when I got the first phone call to say that violent demonstrations had broken out in Dhaka and other major cities, shutting down main roads and potentially making getting home very difficult. A few more messages rolled in to the same tune, with new rumours of a 6pm curfew. It was 4:30pm and I had just been dropped off on the northwestern edge of the city, a long way from home. With no time to waste, I walked down the road looking for a CNG and came across a policeman who asked if I needed help. I told him I was looking for a CNG to get to Gulshan. He immediately started shaking his head and to my disbelief said “No, no. You must take a rickshaw.” He explained that vehicles were being attacked and that even though it would take longer, I would be much safer in a rickshaw.

I was appalled at the thought of spending an hour crossing a city in the throws of violence on a three-wheeled bicycle with nothing but colourful doo-dads to protect me, but my gut told me to listen to the policeman. So I hopped on a rickshaw and started off on an hour-long journey.

I must admit, I was somewhat exhilarated. Although it was morbid, I felt strangely enticed by the prospect of such action and adventure. Words of true Canadian innocence, I suppose. My misplaced exhilaration grew as we headed down the road – by this point free of all vehicle traffic – passing the broken glass of smashed windshields, smoldering ashes of fires that had been lit in the middle of the road, huge crowds of people who had obviously had something to watch up until just recently and police dressed in riot gear. I was nervously excited. I had to struggle to resist the urge to take out my camera.

As I turned my gaze from the people around me to the road ahead of me, exhilaration quickly turned to panic as I saw a group of men yelling and marching towards me. I hurriedly instructed my rickshaw-wallah to cross the road, but as we did the mob headed in the same direction. We converged on the tall ASA building (housing ASA, a microfinance organization and their University) at the same time: we were preparing to pass in front of it, they were preparing to throw bricks at it. Neither parties willing to wait, both activities took place simultaneously. Fortunately, the bricks were flying well over us, but unfortunately they were bouncing off what were very tough windows and rebounding into the street below. Once I realized the mob had no interest in attacking me, I suddenly became aware of the danger of being hit by a falling brick. Fortunately, luck was on my side.

As we pulled away some members of the mob started charging the gates of the building with large sticks. Once at a safe distance, my rickshaw came to a near standstill, its driver obviously keen to stay for the show. I, however, who only moments earlier had experienced a strange desire to witness such an event, had realized that violent protests were frightfully far from entertaining. An overdue loss of innocence.

The curfew began at 8pm and lasted most of the next day. I was happy to have nothing more exciting to watch than rain.

~

It would be appropriate to follow up with a coherent explanation of what led to the outbreak of violence around the country. Unfortunately, I can only speculate (or, better said, repeat the speculation of others who know a lot more about this than I do).

Some believe it was a plot by the political parties to bring the military-backed caretaker government into public disfavour. Others believe that it was more spontaneous, perhaps fueled by frustrations over drastic inflation. What is clear is that, true to Bangladeshi tradition, it was led by University students, who engage (albeit violently) in politics unlike any other group of society. What is also clear is that the government was not impressed: a lot of people ended up in jail and we are still under a relaxed curfew. The rest only time will tell. Or, like a lot of other political mysteries in Bangladesh, it won’t.