Chobi Mela
Bangladesh isn’t famous for much. Well, not much that a country would want to be famous for anyway. Corruption, floods, poverty and overpopulation? Yeah, no thanks. But, over the last nine years, a group of passionate, dedicated people have been working hard to make Bangladesh famous for something else: photographs.
Chobi Mela (literally ‘Photo Festival’) was founded by Shahidul Alam, a man who has been cultivating photography in Bangladesh for decades through his gallery and media agency, Drik, and his South Asian school of photography, Pathshala. Chobi Mela I took place in 2000 – it was the first international festival of photography in Asia (even as I write it that seems an impossible truth). Over the years, the event and its organizers have faced significant political hurdles in their pursuit of a dialogue around photography and the festivals’ various themes: differences, exclusion, resistance, boundaries and, this year, freedom. That Chobi Mela V is taking place as I write is a testament to a lot of blood, sweat and tears and an unfaltering belief in the value of and potential for photography in a country like Bangladesh.
Chobi Mela V opened on January 30th. I was there with a friend who had been volunteering with Drik to organize the event. Together with dozens of international photographers and even more Bangladeshi photographers, we danced down the street outside the National Museum to the beat of a marching band. Digital SLRs clicked away from the inside out, and mobile phone cameras did the same from the outside in, in an act of mutual curiosity.
Once inside the museum’s auditorium, a young Bangladeshi man in front of me turned around to dutifully ask me what country I was from. His next question? “Do you know who the chief guest is?” I’ll never quite understand the fixation they have here with chief guests (not to be confused with special guests or honorary guests). When the chief guest finally arrived, he waved his finger with great excitement and turned around to inform me “That is the chief guest!” She was Mahasweta Devi, a renowned Bengali author and advocate. Together with Shahidul Alam and a panel of special guests from around the world, they opened the festival with remarkably short (for South Asian standards) but poignant speeches about photography and freedom.
After a tour of the exhibit downstairs on the life of Nelson Mandela, we headed over to the Goethe Institute for the kick off to a week of presentations and discussion. There, there was there one very special guest indeed. He was dressed in an unassuming (read: dull) blue sweater, and wore glasses that gave away his age even more than the colour of his hair graying hair. He was sitting alone at a table, in a land far, far away, and yet he was talking to us there in the room. His name is Noam Chomsky. The Noam Chomsky. He had been brought to us from MIT by the wonders of modern technology to expound, right before our very eager eyes and ears, incredible theoretical arguments, supported by multiple contemporary and historical examples, which he rattled off with the ease of someone reciting what they ate for breakfast. He answered questions on the notion of freedom, his role as a thorn in the side of the US, and the relationship between the US and India, always with wit, humour and an astounding breadth of knowledge. What I wouldn’t give to be smart like that!
That night, all those of us who had come out to celebrate photography, freedom and Bangladesh, partied till dawn (long after dawn, as a matter of fact). We spent the night on a ‘launch’, a boxy metal boat that usually crams itself with passengers heading south to Barisal or Mongla. The open area down below, normally crowded with blanketed bodies settling in for a long journey, was set up with chairs and a huge buffet. Upstairs, mats had been laid out for all 300 of us to sit and enjoy after-dinner performances by incredible Bangladeshi and Nepali bands. It didn’t take long for the dancing to start, which here means that it didn’t take long for the floor to fill with young men shaking their shoulders, wiggling their hips and even taking off their shirts.
At 5:30am, exhausted from trying to keep up with the Bollywood Boys, I went up to a double cabin that my friend had been given the key to and joined her for a few hours of shuteye. Many others curled up under blankets and slept on what had been the dance floor moments earlier. We woke up at 7 to an orange sun rising over the misty river (and to some terrible music being pumped into our cabin, which make us giggle in that desperate kind of way) and spent the next four hours gazing out at the brick factories and river life that we were floating past.
I met some incredible people that night, people who became friends for life. I listened to amazing music, took part in ridiculous dancing and saw some incredible sights. As if my life here weren’t privileged enough…
Interestingly, that weekend Bangladesh's other moderately famous event, Biswa Ijtema, was taking place. Okay, it's a lot more famous. It involves a few million Muslims that congregate north of Dhaka for the second largest Muslim gathering in the world after the Hajj. This is photo from The Daily Star of people getting home after the third day of prayer.
The daily grind has made it difficult to take in as many Chobi Mela events and exhibits (over sixty!) as I would have liked. I did get down to the National Gallery last week, the venue with the most chobis under one roof. There were some stunning photos, but those of Bangladesh impressed me the most as the subject matter is close to my heart; there was a breathtaking series on the ship breakers in Chittagong and another on gypsy snake charmers that was fascinating.
From there I walked to the Asiatic Gallery of Fine Arts, passing the famous Curzon Hall of Dhaka University on the way. At the last second, a wave of inspiration came over me and I swerved right and ducked through the gate to check it out. The grounds were beautiful and the architecture enchanting. There were huge red and yellow dhalias growing, a perfectly still pukur (pond) reflecting its surroundings, and campaign posters from a recent election strung up between trees. The air was thick with smog, sunset and history, and every breathe felt like a taste of the past. There was only one thing missing...women.
Near the entrance to the Asiatic Society stand the remnants of a moghal-era building. It was lit up under a sky that was not yet dark and looked incredibly elegant in its defiant stance between two more modern structures. The exhibits inside, part of the National Geographic All Roads film project, were equally impressive. One of the featured, young photographers, Khaled Hasan, a Bangladeshi, had done a series of photos on the 'rock scavengers' in Jafflong, near the north eastern Indian border. It is one of his incredible photos that represents Chobi Mela and the theme of freedom this year.
In search of a CNG to take me onto my next engagement - a birthday party for my friend Azahar's daughter, Oishy - I walked by a young boy with a chain of marigolds around his head, his arms stretching wide as he plucked more orange blossoms off the threads on which they had been strung for decorative purposes; he was feeding them to a pair of ponies that pull one of Dhaka's few horse-drawn carriages. I then passed by a tiny doorway that opened onto a labyrinth of ramshackle dwellings; a young boy was peeking out into the world beyond his walls. These living photographs were a fitting end to an evening of photographic appreciation.
Today, I went down to Old Dhaka, back to Shankaribazaar, to see an exhibit on the (dying) jute industry in Bangladesh. On my way, I stumbled across a stretch of narrow lane that had been converted into a space for Hindu celebration and prayer. A ceiling and walls of colourful shamiana (tenting) made the street unrecognizable. There was a group of men playing music and a large audience seated on bamboo mats lining the pavement. I wandered on and found the exhibit in an incredible, austere outdoor space between two buildings. What a feeling, to be admiring such impressive photographs, outdoors, sandwiched between two walls whose windows overflowed with laundry, next to one of Dhaka's most lively, colourful streets...
Over a steaming hot 'pitha' (rice cake with jaggery and coconut) on my way out, I tried to imagine the day when photography will be the first thing that comes to people's minds when they hear someone say 'Bangladesh'. I can feel it coming, although not soon enough.
Chobi Mela (literally ‘Photo Festival’) was founded by Shahidul Alam, a man who has been cultivating photography in Bangladesh for decades through his gallery and media agency, Drik, and his South Asian school of photography, Pathshala. Chobi Mela I took place in 2000 – it was the first international festival of photography in Asia (even as I write it that seems an impossible truth). Over the years, the event and its organizers have faced significant political hurdles in their pursuit of a dialogue around photography and the festivals’ various themes: differences, exclusion, resistance, boundaries and, this year, freedom. That Chobi Mela V is taking place as I write is a testament to a lot of blood, sweat and tears and an unfaltering belief in the value of and potential for photography in a country like Bangladesh.
Chobi Mela V opened on January 30th. I was there with a friend who had been volunteering with Drik to organize the event. Together with dozens of international photographers and even more Bangladeshi photographers, we danced down the street outside the National Museum to the beat of a marching band. Digital SLRs clicked away from the inside out, and mobile phone cameras did the same from the outside in, in an act of mutual curiosity.
Once inside the museum’s auditorium, a young Bangladeshi man in front of me turned around to dutifully ask me what country I was from. His next question? “Do you know who the chief guest is?” I’ll never quite understand the fixation they have here with chief guests (not to be confused with special guests or honorary guests). When the chief guest finally arrived, he waved his finger with great excitement and turned around to inform me “That is the chief guest!” She was Mahasweta Devi, a renowned Bengali author and advocate. Together with Shahidul Alam and a panel of special guests from around the world, they opened the festival with remarkably short (for South Asian standards) but poignant speeches about photography and freedom.After a tour of the exhibit downstairs on the life of Nelson Mandela, we headed over to the Goethe Institute for the kick off to a week of presentations and discussion. There, there was there one very special guest indeed. He was dressed in an unassuming (read: dull) blue sweater, and wore glasses that gave away his age even more than the colour of his hair graying hair. He was sitting alone at a table, in a land far, far away, and yet he was talking to us there in the room. His name is Noam Chomsky. The Noam Chomsky. He had been brought to us from MIT by the wonders of modern technology to expound, right before our very eager eyes and ears, incredible theoretical arguments, supported by multiple contemporary and historical examples, which he rattled off with the ease of someone reciting what they ate for breakfast. He answered questions on the notion of freedom, his role as a thorn in the side of the US, and the relationship between the US and India, always with wit, humour and an astounding breadth of knowledge. What I wouldn’t give to be smart like that!
That night, all those of us who had come out to celebrate photography, freedom and Bangladesh, partied till dawn (long after dawn, as a matter of fact). We spent the night on a ‘launch’, a boxy metal boat that usually crams itself with passengers heading south to Barisal or Mongla. The open area down below, normally crowded with blanketed bodies settling in for a long journey, was set up with chairs and a huge buffet. Upstairs, mats had been laid out for all 300 of us to sit and enjoy after-dinner performances by incredible Bangladeshi and Nepali bands. It didn’t take long for the dancing to start, which here means that it didn’t take long for the floor to fill with young men shaking their shoulders, wiggling their hips and even taking off their shirts.
At 5:30am, exhausted from trying to keep up with the Bollywood Boys, I went up to a double cabin that my friend had been given the key to and joined her for a few hours of shuteye. Many others curled up under blankets and slept on what had been the dance floor moments earlier. We woke up at 7 to an orange sun rising over the misty river (and to some terrible music being pumped into our cabin, which make us giggle in that desperate kind of way) and spent the next four hours gazing out at the brick factories and river life that we were floating past.
I met some incredible people that night, people who became friends for life. I listened to amazing music, took part in ridiculous dancing and saw some incredible sights. As if my life here weren’t privileged enough…
Interestingly, that weekend Bangladesh's other moderately famous event, Biswa Ijtema, was taking place. Okay, it's a lot more famous. It involves a few million Muslims that congregate north of Dhaka for the second largest Muslim gathering in the world after the Hajj. This is photo from The Daily Star of people getting home after the third day of prayer.
The daily grind has made it difficult to take in as many Chobi Mela events and exhibits (over sixty!) as I would have liked. I did get down to the National Gallery last week, the venue with the most chobis under one roof. There were some stunning photos, but those of Bangladesh impressed me the most as the subject matter is close to my heart; there was a breathtaking series on the ship breakers in Chittagong and another on gypsy snake charmers that was fascinating.
From there I walked to the Asiatic Gallery of Fine Arts, passing the famous Curzon Hall of Dhaka University on the way. At the last second, a wave of inspiration came over me and I swerved right and ducked through the gate to check it out. The grounds were beautiful and the architecture enchanting. There were huge red and yellow dhalias growing, a perfectly still pukur (pond) reflecting its surroundings, and campaign posters from a recent election strung up between trees. The air was thick with smog, sunset and history, and every breathe felt like a taste of the past. There was only one thing missing...women.
Near the entrance to the Asiatic Society stand the remnants of a moghal-era building. It was lit up under a sky that was not yet dark and looked incredibly elegant in its defiant stance between two more modern structures. The exhibits inside, part of the National Geographic All Roads film project, were equally impressive. One of the featured, young photographers, Khaled Hasan, a Bangladeshi, had done a series of photos on the 'rock scavengers' in Jafflong, near the north eastern Indian border. It is one of his incredible photos that represents Chobi Mela and the theme of freedom this year.
In search of a CNG to take me onto my next engagement - a birthday party for my friend Azahar's daughter, Oishy - I walked by a young boy with a chain of marigolds around his head, his arms stretching wide as he plucked more orange blossoms off the threads on which they had been strung for decorative purposes; he was feeding them to a pair of ponies that pull one of Dhaka's few horse-drawn carriages. I then passed by a tiny doorway that opened onto a labyrinth of ramshackle dwellings; a young boy was peeking out into the world beyond his walls. These living photographs were a fitting end to an evening of photographic appreciation.
Today, I went down to Old Dhaka, back to Shankaribazaar, to see an exhibit on the (dying) jute industry in Bangladesh. On my way, I stumbled across a stretch of narrow lane that had been converted into a space for Hindu celebration and prayer. A ceiling and walls of colourful shamiana (tenting) made the street unrecognizable. There was a group of men playing music and a large audience seated on bamboo mats lining the pavement. I wandered on and found the exhibit in an incredible, austere outdoor space between two buildings. What a feeling, to be admiring such impressive photographs, outdoors, sandwiched between two walls whose windows overflowed with laundry, next to one of Dhaka's most lively, colourful streets...
Over a steaming hot 'pitha' (rice cake with jaggery and coconut) on my way out, I tried to imagine the day when photography will be the first thing that comes to people's minds when they hear someone say 'Bangladesh'. I can feel it coming, although not soon enough.
posted by ash at 6:56 AM
1 Comments:
Dear Ash, although you had already described this to me in person (well skype is sort of in person.. ;) I loved re-living it by reading your blog. I miss you and I miss beautiful Bangladesh.
Sou x
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