[Reader-list] Taslima, The Vanishing (full text)

[TaraPrakash]

There is no doubt that for political interest the governments have been 
pandering to Islamic and other communal forces in this country.
The intellectuals in India have sadly followed the political parties in not 
opposing the overtures of the "green brigade" beyond tokenism.
I believe that the immunity of Islam needs to be strengthened to face the 
genuine criticism of some of its religious practices. More books are 
required which challenge the kathmullahs misleading the Muslim youth from 
the issues of bread to the issues of the book. In that too they are very 
selective. They are tooth and nail against Taslima and Sania Mirza, but when 
mosques are used for political and militant purposes, such as 3 militants 
took control of a mosque with arms, they remain unmoved.
Perhaps the reason is that the mosques have been so often been defiled by 
weapons that people have become immune to such defilements? And perhaps if 
there are more writers like Taslima and Salman Rushdi people will get immune 
to such criticisms too?
I think so.

Taslima in this write-up is echoing the opinion of a Pakistani poet Fahmida 
Riyaz
Tum bilkul ham jaise nikale
Ab tak kahan chipe the bhaai?
Vah murakhta vah ghamarhpan
Jismein ham ne sadi ganvaai,
Aakhi pahunchi dvar tumhare
Are badhai bahut badhai.

(You happened to be like us (Pakistanis). The stupidity and foolishness? 
with which we wasted the entire century finally reached you. 
Congratulations).
I know it is one of the most inaccurate translations, but it is quite 
sufficient , i guess.

----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Naeem Mohaiemen" <naeem.mohaiemen at gmail.com>
To: <reader-list at sarai.net>
Sent: Sunday, December 23, 2007 2:30 AM
Subject: [Reader-list] Taslima, The Vanishing (full text)


> Apologies, the URL I sent earlier has been deleted from Drishtipat blog.
>
> Here is the full text in body of email.
>
> Banished Within and Without
> Taslima Nasreen
>
> 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. Had I been born some years earlier than I
> was, I would have been an Indian in every sense of the term. 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 descendents obviously moved to India either
> during or after partition and became citizens of this country. My
> grandfather, a Muslim, did not. <strong>When I was a child, the notion
> of the once fashionable theory of pan-Islamic had been exploded by
> East Pakistani Muslims fighting their West Pakistani coreligionists.
> Our struggle was for Bengali  nationalism and secularism.</strong>
> <!--more-->
>
> 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 the 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 dirty, poverty- and
> famine-stricken, ill-governed theocracy called Bangladesh.
>
> The intolerance, fanaticism and bigotry of Islamic fundamentalists
> forced me to leave Bangladesh, herself a victim of the subcontinent's
> history. 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 twelve years in Europe I could not think of it as my
> home. It took less than a year 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 the
> 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 twelve 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. In the meanwhile, a few Islamic fundamentalists in
> Hyderabad chose to launch a physical attack upon me. The decision to
> attack me was motivated by the desire to gain popularity among the
> local masses. "A woman by the name of Taslima Nasrin has launched a
> vicious attack upon Islam and is all set to destroy the tenets of the
> faith. Therefore, Islam must be protected from this woman and the only
> way to do so is to kill her. Her death will bring many rewards:
> millions as fatwa bounty in this world, salvation and unparalleled
> delights in the next." 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 vote bank 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 and calling for my head. 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 that 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 twenty per
> cent 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, indeed in West Bengal, what I had to endure in
> Bangladesh. I live practically under house arrest. No public place is
> allegedly safe for me any longer. Not even the homes of friends are
> above suspicion, nothing is above suspicion. Even stepping out for a
> walk is considered unsafe. It is felt that I should spend my days in a
> poorly lit room grappling with shadows. Those who threaten to kill me
> are allowed by the state to spew their venom. They have tacitly been
> given the rights to do whatever they desire from disturbing the peace
> with their demonstrations to terrorizing the common man in the name of
> their faith. Those that 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
> city. 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 thirteen 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 the 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 every fundamentalist's 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 all 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 cares and 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 the 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, India is 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.
>
> Kolkata
> 18 september
>
> ------
>
> The Vanishing
> Taslima Nasreen
>
> Where am I? I am certain no one will believe me if I say I have no
> answer to this apparently  straightforward question. They may believe
> what they wish, but the truth is I just do not  know. I don't even
> know how I am. Sometimes I even appear to forget my own existence.  I
> am like the living dead: benumbed; robbed of the pleasure of existence
> and experience;  unable to move beyond the claustrophobic confines of
> my room. Day and night, night and  day. Death becomes an intimate. We
> embrace. Yes, this is how I have been surviving.
> This did not begin the other day when I was bundled out of Kolkata.
> This has been going  on for a while. It is like a slow and lingering
> death, like sipping delicately from a cupful of  slow-acting poison
> that is gradually killing all my faculties. This is a conspiracy to
> murder  my essence, my being, once so courageous, so brave, so
> dynamic, so playful. I realize  what is going on around me but am
> utterly helpless, despite my best efforts, to wage a  battle on my own
> behalf. I am merely a disembodied voice. Those who once stood by me
> have disappeared into the darkness.
>
> I ask myself: what heinous crime have I committed? Why am I here, in
> this singularly unenviable position? What sort of life is this where I
> can neither cross my own threshold nor know the joys of human company.
> What crime have I committed that I have to spend my life hidden away,
> relegated to the shadows? For what crimes am I being punished by this
> society, this land, this world? I wrote of my beliefs and my
> convictions. I used words, not violence, to express my ideas. I did
> not take recourse to pelting stones or bloodshed  to make my point.
> Yet, I am considered a criminal. I am being persecuted because it was
> felt that the right of others to express their opinions was more
> legitimate than mine. To disobey the powers that be is to court public
> crucifixion. Yes, I am a victim of this new crucifixion: is the nation
> not a witness to my suffering? Does the nation not witness my immense
> suffering, the death of my hopes, aspirations, and desires?
>
> Does the nation not realize how immense the suffering must be for an
> individual to renounce her most deeply held beliefs? How humiliated,
> frightened, and insecure I must have been to allow my words to be
> censored. Only the expurgation of what they considered offensive
> satisfied them. If I had not agreed to their grotesque bowdlerization,
> I would have been hounded and pursued till I dropped dead. Their
> politics, their faith, their barbarism, and their diabolical purposes
> are all intent on sucking the lifeblood out of me. They will continue
> till they have bled me dry, expurgated these words, and removed these
> truths which are so difficult for them to stomach. Words are harmless,
> truth  defenceless and devoid of arms. Truth has always been
> vanquished by the force of might. How can I – a powerless and
> unprotected individual – battle brute force? Come what may, though, I
> cannot take recourse to untruth.
>
> What have I to offer but love and compassion? I have never wished ill
> of anybody. Call me  romantic but I dream of a world of harmonious
> coexistence free from the shackles of hatred and strife. In the way
> that they used hatred to rip out my words, I would like to  use
> compassion and love to rip the hatred out of them. Certainly, I am
> enough of a realist to acknowledge that strife, hatred, cruelty, and
> barbarism are integral elements of the human condition. This will not
> change; such is the way of the world. I am an utterly
> insignificant creature: how can I change all this? Even if I were to
> be eradicated or exterminated it would not matter one whit to the
> world at large. I know all this. Yet, I had imagined Bengal would be
> different. I had thought the madness of her people was temporary. I
> had thought that the Bengal I loved so passionately would never
> forsake me.
>
> She did.
>
> Exiled from Bangladesh, I wandered around the world for many years
> like a lost orphan. The moment I was given shelter in West Bengal it
> felt as though all those years of numbing  tiredness just melted away.
> I was able to resume a normal life in a beloved and familiar land. So
> long as I survive, I will carry within me the vistas of Bengal, her
> sunshine, her wet  earth, her very essence. The same Bengal whose
> sanctuary I once walked a million blood-soaked miles to reach has now
> turned its back upon me. I find it hard to believe that I am no longer
> wanted in Bengal. I am a Bengali within and without; I live, breathe,
> and dream in Bengali but, bizarrely, Bengal offers me no refuge
>
> I am a guest in this land, I must be careful of what I say. I must do
> nothing which violates the code of hospitality. I did not come here to
> hurt anyone's sentiments or feelings. Arguably, I came here to be
> hurt. Wounded and hurt in my own country, I suffered slights and
> injuries in many lands before I reached India, where I knew I would be
> hurt yet again.
>
> This is, after all, a democratic and secular land where the politics
> of the vote bank implies that being secular is equated with being
> pro-Muslim fundamentalists. I do not wish to believe all this. I do
> not wish to hear all this. Yet, all around me I read, hear, and see
> evidence of this. I sometimes wish I could be like those mythical
> monkeys, oblivious of all that is going on around me. Death who visits
> me in many forms now feels like a friend. I feel like talking to him,
> unburdening myself to him. You must realize I have no one to speak to,
> no one to unburden myself to.
>
> I have lost my beloved Bengal. The Bengal I cherished, whose land,
> smells and sounds, hose very air was a part of me, is gone. I had to
> leave Bengal. No child torn from its other's breast could have
> suffered as much as I did during that painful parting. Once gain, I
> have lost the mother from whose womb I was born. The pain is no less
> than the  ay I lost my biological mother. My mother had always wanted
> me to return home. That was something I could not do. After settling
> down in Kolkata, I was able to tell my mother, ho by then was a memory
> within me, that I had indeed returned home. How did it matter which
> side of an artificial divide I was on? I do not have the courage to
> tell my mother that my life now is that of a nomad. How can I tell her
> that those who had given me shelter saw it fit to expel me so
> unceremoniously? My sensitive mother would be hattered if I were to
> tell her all this. I choose not to tell her, not even when I am lonely
> and alone. Instead, I have now taken to convincing myself that I must
> have transgressed somewhere, committed some grievous error. Why else
> would I be in such an unenviable situation? Is daring to utter the
> truth a terrible sin in this era of falsehood and deceit? Don't others
> tell the truth? Surely they do not have to undergo such tribulations?
> Why do I have to undergo such suffering? Is it because I am a woman?
> What can be easier than assailing a woman?
>
> I know I have not been condemned by the masses. If their opinion had
> been sought, I am ctain the majority would have wanted me to stay on
> in Bengal. But when has a  emocracy reflected the voice of the masses?
> A democracy is run by those who hold the reins of power who do exactly
> what they think fit. An insignificant individual, I must ow live life
> on my own terms and write about what I believe in and hold dear. It is
> not my desire to harm, malign, or deceive. I do not lie. I try not to
> be offensive. I am but a simple writer who neither knows nor
> understands the dynamics of politics. The way in which I was turned
> into a political pawn, however, and treated at the hands of base
> politicians, beggars belief. For what end you may well ask. A few
> measly votes. It is I who have suffered; I am the only victim of this
> great tragedy. The force of fundamentalism, which I have opposed and
> fought for very many years, has only been strengthened by my tragic
> defeat.
>
> This is my beloved India, where I have been living and writing on
> secular humanism, uman rights, and emancipation of women. This is also
> the land where I have had to suffer and pay the price for my most
> deeply held and fundamental convictions, where not a single political
> party of any persuasion has spoken out in my favour, where no
> non-governmental organization, women's rights' or human rights' group,
> has stood by me or ondemned the vicious attacks launched upon me. This
> India is not known to me . Yes, it s true that individuals in a
> scattered, unorganized manner are fighting for my cause and
> ournalists, writers, and intellectuals have spoken out in my favour. I
> do not know whether hey are familiar with my work or not, indeed if
> they have even read a single word I have
> penned. Yet, I am grateful for their opinions and support.
>
> Wherever individuals gather in groups, they seem to lose their power
> to speak out. Frankly, this facet of the new India terrifies me. Then
> again, is this a new India, or even a facet of a new India; or is it
> the true face of the nation? I do not know. Since my earliest
> childhood I have regarded India as a great land and a fearless nation.
> The land of my dreams: enlightened, strong, progressive, and tolerant.
> I wish to live to be proud of that India. I will die a happy person
> the day I know India has forsaken darkness for light,
> bigotry for tolerance. I await that day. I do not know whether I will
> survive, but India and what she stands for has to survive, must be
> allowed to survive.
>
> 18 December
> Delhi
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