Archive for February, 2009
I will be uploading my article/insight on the title shortly.
Meanwhile, feel free to browse the following link for photos and videos of the uprising for border guards in Bangladesh:
Footage of BDR Mutiny
It has been almost 3 hours since we’ve kept the lights at our home down. There is no sound outside – an ironical piece of reality given the fact there are at least 30 army tanks, artillery and hundreds of army troop outside.
Around half past three today afternoon, a message was broadcasted through miking and TV. It came from the local MP of Dhanmondi/Jhigatola – Barrister Fazle Nur Tapash – and requested all civilians within 2 miles radii of the BDR HQ to evacuate their homes. Many left, and in minutes, our apartment became vacant except 3/4 confused families. We’ve been hearing rumours since yesterday and weren’t sure whether we should fall for this one or not. On another note, news was coming in about army tanks and heavily armed police pulling up on the streets of Dhanmondi.
There were two scenarios at hand:
(a) Going out to face these manmade monsters and be caught in a crossfire, or
(b) Stay at home and wait for an apparent air raid
The latter seemed less possible, so the three of us (my mother, my little brother and myself) decided to stay at home. At least, we’ll be safe from whatever chaos was happening in the streets. Calls were coming in from every corner of the city, but making a decision and avoiding the rashness of it was a difficult process. We received calls from high officials in the Air Force and Army confirming there won’t be any air raids, and my mother concluded it was, indeed, best to stay home.
Meanwhile, two army grounds men came to our main entrance and asked us to evacuate immediately. Given such straightforward instructions, we decided – perhaps – it was reasonable to leave. But when we arrived at the gate, they stopped us and said if we couldn’t escape the area within 3-4 minutes, we might be caught in a series of gunshots. They will not be responsible for our lives. We didn’t have any transport except the strength of our feet and it was unmistakable that they wouldn’t carry us to safety within 5 minutes.
We were trapped.
We were told to hide on the ground floor of our apartment. IF there was an air raid, ground floors were the safest of all places. The army grounds men had explained this to us, and we sat on the lobby floor, waiting for something to happen. A while later, our next-door neighbour got up and said she was leaving. We didn’t know how, and even till now, we are not certain whether she had actually managed to leave the premises. The remaining two families – ourselves and the ones from the floor above us – waited for a while and finally decided it was better to stay home than be stranded in the lobby.
At half past five, we realized we were actually – in fact – one of the only two families remaining at our apartment. We didn’t know whether there were other families at other apartments or in the neighbourhood. Everything around us was in a frenzy, yet in a state of such utter silence that it reminds you of the weather before a storm is about to strike.
We didn’t know what storm was brewing. All we knew that we were a part of it, and all we could do was pray to Allah (the Almighty) to keep us safe.
The lights are switched off and the TV murmurs whatever “breaking news” the world has to offer. Cell phone networks are down. I’m sending occasional text messages to my friends and cousins, begging for the latest news. There has been rumours of a possible air raid, of tanks breaking into the Quarters and of a crackdown. We don’t know what to believe or who to trust. The channels repeat old stories and by now, we have them memorized. We are too afraid to make noise, lest the army and police on the street become aware of our presence and try to break into our home.
Abba has called several times already. We’ve told him to stay at his hospital – safe and away from this havoc. He wanted to come home in an ambulance, but that would only strengthen the suspicion. There are six of us at our home now – Amma, my little brother (Siyam), me and three maid servants. There is a family of five upstairs (if they hadn’t left already because we can’t really tell).
All we have with us are prayers.
There is absolutely no noise outside, not a flick of light or even a sign of life.
It is the fear of the unknown that is killing us. We may have made a wrong judgment call or reacted 10 minutes later. However, what has been done has already been seen and felt. A long night is still ahead of us and as I anticipate for the best with my family here, I hope Allah is listening to us.
We wait for the sun to dawn upon us.
9:15pm/February 26, 2009
Special thanks to everyone who have kept us informed through text messages and phone calls.
It was around 9am on the morning of the 25th of February when the sounds woke me up. Initially, I thought they were tyres bursting, but after a while, identified them as gun shots. Disinterested, I rubbed my eyes and sat up on my bed. Living close to the Bangladesh Rifles (a.k.a. BDR or Border Guards) headquarters in Pilkhana have brought me close to numerous occasions where I’ve been jilted from the realms of a dream-world to a less impressive reality by the sound of gunshots. They have practice squads and fancy showdowns, and noise happens to be a common part of the procedures.
However, it was not until half past nine that I realized this wasn’t another practice session with guns and drums. This, in fact, was the entire BDR battalion from the HQ in a riot of some sorts. Quickly, I switched on the TV for some news, but flipping through the innumerable private channels had nothing on the occurrings. The gun shots were getting louder and more frequent, and there was no way I could understand what was really happening.
Sometime around this chaos, my cellphone screeched.
It was my mother calling. She was with my younger brother at Azimpur, where they were giving their SSC examinations. Apparently, BDR grounds men have united and were protesting against discrimination between the army and themselves. They had taken over Rifles Square and surrounding areas, and were shooting haywire at anyone and everyone who opposed their motion.
I was instructed to stay home.
The sounds were getting louder. My friends were calling up and we heard classes have been cancelled at our university. The situation was getting worse, the gunshots more frequent. Channel 1 was the first with some updates. On the preceding day, the BDR Week was officially inaugurated by Prime Minister, Sheikh Hasina. The unit grounds men had some demands in written form, which they gave to their Director General (DG), but unfortunately, wasn’t forwarded to the PM. They were told to meet on the morning of the 25th to discuss matters in presence of 100 or so high-ranked BDR and Army officials. At one point, there was an argument between the grounds men and the DG, where the latter was accused of using profanity. Enraged, BDR grounds men pulled out their rifles, took the officials hostage inside a room and brought out ammunition from the barracks. They had closed all entrances to the BDR Quarters and were currently standing guard with guns all over the interiors.
The streets were clearing out. Camera crew and TV reporters were pulling their vehicles into the scenes of action. Curious locals were coming closer to the main entrance (which is a two-minute walk from my house) to find out what was really happening. At a distance, one could see two Army trucks moving closer.
The gun fires have started again.
February 26, 2009
[3:20pm] : Instructions/miking from Army/BDR HQ to evacuate all residences within two miles radii
Plus, an update from Rezwan’s blog:
People walk past her, but MARTI’s eyes are fixed on something in front of her. The Chobi Mela V posters of Nelson Mandela behind her flutter in the breeze. It has been a slow, languid day. Suddenly her attention shifts and almost, in the flash of an instant, the shutter is pressed and the film rolls.
A smiling victorious MARTI turns to face me.
“It’s not always easy to capture the perfect candid shot,” the photographer from Paris replies, while fumbling with her numerous memory sticks.
“Oh come on, MARTI, if you are using a super-cool, expensive camera, doesn’t that do half the job for you?” I argue.
“Ah, my dear, I don’t think it’s about camera equipment at all. Good photography is about observation. Having a creative eye that picks up something unusual, strange, ironic, beautiful, joyful, tragic, or different. The important thing is to have the courage to get out there and do it. The courage to observe and interact with our surroundings, and to shoot lots of pictures and select only a few. Courage is what is essential. It doesn’t matter what equipment you’re using. It’s about an expression of the soul, which can be captured in many ways.”
“But that makes all of us photographers, doesn’t it?”
“Well of course, in the digital world, everybody is a photographer. We have cell phones. We can record any moment as it unfolds. I think what makes each of us different is how we choose to portray what we see,” she explains as we walk down a narrow Dhaka alley. The midday sun is hidden by the boarding houses and the hustling of the market place begins to slow down. “If you want to be original, look at a small neighborhood as an entire universe and choose a well-defined subject that really interests you. Then, comes the hard part. Say something no one else has ever said. Gradually you will emerge as a fine photographer.”
“But what if I’m really not good enough?” My obstinate allele kicks in and I look deep into MARTI’s hazel eyes to make my point. “I think if I start believing I’m very good, I will sound arrogant and over-confident!”
“I think when you are truly an artist; you don’t care about what other people think. You are compelled by your own deep passion and inspiration. When you are on a real path, each step you take transports you further along that path. Photography is a great adventure and we are each discoverers, pathfinders. Forging ahead is the most important thing,” MARTI replies with patience and smiling. “I don’t think you can ever say you’re not good enough.”
“When I photographed in Cambodia, I wanted to tell the story of the survivors of one of the most terrible genocides we have ever known. I was driven into the battlefields where mortar rounds were exploding everywhere. When the bombs exploded around me they didn’t ask if I were Cambodian or French. Bombs can’t read pieces of paper that says “PRESS”. Bombs simply hit and they hit indiscriminately. Sadly, they often take the lives of women and children who have never carried a weapon in their lives. While I was shooting, I never once thought about whether I was good enough. If I was the only photographer allowed into restricted areas, it was because I persisted, not because I was better than anyone else. Today my work is part of the Cambodian National Cultural Heritage Centre. I have ceded the rights to the work to the Cambodian people because it is their story.”
We walk past houses painted in shades of orange and white. An intersection between the market and the residences leads to the river. As MARTI and I walk in the direction of the watery wastelands, my eyes suddenly stop at the sight of a group of teenage boys sitting in a circle taking drugs in broad daylight.
I look at MARTI and grumble.
“What I hate about being a struggling female photographer is that I just can’t go everywhere and photograph the most interesting subjects, largely because of my sex and for reasons of personal safety. That’s why I sometimes feel it’s unfair that the boys get to go to all the exciting places!”
MARTI stops and turns to look at me. Her face has resumed its tranquility and she smiles back at me.
“Yes, it is unfortunate that photography is still seen in many parts of the world as a man’s profession, but that is changing. It is true that women cannot, for example, go to the park at night in Dhaka without being accompanied and take photographs of drug addicts taking narcotics. But hey, look at the bright side! As a woman, you have the gift of entering into intimate situations more easily. Besides, the scenario has been changing over the last fifteen years. When I was in Cambodia, I was the only woman photographer around. Today there are many courageous women out there.”
“I think one issue that comes up for women, however, is that of being responsible mothers.” MARTI continues. “When I was in the Cambodian jungles, there were mines all over the place and I had to be careful. I had my small son at home and could not overlook my responsibility as a mother.”
“But isn’t that a pity, MARTI? That we are the ones who are called on to make sacrifices? If you were a man, would you have considered all that while you were photographing?”
“Perhaps not. But for me it was not a question of a sacrifice. It was a conscious choice. And that is often one of our strengths as women. We can make conscious choices because we are the caregivers,” she replies. “A good number of the professional photographers in Iraq and Afghanistan, for example, have no children. Some of those who have families at home have financial securities, so their wives and children are taken care of if something happens to them. Yet, there are people like you and me, Diya. In spite of our situation, we go out into the streets and shoot in potentially dangerous situations. I have been arrested more times than I can count, but I try not to take unnecessary risks. I have to be true to myself on that one. A front page story in the New York Times may not be worth my life. We all struggle everyday of our lives to be ourselves. There are always events that challenge our deepest sense of who we are. For women it’s always a particular challenge. When you have young children, there is a huge responsibility, but that doesn’t mean you have to give up photojournalism. You might need to take some colleagues or friends with you.”
We have started walking again towards a trash dump along the Buriganga. MARTI tells me about Uma, a child that she has been photographing in India. Uma is a young 8 year-old girl who lives on the edge of a toxic waste dump near Pondicherry. Uma and her family hunt for metal in the smoldering burning plastic. MARTI has spent time learning about Uma’s life. What surprised her most is that while Uma lives under difficult conditions, she doesn’t complain. On the contrary, she is a happy child. The families there are gypsies and there is a strong bond between them. MARTI told me how she has seen really miserable children in Cambodia because so many of them are orphans and they suffer from extreme solitude. No one cares about them.
“Say MARTI, is there any formula for being a good photographer?” I blurt out the question. It’s been playing inside me for a while, and considering how MARTI has been to many places and worked extensively on varying projects, I had a feeling she would have some advice for me.
“None, except one, and that is absolute integrity. Our photographs should portray the truth, not lies. I always feel I need to be respectful towards my subjects.” MARTI is walking ahead of me and has to shout out the response. “If you want to photograph someone and that person isn’t very willing, something you can figure out through body language and expressions, it’s best to back off, unless you’re telling a story of socio-political importance. People have a right to their own lives and peace of mind. Stay with the truth
and your own integrity. When you meet Uma, you will see the hardship she goes through. However, that doesn’t make her unhappy. When I photograph her, I don’t make it appear as though misery is the only truth about her life. I also try to portray the small joys that make her smile!”
While I pull out my camera from the backpack, MARTI has already begun shooting the kids along the river. The Dhaka sun shines in the west and pecks a glint in the eyes of the two photographers now shooting in the same place. They may be distant through their age, experience and knowledge, but somehow, they share the same world behind the lens. I look above my viewfinder to see MARTI, playfully capturing moments of interaction with a group of kids. She is indeed the friend who has made me feel differently about myself and that is a bond we will share for a very long time.
MARTI is a photojournalist and writer based in Paris, France and in Pondicherry, India. Her photos have been exhibited in London, Paris, Amsterdam, San Francisco, Tokyo, Phenom Penh, Chennai, and Dhaka. Her work is part of permanent collections, including the Musee de Louvre in Paris and the International Museum of Photography in Switzerland.
MARTI’s work has been selected for the Angkor International Photo Festival in Cambodia, The United Nations High Commission on Refugees International Film Festival, The City of London Piccadilly Soho Show, and Rencontres Photographiques in Paris. She was recently selected for the Singapore International Festival of Photography and has just been shown at Chobi Mela V in Dhaka.
She is also a Penguin author and has published her work in books, newspapers and magazines including PHOTO Magazine, the New York Times, Washington Post, and le Monde-Guardian Weekly. She has won a Rolex citation for her environmental work and is a United Nations ECO SOC representative for NGO’s in Geneva. MARTI is particularly concerned about the dying oceans, disappearing nature, and the social conditions of children. Her book, This Earth of Ours, has a prologue by His Holiness the Dalai Lama.
It hasn’t been long since that dreadful noise. We were at the St. Martins beach, underneath the tinted blue and selfish rainbow of colours. Everything struck more than they were; in absence of the typical metropolitan traffic, we had found heaven on Earth. I suppose our overwhelming joy of escaping the city was too much for others to handle. The dreadful, high pitch vocal of Balam stalked us wherever we went. He was the new hunk in the block and everyone wanted a slice of his voice on their boom boxes. Today, that high pitch vocal has found a ménage in every nook and corner of the city. We’re all echoing the same tunes from that day. Does that mean we have come a long way?
The Bangladeshi or precisely, Bangla pop music has crept its way back into our lives once again. Courtesy of artists like Habib, Balam, Mila, Hridoy Khan, Fuad and innumerable others we can’t remember the names of, there is a sound in Bangla everywhere we go. Be it on the FM stations, funk new Xpress music sets or inexpensive myPods, the slow drug of pop and remix has got us all hooked.
Yet, it wasn’t too long ago when we went to picnics to the beats of the latest Bollywood tracks. Our weddings resonated the sounds of Hrithik’s twisted arm movements, our lonesome nights accompanied by the melancholy Indian pop notes. We didn’t know what the lyrics exactly meant and even if it screamed, “I’ll eat your head and cook you soup”, our vulnerable, Bollywood infatuated neurons would translate that too, “I’ll be there and pull you through.” We would nod to the unnecessary lengths of music and stretched out, desperate attempts of hip hop, and imitate the blown out styles of a culture not our own.
But, times changed. From the grooves of a fast paced underground scene to a struggling rock industry, our local music began seeing the rays of a new sun. We were evolving as listeners and musicians, and we needed a new sound in our lives. Roughly around this era, a long haired, sunken eyed rebel named Ornob entered our lives. His songs combined the lost souls of traditional instruments and gave them a fresh voice in our hearts. He was different and gave us the feelings we also, were different as a culture from that of Bollywood. Ornob’s fusion experimentation was shortly followed by playful musicians who sang from the soul. Topu, Dipto, Laura, Shojib Khan, Krishnokali and Sahana Bajpaie all gave us a new tune to sing to. They were the new breed of musicians, who not only sang, but composed and wrote their harmonies.
Soon, and before we knew it, our compact disc drives were playing a different song, and thankfully, one that was truly our own. The fusion and pop industries together gave our music scene a fresh start and our cultural functions began to dance to it. The quality of music saw a rapid change and the very meaning of Bangladeshi pop was redefined. The songs saw a new face, the classics accorded to a modern, indigenous raga and the teens found a new beat to imitate.
The Bangladeshi music industry has indeed come a long way. There was always a small part of us that would headbang to Nirvana and System of a Down, and lose ourselves at the underground concerts. There will always be a small part of us that would know when Nemesis’ next album is coming out and miss Sellout’s electric stage performances. However, the truth remains there was always a large part of us that once settled for the mediocre, ultrasonic Bollywood numbers. Over the past couple of years, that large number has shifted its eardrums to the local beats. We have Fuad featuring countless upcoming artists, Mila and Balam at the Water Kingdom circuits, Habib and Topu in our playlists and Hridoy Khan at the tip of our tongues. On the other end, we have Ornob, Punam, Sahana and Krishnokali who are striving to give our lyrics a brand new heartbeat and fusing with our souls. So, be it a set of high pitched vocals, blown out distortions or overdone voice modifications, or maybe a playlist of subtle, soul-searching compositions; they are finally Bangla to our ears.
By: Sabhanaz Rashid Diya and Zabir Hasan
And those were the words from Ricardo Rangel (Mozambique) that struck me the most.
The opening of the 5th bi-annual Chobi Mela on 30th January 2009 was indeed an event to be remembered. As the curtains raised to commence the 3-week long series of expositions at 11 venues across the city, almost hundreds of visitors packed at the National Museum auditorium at the evening of the opening to celebrate a moment like no other. None would have been as wonderful an inaugural exhibition than that from the Nelson Mandela Foundation captioned “A Long Walk to Freedom: The Life and History of Nelson Mandela”.
But moving back to the ceremony itself, one would wonder what could have been so thrilling about speeches from photo maestros, activists, humanitarians and people from different places in the world. Well, for starters, I actually listened. Their words were sincere, honest, unadulterated. They urged the listeners to be moved, to be felt, to be remembered later.
“Freedom” is not just another word one can play with. Its strength lies in its very articulation, a feeling that consumes us of who we are. Each one of us is a solider of freedom – in our worlds, in our cities, in our minds. Freedom is not only about wars, barb wires and Kalashnikovs; but rather a belief that encompasses our personae. We are in search of it wherever we go.
In whoever we become.
But the magic here lies in how photographers from different walks of life have portrayed freedom. It tells us how we all don’t see things the same way, how our definitions are undefined, how two people can feel the same way about the same things. As photographers, it is a responsibility with impact that can show us how others mark their freedom, how they perceive a word we loosely juggle at our fingertips.
Maybe that’s why Ricardo Rangel, the Lifetime Achievement Award winner of this year’s festival so aptly, so contently phrased:
“Photography is the best profession in the world”.