In January 2023, I was sitting in the crowd, listening in on a panel at the 10th and possibly the final edition of the Dhaka Lit Fest. Sheikh Hasina had already been in power for almost 15 years, and it felt like the sun would never set on Awami League, at least not in my lifetime.
The mid-month slump is probably the most demoralising part of the Sehri Tales challenge, even for long-time Talers.
I love reading about popular inventions which were originally created with a different purpose in mind. For instance, did you know that bubble wrap, that oh-so-ubiquitous packing material that doubles as a stress-relieving toy, was initially intended to be wallpaper? Imagine that! On the one hand, you have hours and hours of bubble-popping fun. On the other hand, probably a trypophobe’s nightmare, so maybe not. Either way, March Chavannes and Alfred Fielding, the co-inventors of the material, thought they had a dud on their hands until IBM started looking for better packing materials for their delicate new computers. The rest is history.
I remember the Ramadan of 2020, which was the first year of the COVID-19 pandemic, and also the year my friends and I decided to shift the Sehri Tales to our own platform and open it up to a wider audience.
Originally from Massachusetts, international development consultant Elizabeth Shick was living with her family in Yangon, Myanmar from 2013-2019 and got to witness not just Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy win the 2015 elections by a landslide, but the military crackdown on Rakhine state that led to the Rohingya exodus into Bangladesh in 2017.
As the novel progresses, you peel back layers of history between Claire and her grandparents and realise that the Korea issue isn’t as straightforward as our protagonist imagined.
As an Anglophone writer in Bangladesh, I’ve frequently faced the rather inane question of why I write in English.
Whenever depression is depicted in pop culture, it is shown in some visible extreme, with blue-grey lighting, dark rooms, ashen faces peering out through rainy windows, bodies curled up in bed.
We promised to go big for our fifth year, but we haven't even begun to unveil our big plans, before being overwhelmed by the sheer response from our participants.
Life in Dhaka provides a thousand reasons to feel hopeless and frustrated. Still, we can find hope amongst it all.
Last year, we got to see some stellar writing and some incredible art. What was more inspiring than the quality of work produced during the holy month, was the community that was formed in the process.
With the moon up and celebrations already underway in a few countries, it’s a wrap for Sehri Tales 2021.
A frequently-asked question during this year’s Sehri Tales was ‘why the 250-word limit?’ My knee-jerk reaction has been to want to snap ‘Do you also ask why a limerick has to be five lines, or a haiku three?” Since anger never solved anything, I figured a more level-headed explanation was necessary.
We just crossed the ten-day mark for Ramadan this past week, and the 1000 posts for this year’s Sehri Tales challenge. I don’t know if the thrill of crossing these milestones ever wears off – it certainly hasn’t for me.
I created Sehri Tales in 2016 as a coping mechanism for some melancholia I was experiencing at the time. I knew that the exercise was calming and centering for me, but I didn’t quite think about writing’s potential to heal until I partnered up with the online readers’ community Litmosphere, in 2018.
Some experts say that the “superpower” that puts us humans – weak, slow, and lacking any physical advantages over the natural world – at the apex of