That thing on your neck
Every time you try to write, you feel those jeers ring in your ears, from your, shall we say, self—no no, not this self, but that other one; you know which one—the troll, the dark comedian, the eternal cynic who says: give it up, your words never have and never will change a damn thing. You counter by saying that's perfectly fine, that it's not the role of the writer to turn the wheels of history like an action hero, but to simply put pen to paper and describe what they see. But even as you say this, your protestations appear feeble and vacuous. Because sure, you can write about how we are living in an undemocratic situation where human rights and rule of law have been tossed out the window, where the authoritarian playbook is being deployed in clear daylight, where curfews and internet blackouts and extrajudicial disappearances are being normalised as tools to keep citizens under control, but… everybody knows that already!
Still, the facts pile up with nowhere to go. Over 200 killed, 11,000 arrested, many of them minors. A lady who works near your house says her son got picked up by the police on his way to work, simply for identifying himself as a student. Your university student friends say they live in fear but refuse to back down from the struggle. Undeniable video evidence of police violence filters through to your computer screen, and these videos have been examined and authenticated by foreign agencies with the expertise to do so.
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That ill sensation you already feel is compounded by the reactions of the government—lies heaped upon lies, a pretty picture utterly disconnected from reality. An official throws out a barrage of contradictions: protesters destroyed the internet lines, no no we shut it off to enforce law and order, no no we are working to restore internet, it's back but no no, not social media just yet. This is reminiscent of what Jacques Derrida called "kettle logic," based on a reading of Sigmund Freud's exchange with a man who tosses out all kinds of arguments in his own defence. The man has returned a damaged kettle to his neighbour, and when accused, he says 1) it was damaged when I got it, 2) there is no damage, 3) I never borrowed your kettle. Derrida uses a keen and close reading to tease out, among other things, such kettle logic in a given discourse, where a writer's or philosopher's own inconsistencies cause the argument to self-deconstruct. But here in Bangladesh, no Derrida is needed, because the contradictions are deafening, and the regime-sanctioned-gaslighting loud enough to drive one up the walls.
And so you fall into a sort of malaise. Your lived self feels misaligned from your true self and despair becomes you—this, you recognise, is what Soren Kierkegaard would have called "the sickness unto death." Your therapist can do little other than offer platitudes of well-being—stay positive, try gratitude journaling… that sort of hokum. Sometimes you wonder if something is wrong with you, and in the midst of the blackout and curfew, with no human contact, sometimes you wonder if you are the only one feeling this way, everyone else being happy and well-adjusted. You split off from yourself and hover near the ceiling, and start thinking of yourself in the second-person singular. Rhetorical flourishes can be a way of coping.
This dark feeling threatens to become all-engulfing, but now news trickles in, story after story from here and there of bravery, resistance, humanity. Students who flung themselves in front of their peers to protect them, friends and allies who offered shelter, lawyers who stood in front of police cars daring the jackboots to make a rash move. And you realise, in that a-ha moment that no, it's not you, nothing is broken within you, it is simply that boot, that weight of the regime, that thing on your neck that has caused this feeling. Anxiety, depression, and helplessness are a natural, logical reaction to it, and in fact, happily prancing around as if everything is fine—now that would be the mental illness.
When the internet is back, you see the social media profiles all bleeding red in unshakeable solidarity for those who demand nothing but justice and refuse to be cowed. A new generation, one with a conscience and a fresh pair of eyes is saying to the regime: I'm hip to all your tricks, your algebra, your politics. For a long time, it was enough to call someone a razakar to send a nervous chill down their spine and make them back down. For a long time, the older generation patronisingly lectured the youth with the good old "but you kids haven't seen the war like we have have!" as if our lives in Bangladesh post-1971 have been nothing but gravy. Many kept quiet and endured such evasion of responsibility from our elders. But no more! The unity and heart online are visible for all to see—no wonder the powers-that-be are scared of the internet.
And just like that, life flows back into your veins, a thirst you didn't know you had feels quenched bit by bit, and a gust of hope lifts you up and places you on your writing desk, telling you to get to work.
You are now in debt to the fighters out there—so many of them unjustly killed, maimed, imprisoned. They and their families have been failed completely by a government that was duty-bound to serve and protect. Any government official responsible with a shred of a conscience upon learning of the events that have transpired over the last few days would turn red with shame, resign their post, and beg the nation for forgiveness. But not here in Bangladesh, because apology is not the way of the jackboot.
This is why it is all the more important that we acknowledge each other, that we reach out to and hold on to each other, that we lift each other up, and spread kindness, fairness, and the values of democracy and social justice as far and as wide as we can. Is that futile? Very well then, it's futile! But you cannot always take on the sins of the world onto your own shoulders—all you can do is act in line with your ethics and stay straight with your maker, align yourself with your true self, and continue to speak truth to power even if your voice shakes.
That thing—that jackboot—on your neck is still there, and you know it probably will remain there for a good while to come. You have, after all, danced this dance many times before and your capacity for youthful idealism—that spontaneous, romantic, revolutionary energy that says change is at hand!—is diminished. You have seen, read, and heard too much. Internet memes likening protesters to Marvel superheroes leave you cold, because you are all too aware that life is not a comic book or a meme, and real-world violence is not fun or exciting.
Nor is the fight of good versus evil as simple as you would like it to be. Burdened by the standard pessimism that comes with dreary middle age, you know that tyrants never go gentle into that good night, and when they do, it is often tyrants who replace other has-been tyrants—think the departure of Ershad or the Shah of Iran or the last Tsar of Russia or Hosni Mubarak—and escape from the cycle seems impossible. And yet, and yet, and yet. The contagion of courage changes something in you—because that icy shudder of loneliness is now gone, that nonsensical jumble of thoughts has transformed into a more articulate stream, and now, wind in your sails from a rush of solidarity, you do that one thing that you are still able to do—write about it all. You know very well your words can't change a thing, but if there's even a sliver of a possibility that these words might travel out into the ether and let another oppressed, depressed, repressed soul know that they are not alone, then this debt of yours—of mine—is paid forward.
Abak Hussain is a writer and journalist, currently contributing editor at MW Bangladesh, and formerly editor of editorial and op-ed at Dhaka Tribune.
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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