Every man's mask is also his face

The chief justice of Bangladesh has recently assured us that the judiciary, like any other public institution, could be fairly criticised. He cautioned against any criticism that may unfairly undermine its integrity and soil its reputation, and nobody could have said it better than he did, besides killing two birds with one stone. He reminded those who forgot that the judiciary is a public institution. Then again, he warned those who take potshots at the judiciary just because they have their axes to grind. Criticism must be responsible and legitimate, he said.

To do justice to our chief justice, he has made a profound statement. It encompasses not only his own line of work but also other spheres of life. Our nation is helplessly stuck in the pretension trap, which is a gap between belief and utterance. It's a no-man's land between hypocrisy and hallucination where what appears isn't always apparent.

In that sense, the highest judicial officer of the country has rendered a universal evocation. And that evocation is true everywhere like a daisy chain. If all the people of this country stand in a single file line, they will make an unending stretch of confusion. Every man's mask is also his face. 

The crux of this confusion is explained by Jorge Luis Borges in his one-paragraph short story On Exactitude in Science. A great empire created a map that was so detailed it was as large as the empire itself, but when the empire crumbled, all that was left of it was the map. French philosopher Jean Baudrillard used this story with a converse twist. The people of the empire spend their lives ensuring their place in the representation is properly circumscribed and detailed by the mapmakers, while the reality crumbles away from disuse.

The allegory speaks of our fate, because we are living in the map and the empire is slipping away. The constitution is a part of that map. So are the legislative, executive and judicial branches of the government, the police force, the newspapers, academic institutions, streets and markets that form the contours of laws and livelihoods to protect the lives and dignity of people. Ironically, while mapping it out the mapmakers are simultaneously wiping out the terrain.

The soul of this nation is screaming under the burden of this contradiction. People cannot complain against anybody when they are wronged. They cannot blame anybody when they get oppressed. They cannot name anybody when they are threatened. They give bribes, extortion money and increasing space to illegitimate demands and unreasonable encroachments. They don't get to cast their votes, yet are forced to believe they have an elected government!

Thus, the people of this country are living in the reality which doesn't exist for them. The mapmakers have overtaken the empire, and nothing is what it seems. It's a crime to criticise crime in the perverted manner of Shylock's dilemma in William Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. People cannot shed a drop of blood no matter who cuts the flesh from their chest.  

The textbook definition of criticism is that it's an act of expressing disapproval and of noting the problems or faults of a person or thing. But an expression of disapproval isn't always about finding faults. If a patient cries in pain, it's not necessarily a complaint against the doctor. Neither is it so when someone lets out a shriek if another person steps on his or her toes.

The wretched often rage against the heavens to console their souls. It's their last resort of some sort for the same reason aching boils are broken to extricate pus. It's also for the same reason that railway lines have gaps, allowing room for the rails to expand due to the friction caused by the running of trains.  

The afflicted souls in this country have no room for expansion. Their quiet anguish howls inside them like cold air trapped in the valley. They have nowhere to turn; even worse they have no escape or release. They are hopelessly captive in their own republic. 

That's the biggest problem, which belies everything. The wicked have created many layers to conceal their mischief. They speak the right words and keep a straight face. It's amazing how zealously they try to be politically correct when practising wrong politics.  

Style supersedes substance; the cosmetic conjures the magic. And nothing is black and white except for the written words, which too are fading into a fog of gray. We have got fancy names for fancy things, but nothing explains why the wronged always have to worry about being right as well. 

If no man can be wise on an empty stomach, what to expect from the aggrieved souls? It's more so when those who should come to their rescue are relentlessly pushing them into distress.

The writer is the Editor of the weekly First News and an opinion writer for The Daily Star. 
Email: badrul151@yahoo.com