With the whole world entangled in the coronavirus pandemic, we have no other option but to shut down all work and fight to contain the deadly disease.
Back in 2017, we had an opportunity to build a small and experimental toilet in Jhalokati, with the simple intention of helping adolescent girls in a rural school who had no real toilet to avail.
WhileE grow-ing up in a Tripura community of Khagrachhari in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, an ethnically diverse and geographically distinct region of Bangladesh, I became familiar with a myth that explained why the Tripuras did not have a script or writing system of their own.
A lone structure is taking shape on a featureless, grey horizon. Two figures work under the beating sun, on an otherwise deserted landscape. One digs, the other carries loads of earth on her head.
The generation of the 90s where I belong to has grown up with a very popular group of cartoon characters: Meena, Raju, and Mithu.
Society imposes different roles and responsibilities on men and women based on the gender of an individual which at times impede the development of individuals.
I have been asked by several close friends recently, why we need social protection measures to address poverty in Bangladesh—a country which has the world’s largest microcredit programme. One might ask: is it because the microcredit programme is not fulfilling its promise of alleviating poverty and social protection is therefore going to replace it?
The death of Abrar Fahad epitomises the need for tolerance towards dissenting voices. He is a martyr to the cause of free speech. Employing his brutal death to silence political dissent and to eliminate political rights on campus is wrong. He did not deserve such betrayal.
Mf first visit to a madrasa school for female students was in July 2014. We met in a large rectangular room, with a faint damp stench,
Her death has sent out a clarion call. But we don't know how long it'll take for the call to make a veritable change. How long the call will keep blaring in the air. Our hearts remain suffused with questions.
When I set out to research masculinity and entrepreneurship in Dhaka, I expected to hear the occasional sexist remark. Instead, I was
Nobody can survive after suffering 75-80 percent burn injuries. Despite this fact, we had hoped that Nusrat Jahan Rafi would somehow survive, by a miracle perhaps.
Just a few days ago, while standing inside a packed elevator in the building of a renowned telecom company, a thought crossed my mind. For a moment, I wondered: what if I could hold a placard in my hand, asking all men to stand at a distance from me?
I had taught at a College in New York City for six years—which used to administer fire drills every month. During the drills, each person was required to leave and evacuate the building.
Before the amber of the last one turn to ashes and forgotten memories, a new flame leaps up in another neighbourhood of the city, revealing, once again, cracks in the façade of our tilottoma.
During the last days of March in 1971, when there was fear among everyone at Dhaka University—the teachers, students and general staff—that the university could be attacked by the Pakistan military anytime, Jyotirmoy Guha-thakurta, a professor of English department of the university, was the provost of Jagannath Hall.
The boom of export-oriented garment business created jobs for millions of mostly young female workers in Bangladesh, many of who moved from rural areas to urban centres like Dhaka.
Ever since I returned to Dhaka in 2011, I have seen how fast Dhaka has been growing. The GDP growth rate has been phenomenal but, with economic wealth, multifarious challenges have come to the fore: land- and river-grabbing, tree-felling, and endless construction changing the landscape of the city.
