THE NIGHT I LEFT MY CAMERA AT HOME

NOTE: In light of recent terrorist attacks in Dhaka, Bangladesh, I'm reposting this 2013 article that captures the rising political tensions from an ex-pat's point of view.

KEYWORDS: Bangladesh, hartals/strikes, photography, Susan Sontag

LISTEN TO AUDIO RECORDING

My political convictions are being stirred as Bangladesh - admittedly, there's more than one way to summarize the state of affairs here - fights to redress past wrongs and retain its secular identity. A story is unfolding, which the likes of Al-Jazeera and the Economist are following, not to mention national papers like The Daily Star. The daily goings-on in the capital, where I live, implicate the masses, ex-pats, and bourgeoisie in a turbulent historical moment that's sure to have far-reaching consequences.

I like to observe my local environment. You could say that I like to bear witness to life's cross currents as they happen. This puts me in the moment. So photography or taking pictures tends to upset me. How could a single frame and "click" capture what's happening? Then there's the compulsion to share those frames with an easy "double-click." In our image-saturated times, I feel that observing with the naked eye is a kind of subversive act.

Susan Sontag (b. 1933; d. 2004)

In her seminal work, On Photography, philosopher Susan Sontag sheds light on the photographer's passionate pursuit: the essential photo. It seems my general discomfort with cameras and image-taking wasn't unfounded. However, my stay in Bangladesh is making me wonder about my long-held discomfort. Could the camera, under certain circumstances, show a moment of unvarnished truth, and in that way become the subversive tool? Perhaps I've been behaving self righteously all these years.

But that night, I didn't travel with my camera. It was Saturday, March 2nd, 2013. A hartal had been called from Sunday to Tuesday. A 3-day hartal - unheard of, at least in recent months. I was ancy and wanted to get out of my flat, maybe go to the beauty parlour or get a meal. Not much else I could do if I was advised by my employer to stay within the confines of my upper middle-class neighbourhood. Plus, I'd called my trusted driver, "J", to work that evening. So, on the one hand, I felt the pressure to venture out; on the other, I was curious about the night. I like the night and I wanted to see what would surface. "J" wasn't as curious but he'd come to know "madam's" need to see things up close, even at night. Tonight, I thought I'd see something, something picture-worthy. From my experience, the night before a hartal is the busiest and this hartal was billed as more intense and potentially dangerous than others because of Jaamat's rousing anger at the government's death penalty decree upon one of its top leaders (and possibly more to come). I left my flat knowing that I was taking a risk, but not like the protesters at Shahbagh who call for a ban of Jammat's political activities. I wore no political badge that night expect for the interior one that calls forth my anti-authoritarian sentiments.

This is what surfaced: two unmarked cars, ahead of "J" and I, speed up to catch a light. Stop. A plainclothes officer jumps out to control traffic. In the back seat of one, window rolled down, another officer sits with a rifle propped between his legs. Nearby, a street peddler carries his roses. All of us converge at this busy intersection in Gulshan for about five minutes.

Flowers can be sold,
a gun can go off,
a woman can emerge from her car -
all in a period of five minutes.

In reality, the seated agent scoffed at the young peddler who in turn approached me in the hopes he'd sell his wares. That rifle. Conversation ensued but to the boy's chagrin no sale made. Twice rejected. That rifle. The boy and I conversed some more and drew the officer's attention who now seemed amused; perhaps he'd reconsider the flowers? The boy and I agreed that the sight of an armed officer was distasteful. That rifle. The signal changed; cars moved ahead. The tension dissipated as a result of vehicles and people moving on. 

The irony: roses denote love and friendship but on this night they caused aggravation and were used surreptitiously to engage an officer of the law.

My camera is not yet an extension of me. I still "click" using my internal memory-making tool: my mind. But, in these image-saturated times, I wonder if I can tell you my stories without pictures. If you'll believe my words alone. Believe me, there was a rifle, and it was the authority that night.