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Taslima Unbound
Writings on Feminism, Secularism, and Human Rights
Taslima Nasrin
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eBook - ePub
Taslima Unbound
Writings on Feminism, Secularism, and Human Rights
Taslima Nasrin
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About This Book
Internationally acclaimed Bangladeshi writer Taslima Nasrin brings together for the first time in English a compelling collection of her work written over a period of thirty years. In this powerful selection of essays, Taslima confronts issues of women’s oppression and gender inequality, freedom of speech, and religious violence. In bold, pragmatic style, her language of protest challenges the androcentric paradigms that have dictated the female experience for millennia. Taslima unflinchingly questions long held views on marriage, effects of religious rituals on women, prostitution, genital mutilation, divorce, and sexual assault, among many other crucial issues. Forced into exile after being expelled from Bangladesh for her frank and brave writing, Nasrin has been a heroic and courageous voice throughout the world, with many of her works topping the bestseller lists. Taslima Unbound captures the essence of her life’s work and is key for those seeking to gain a deeper understanding of this celebrated feminist writer. Taslima Nasrin has been the recipient of the Woodrow Wilson Fellowship, the UNESCO-Madanjeet Singh Prize for the promotion of tolerance and non-violence, the Simone de Beauvoir Prize, an honorary doctorate from the American University of Paris, among many other important recognitions.
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MEMOIR
AUTOBIOGRAPHY?
āFreedom Is Always and Exclusively Freedom for the One Who Thinks Differentlyā
Rosa Luxemburg
After crossing quite a few years of my life, when I find the days Iāve left behind looking foggy and grey, and when suddenly sometimes, a long forgotten dream rises and stands in front of me from the fog, or a memory silently sneaks into my alone and lonely room, when it sends chills down my spine, when it makes me cry, when it pulls me back to those daysā¦ thenā¦ can I avoid walking back through those alleys of life once again, trying to remove the darkness and collect a few of those soothing and cooling memories? But whatās the use! Whatās gone is gone. The dreams that are long dead, the dreams that canāt be recognized as dreams anymore, whatās the use if I try to remove the cobwebs and the layers of dust, to bring them out and touch them with my soft fingers, once again? Let bygones be bygones. I know about all of this, and yet my life in exile has always tried to pull me back. I have walked through my past like a person hypnotized and not in control. Like a nightmare, each night comes and engulfs me in intense pain and depression. And thatās when I began sharing the story of that girl. A timid and shy and scared little girl who doesnāt know how to protest, who has grown up under strict, exploitative, and conservative rules and regulations at home and has always been confined to a small boundary; a girl whose dreams and desires have been ruthlessly thrown away to garbage bins every day, and the dark, hairy hands of lust have tried touching her little body time and againā¦. I have shared the story of that little girl. The girl who secretly began weaving little dreams since her adolescent years, the girl who suddenly fell in love one day and just at the onset of youth, secretly got married with a dream to make a home like any other normal girl. I have shared the story of that simple, mediocre girl. The girl who was betrayed by her husbandāthe person she loved the most, the girl whose trust was crushed like a building collapsing due to a sudden earthquake, the girl who was hurt, broken, torn apart, and shaken to the core. Extreme shame and humiliation led her towards the horrifying path of ending her life. I have told the story of that grief-struck young woman. The young girl who then tried to collect those broken pieces of her dreams and stand up once again.
The young woman who wished to live, to get a little acceptance and space in this ruthless, heartless world. The woman who was then forced to accept the norms of the society and surrender to the guardian called āa manā once again. And once again she was faced with hurt, a physical assault that killed the fetus in her womb, an attack that wounded her every night, an attack that was cruel, crooked, one of disbelief and extreme humiliationāI have only shared the story of that trampled upon, bitten, sad and sorry young woman. The crushed woman stood up once again, mustering all the courage and strength she had in her mind and body, and this time, she didnāt seek anyone elseās help to stand on her feet. She fought alone and lived alone, she became her own strength and shelter. This time she didnāt surrender herself to anyone. This time she didnāt pose as a victim simply because she has been deceived, this time she didnāt look back at what people think of her, how they judge her or blame her or what they say about her behind her backāI have shared this story of her not looking back. She didnāt bother about any of those social prejudices anymore; her fall taught her to rise every time. Every time she stumbled she learned to walk, every time she lost her way she found a new one, and eventually she felt the birth of a new philosophy and belief within her that taught her that her life is only her life and nobody elseās. So, only she has the right to rule it and control it. I spoke of the resurrection of this young woman. The environment and the neighborhood that changed her, built her, the woman who faced the raging fire of patriarchy time and again and yet, finally managed to come out unscathed, and turned herself into steelāI narrated her story.
Have I committed a mistake in doing so? Though I feel I havenāt, for a lot of people today, itās a huge crime. As if I have committed an unforgivable crime by narrating her story. And because I have committed such a great crime, I have to keep bearing the brunt of public judgment today. Probably, I wouldnāt face such ruthless persecutions if I didnāt admit that the story I shared was mine, itās about my own life, the story of Taslima.
In an imaginary world created by me as an author, Iām allowed to do whatever I wish to do. I can concoct a story about an imaginary common woman who transcends mediocrity and stands apart from other common women. I can be forgiven for that. But how dare I stand in the real world and announce that a real woman like me, made of sweat and blood, has shaken off all her pains and sorrows and promised to spend her life the way she wants? How can people accept such blatant admission of uprightness from a living and breathing, real woman? No woman should ever dare to have such courage and openness. Iām such a misfit in a patriarchal society!
In my favorite country, India, and my most favorite state, West Bengal, Iām nothing more than a banned name, a banned person, a banned book. Nobody is allowed to utter my name, to touch me, to read my books. If someone utters my name their tongue will get poisoned, if someone touches me, their hands will get dirty, and if someone reads me, they will feel angry.
But thatās who I am, thatās who Iāve always been! Is it any different now?
If Iām cut into a hundred pieces simply for writing Dwikhondito (Split Up in Two) Iāll still not accepting that Iāve committed a grave mistake in doing so. Is writing an autobiography a sin? Is it a crime to open up about the dark, hidden secrets of your life and to bring them to light? Isnāt it a precondition for writing an autobiography that we open up about our lives and not sweep anything under the rug? Isnāt an autobiography meant to say whatever is unsaid, whatever is hidden in oneās life? Iāve just tried to remain faithful to this precondition. The first two volumes of my autobiography, called Amaar Meyebela (My Girlhood) and Utol Hawa (The Wild Wind) weāre not embroiled in any controversy. But the third volume has invited debates and instigated people across West Bengal. I didnāt begin such debates, others have. Many have said that I deliberately chose a sensational subject like this one to invite controversy. Such questions can arise in other forms of writing but how can such a question arise in the case of an autobiography? Iāve only described all the experiences I gathered through various incidents in my life, as I grew up and grew old. My philosophies and facts, my hopes and hopelessness, my beauty and ugliness, my happiness and sorrows, my anger and tears are what I wrote about. I havenāt deliberately chosen a scandalous or provocative topic. I chose my life as a subject to write about; itās my autobiography! Where will I find a less sensitive or less provocative subject if this life of mine that I chose to write about is, in fact, sensational and provocative?
They allege that I wrote the book to court controversies and invoke debates, to amuse and excite readers. As if there has to be a hidden ill intention behind writing any and every book. As if honesty and simplicity can never be reasons enough! As if courage, which was earlier appreciatedāas I was told I have the courage to do and say a lot of things others canātāthe same courage canāt be a reason this time around! Raging controversies around my writings are nothing new. They have always followed me since the beginning of my writing career. Isnāt it the bottom line, that if you arenāt willing to compromise with a misogynistic, patriarchal society, youāre bound to instigate people, court controversies and invite trouble?
Different people define autobiography in different ways. Most people are used to accepting only those that talk about a lot of ideologies and other fluffy stuff. Normally, only āGreat Mastersā write autobiographies to illumine and encourage others to follow the philosophy of their lives, to help them in their quest for truth, to show them the path. Iām not a master of wisdom, not a visionary, not a superhuman, I am nobody. Iām not writing my autobiography with an intention to awaken the unawakened, nor to show the path of light to a blind man! Iām just opening up and showing the wounds and frustrations of the mere mortal human being that I am.
I might not be a great literary figure or a famous personality, but itās an undeniable fact that many huge and twisted incidents have occurred in my life! If thousands and lakhs of people can take to the roads to demand my hanging because of my beliefs and ideals simply because Iām of a different view, if all my books can be banned one after the other, if an entire state machinery can take away my right to live in my own country just because I spoke the truth, can it then be called a normal, ordinary life in any way? When the story of such a life is already being promoted with a lot of color and spice added to it, by many different people, why shouldnāt I then take the responsibility of clarifying every detail of my life on my own? Does anyone else know better about my life than me?
If I donāt open up, if I donāt express everything about me, especially those incidents of my life that have deeply hurt me or moved me, if I donāt express my good and bad, my faults and qualities, my auspicious and inauspicious, my joys and pains, my generosity and cruelty, then whatever it can be called, it canāt be called an autobiography, not for me at least. āArt for artās sakeā or quite literally, literature for literatureās sake, isnāt my end goal. Thereās something called being truthful and it means a lot to me.
Whatever my life looks like to others, however lowly or condemnable, Iām still not being unfaithful to myself while writing my own story. After reading my story, whether my readers hate me or throw me aside, Iāll still have the satisfaction that I havenāt been unfaithful to them either, that I havenāt lied to them. Iām not presenting them with a concocted story in the name of an autobiography. Iām sharing each and every truth about my life without any hesitation, even if it isnāt always a decent or a pleasant one. Whatever has happened in my life has already happened, I canāt change it now, nor can I deny it, by saying what actually happened didnāt happen at all. The way I can accept the beauty of life, I can accept its ugliness too.
People are directly or indirectly ridiculing me from every corner. Iām constantly being insulted and defamedāthe only reason being that I spoke my truth. Not everybody can digest the truth all the time. Even if they could stand the truth in the earlier volumes, My Girlhood and The Wild Wind, many canāt digest the truth I shared in Split Up in Two. When I shared the story of how I faced humiliation in my childhood in My Girlhood, people empathized with me. In The Wild Wind when I shared how I was betrayed by my husband, people still felt sorry for the āpoor me.ā But when I described my relationships with multiple men in Split Up in Two, they began criticizing me. Doesnāt that mean that when a woman is oppressed and helpless, when sheās weak and going through bad times, only then do you have empathy for her, only then do you like her. And the moment she isnāt vulnerable and helpless anymore, the moment she isnāt a victim of oppression anymore, the moment she stands up with a straight, strong spine, the moment she establishes her rights, when she frees her mind and body from the decaying and spoilt norms of the society, you stop liking her, you rather begin hating her. I always knew about the inherent nature of our society, but even as I knew it, I still didnāt stop knowing who I was.
The main controversy around my book Dwikhondito (Split Up in Two) is around sexual freedom. Since most people in our society are submerged up to their necks in patriarchal thoughts, ideas, beliefs, norms, and practices, hearing about a womanās unabashed declaration of sexual freedom disturbs them, makes them angry, annoyed, and upset. The sexual liberty I speak about doesnāt exist in my beliefs alone. I have lived this freedom and thus established it in my life in my own rights. In no way does it imply that a man can get me if he simply desires me! Our society isnāt prepared for such a sexual freedom exercised by a woman yet; not prepared to accept that a woman can have sex with a man to meet her sexual desires according to her choice and wish and at the same time, strictly maintain her sexual piety.
Many of our popular and famous male writers are now happily calling me names, calling me a slut! And by doing so, they themselves prove how theyāre the perfect beneficiaries and bosses of the dirty, patriarchal society they represent. They use sluts and whores to sexually satisfy them and use the same words to abuse someone as per their convenience. Itās not a new norm to use women as a sexual slave or pawn. Though Iāve also mentioned my fight against a patriarchal society in Split Up in Two, have also spoken about my protests against the torture of women and religious minorities by our society, no one mentions a word about those. Whoever is speaking about the book is talking about the sexual aspects of it. Nobody looked at my hurts and tears, all they saw was sex, all they observed were my relationships with men, all they saw was my audacity to open my mouth and reveal the deep, dark and ugly secrets of sexuality.
In the history of this world, in any dark age or society, whenever a woman has risen against patriarchy, whenever a woman has claimed her freedom or has wanted to break the shackles of slavery and subjugation, she has always been hurled with abusive words like āwhoreā and āslut.ā A while ago, in one of my books called Nosto Meyer Nosto Goddo, (Fallen Prose of a Fallen Girl) I wrote in the foreword: āI like calling myself āFallenā in the eyes of this society. Because the truth is, if a woman wants to end her pain and miseries, if a woman revolts against the filthy rules of a religion, society or nation, if she protests against all efforts to suppress her, if a woman becomes aware of her rights, then the gentlemen of our society love to call her āFallenā. The first step toward a womanās āPurificationā thus begins with being termed as āFallenā. If a woman doesnāt choose to be āFallenā she has no way to free herself from the chains of the society. When people term a woman as āFallen,ā then you know she is really a normal and pure human being!ā
To date I fully believe that if a woman really wants to earn her true freedom, if she really wishes to be a true human being, she has to become fallen in the eyes of this society. When a woman gets this gift of being called a fallen woman or a slut by our society, itās nothing less than a great achievement or good luck for her. Among all the rewards I recently received, I consider being called a āwhoreā and āslutā the best ones! Iāve hit the perverse structure of patriarchy so hard that Iāve been bestowed with such an honor and title, you see! This is the success I achieved after a long struggle in my life as a writer and of course, as a woman!
An author from Bangladesh has filed a defamation suit against me in the court for writing this book. Another writer from Kolkata has also followed the footsteps of this author from Bangladesh. Did they stop only at filing lawsuits against me? No Sir! Both have also asked for a ban on my book. I donāt know how one writer can ask for a ban on a fellow writerās book. I fail to understand how those people who should ideally be responsible for securing āFreedom of Speechā and āFree Thinkingā in our society behave like those fundamentalists and fanatics! A lot of lies, a lot of false and imaginary stories are being planted about me nowadays. But I never ran to the courts asking for a ban on those writings. I fully agree with what Voltaire said: āje ne suis absolument pas dāaccord avec vos idĆ©es, mais je me battrais pour que vous puissiez les exprimer.ā āI might not agree with your opinions, but I will keep fighting for your freedom of speech till the day I die.ā
Why do our learned writer friends try to deny this ultimate truth about freedom of speech?
Many great authors of the world have written about their lives and have left their autobiographies behind. They havenāt chosen to sieve only the pure from their lives and serve it to the readers. Life has either misconceptions and mistakes or marks and thorns, at least something or the other, if itās truly a human life. People who are revered as āIllumined Beingsā or āGreat Mastersā also have such aspects to their lives. One of the greatest Christian religious teachers, St. Augustine confessed in his autobiography about the immoral, antisocial, and unrestricted life he led in Algeriaāhe didnāt hesitate to publicly accept everything. He never tried to hide any of those stories about his sexual misdemeanors, promiscuous behaviors, or about his illegitimate child. Didnāt Mahatma Gandhi confess how he used to check and confirm his sexual control and strength of celibacy by allowing naked women to lie on his bed beside him? French writer Jean-Jacques Rousseau confessed about all that he did in life in his book named Confessions. Even he didnāt think of hiding the bad stuff in a secret box for himself.
In his times, very few people had the mindset to accept Rousseauās ideal. So what! He didnāt bother about people and patiently described each one of those stories of his notoriety. His relationship with Mademoiselle Goton was quite obvious, but there were many other women too, including Madame de Warens, whom he used to call āMother!ā He has quite honestly confessed that even looking at her would sexually incite and arouse him. Benjamin Franklin has also vividly described those insanely wild days of his youth in his autobiography. He also mentioned how he brought his love child William back to his legitimate family. Bertrand Russell has written in his autobiographical book about his many illicit affairs with many different women. Who doesnāt know about his relationships with T.S. Eliotās wife Vivienne or with Lady Ottoline Morrell? Leo Tolstoy has quite unapologetically opened up about his visits to prostitutes at the age of fourteen, about his sexual relationships with women considered as lowly and belonging to the lowest strata of the society, or even with other married women. He didnāt even hide the fact that he suffered from sexual diseases. Now a pertinent question might be raised here. What was the need for them to share such sensitive information with their readers that isnāt as easily accepted by our society? But there must be a valid reason for them to share those. Donāt you think? They must have chosen not to hide their true self or those experiences must have been very important to their lives. Thus, they chose to share them. Did they lose their class or respect due to such confessions? Or does anyone call them names today? Nobody calls them bad, in fact, by confessing the truth, not only were they able to maintain their credibilities, but also rose in the eyes of others. In the West, itās...