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TODAY o November 23, 2000
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A privileged life in Asia reveals many truths of prejudice here
Saeed Ahmed - Staff
Thursday, November 23, 2000
The younger of two children, I was born into relative affluence in Bangladesh
-- a tiny South Asian country -- just a few years after its own inception. As
a prayer that our family be spared the turmoil and upheaval that a fledgling
democracy invariably brings with it, my parents named me Saeed Ahmed,
meaning "in the pursuit of happiness."
Apparently, their idea worked: We moved to the oil-rich United Arab Emirates
shortly after.
For the next 14 years, I enjoyed the material benefits of that beautiful desert
kingdom's thriving economy. A generous parental pocketbook replaced the vile
necessity of working for a weekly allowance, and a formal education in an
elite private school (where some students were chauffeured to class in
limousines), cemented my belief that the Rahman household was indeed the
Mecca of comfort and caring. (Unlike the traditional sharing of surnames, he
custom in my family is to alternate last names. Thus, while my father is
named Rahman, I am an Ahmed -- as was my grandfather. My son, in turn, will
be a Rahman. The custom does not extend to daughters, however. She receives
the father's last name -- the rationale being, she will have to alter her name
after marriage anyway.)
This perception of being exceptionally blessed carried through into my teens
when, my parents, citing homesickness, decided to return home. While
Bangladesh, a country smaller than Georgia, is home to millions living below
the poverty line, a private-school education -- coupled with carefully chosen
friends and household help to cater to my needs -- ensured that I was as far
removed from the ills that plagued the rest of the society as possible.
Undoubtedly, growing up economically over-advantaged brought with it some
serious unanticipated drawbacks.
The well-meaning parental attempt at pampering and protecting me at all
times meant that I was raised unaware and unexposed to the harsh realities of
the world outside the warm confines of a loving home. I was indoctrinated,
perhaps unwittingly, into the philosophy of class differences, by being
encouraged to associate with only a certain societal segment.
And in what is perhaps the most unfortunate indication of the
status-conscious Bengali culture, at school I was taught everything in terms
of the prestige associated with it. Education = Money = Prestige was a mantra
I was exposed to on a daily basis growing up.
Despite that indoctrination (or perhaps because of it?) I simply had no desire
to continue my education when I finished high school. I was bored with
academics. And I reasoned the Rahman family was "prestigious" enough
without additional contribution on my part: My father was director of a
multinational company. My mother was a teacher, author, activist, newspaper
columnist and radio personality. And my brother made us proud with his
award-winning cartoons and stellar academic performance. By then, I had
become smitten by a new obsession: coming to the United States.
I suspect that for teenagers growing up in a developing country, there is no
grander dream than to make it to America -- not the racially polarized,
crime-ridden, xenophobic America that it can sometimes become, but the land
of fast cars, beautiful women and endless opportunity as romanticized in
movies and music videos.
Months of anticipation finally gave way to a sense of incipient adventure when
I learned that a four-year scholarship awaited me at Morehouse College. Unlike
my peers who opted for majority-white institutions, I wanted to experience
America from a minority point of view, and Morehouse, being a historically
black institution, was a good match.
I was on my way, I believed, to a four-year vacation in the greatest country in
the world.
I could not have been more mistaken about the vacation.
For the first time in my life, despite the scholarship covering tuition, I found
myself someplace I was not really prepared to be. Suddenly there were bills to
pay, for living expenses and long- distance phone calls. And -- in a vain effort
to prove to my family that I was prepared for this onslaught of reality -- I
took a job to supplement the daily ritual of going to classes.
In this alien environment, where people drove on the wrong side of the streets,
doors opened inward and bells did not announce the end of class periods, I was
forced to grow up faster in one semester than I had in the past 19 years.
My transformation was precipitated by the fact that I was one of two
Bangladeshis ever to be accepted at this all-male, all-black institution. As
such, I was more than just a student; I was an ambassador for my country.
Though I barely knew the country beyond my upper middle-class experience, I
now was responsible for introducing and defending it in its totality to a new
culture.
There is more to Bangladesh than just floods and other natural disasters, I
would tell people. It's home to the longest natural beach in the world and the
Sundarban forest -- one of the last preserves of the Royal Bengal tiger. Its
people may be one of the poorest in the world, but they ranked first in the
London School of Economic's World Happiness Survey two years ago. Americans
came in 46th.
And when Bangladeshis immigrate to the United States, not all settle as New
York City cab drivers or convenience store clerks. From the architect who
designed the Sears Tower to the economist who advised President Clinton to
adopt the concept of microlending for his anti-poverty initiative to Sirajul and
Mujibur, the shopkeepers- turned-celebrities who provide the perfect foil for
late night host David Letterman's irreverent humor, Bangladeshis have
integrated themselves into American society.
While I tried my best to correct misconceptions and perceptions of the "Third
World" to the residents here, I also found myself constantly negating
stereotypes and fighting ignorance about African- Americans among my
countrymen with whom I came in contact.
Whereas I too would once laugh along whenever someone cracked yet another
Kawla joke (the Bengali equivalent of insensitive racial humor), I began to
understand the pain and frustration of African- Americans to a degree clearer
than most Americans.
Black anger, I now realize, is -- to a great extent -- justified. I have
witnessed firsthand taxicabs turning corners and racing away, blatantly
ignoring a black outstretched hand only to stop a block down to pick me up. I
have also found myself, on more than one occasion, almost lashing out at the
desi ( a term describing anyone from the Indian subcontinent) shop-keeper who
kept his eyes glued to the business-attired black customer, while the "grungy
white kid" skateboarded down his aisles.
But just as my stay at Morehouse opened my eyes to the continued
discrimination against a race in 21st-century America, it also made me begin
to question the very amenities that constituted my own comfortable
upbringing. I noticed the contradictions between the beliefs our culture
supposedly espouses and their manifestations, and realized that oppression of
the minority runs rampant at home, too.
We claim to be unprejudiced, yet consider only the light-skinned among us
beautiful. We call slavery a uniquely American institution, yet employ
8-year-olds at negligible pay as domestic help. And we boast of being
forward-thinking on the basis of having a female head of state, yet find it
inconceivable to accept a woman as the head of a household.
The past few years have been a continual learning experience for me. Never
would I have guessed a song could move me as much as "Lift Every Voice and
Sing," often referred to as the "Black National Anthem," or see so clearly the
racism in this society, and the prejudice in mine, as Morehouse has taught me
to do. Through a series of false starts, I have acquired long-overdue exposure,
which has ultimately come to mean "exposure" to myself.
And, with graduation only months away, as I anticipate my move into the real
world, I am confident that come what may, I am better able to weather any
storm, having finally broken free of the cocoon that had shielded me for most
of my life.
Saeed Ahmed, a senior at Morehouse College majoring in Biology, is the
political reporting intern for the Journal-Constitution's National Desk. Ahmed
also has been a frequent contributor to the International Atlanta pages.
BANGLADESH BY THE NUMBERS
Bangladesh was formerly known as East
Pakistan, but it won its independence in 1971. Bangladesh is a desperately
poor nation whose normal economic development is hampered by monsoons that
flood a third of the nation each year.
Capital:...................Dhaka
Type of
government:....... Republic
Prime minister:........... Sheikh Hasina Wajed
Population:............... 129,194,224
Life expectancy:...........60.16 years
Gross
domestic product per capita:............... \$1,470
Predominant religion...... Muslim
Area:..................... 56,160 sq. miles
U.S. comparison:...........Slightly smaller than
Wisconsin
Top exports:...............Garments, jute, leather, frozen fish
Natural
resources:........ Natural gas, arable land, timber
Natural hazards:...........Droughts,
cyclones, annual floods
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