১০ |
shambhu (যাচাই করা হয়নি) | শুক্র, ২০০৮-০৪-২৫ ০৮:৫৯
DAILY STAR
Tue. July 10, 2007
My own little Palestine
Shambhu Rahmat
Imagine a country where troubles started with British masters. Drawing lines, separating people, making countries. Some gained freedom, others became prisoners.
After World War II, the exhausted Empire in retreat -- new post-colonial nations are created. For geo-political reasons, borders are drawn and people find themselves in another country. The original inhabitants of that land now become a problem. They have no documents proving legal ownership of the land they lived in for generations. Slowly they start to see settlers -- new arrivals subsidised by an invisible, far-away state. Ironically the settlers belong to a people who have been historically oppressed, and have just emerged from a genocide. But they fail to see the contradiction in their own action.
Soon, very soon, the original inhabitants find themselves becoming a numeric minority. More settlers take over land and build settlements. Large construction projects also arrive, displacing entire villages. The gentle days are over.
The inevitable happens. The indigenous people lose their so-called gentleness. A charismatic leader rises and unites the disparate groups -- groups that formerly had no cohesion, structure, or politics. An armed guerilla group is born, the stated intention is to defend rights and win freedom.
For a time, the world is enamored of the figure of the romantic guerilla. But soon, other headlines dominate and they move on. Neighbouring states also support the movement for a time. Less out of solidarity, more out of a desire to make trouble for their enemy. Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish said in a Godard film: "The world is only interested in us because of who our opponents are."
Eventually the neighbouring states stop supporting the guerillas. The settlers are also increasingly well-protected. Lighting terrorist strikes that cause damage become difficult. Exhausted and under-funded, the guerilla movement drops the demand for full independence. Now they want autonomy, some even say partial autonomy would be acceptable.
The charismatic guerilla leader comes out of hiding. To everyone's surprise he finally recognises the right to co-existence. Some praise his maturing political approach, others remain suspicious. After top-secret talks, a historic peace treaty is signed.
Some observers are jubilant: an end to the fighting? But among the guerilla movement's own ranks, there are cries of betrayal. The movement splinters into two. The more radical group rejects the treaty, and vows to continue fighting.
The second inevitable happens. Now the two factions start fighting each other. Brother against cousin against friend. Fratricide is the order of the day, the movement for independence and rights is long forgotten.
The indigenous people are at a twilight crossroad. Independence is a shattered dream, many are so exhausted they want peace at any cost. Their children scatter all over the world -- Australia, England, America, any place that will give a visa. A new diaspora is created. The next generation is exhausted. "Give us freedom" becomes "Just give me a job and some dignity."
The once proud guerilla movement is corroded to the point of random kidnapping of foreigners. No faction claims credit, thus every person is a suspect. Even those who have assimilated and taken mainstream jobs are not protected. It all depends on the way you look, the colour of your skin, the shape of your eyes, your last name.
Everything I wrote, it happened, more or less. Not far away in the Middle East, but very close to our own homes. Our hearts bleed for Palestine, but when will they bleed for our own people? This is an elegy for the Chittagong Hill Tracts.
DAILY STAR
Tue. July 10, 2007
My own little Palestine
Shambhu Rahmat
Imagine a country where troubles started with British masters. Drawing lines, separating people, making countries. Some gained freedom, others became prisoners.
After World War II, the exhausted Empire in retreat -- new post-colonial nations are created. For geo-political reasons, borders are drawn and people find themselves in another country. The original inhabitants of that land now become a problem. They have no documents proving legal ownership of the land they lived in for generations. Slowly they start to see settlers -- new arrivals subsidised by an invisible, far-away state. Ironically the settlers belong to a people who have been historically oppressed, and have just emerged from a genocide. But they fail to see the contradiction in their own action.
Soon, very soon, the original inhabitants find themselves becoming a numeric minority. More settlers take over land and build settlements. Large construction projects also arrive, displacing entire villages. The gentle days are over.
The inevitable happens. The indigenous people lose their so-called gentleness. A charismatic leader rises and unites the disparate groups -- groups that formerly had no cohesion, structure, or politics. An armed guerilla group is born, the stated intention is to defend rights and win freedom.
For a time, the world is enamored of the figure of the romantic guerilla. But soon, other headlines dominate and they move on. Neighbouring states also support the movement for a time. Less out of solidarity, more out of a desire to make trouble for their enemy. Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish said in a Godard film: "The world is only interested in us because of who our opponents are."
Eventually the neighbouring states stop supporting the guerillas. The settlers are also increasingly well-protected. Lighting terrorist strikes that cause damage become difficult. Exhausted and under-funded, the guerilla movement drops the demand for full independence. Now they want autonomy, some even say partial autonomy would be acceptable.
The charismatic guerilla leader comes out of hiding. To everyone's surprise he finally recognises the right to co-existence. Some praise his maturing political approach, others remain suspicious. After top-secret talks, a historic peace treaty is signed.
Some observers are jubilant: an end to the fighting? But among the guerilla movement's own ranks, there are cries of betrayal. The movement splinters into two. The more radical group rejects the treaty, and vows to continue fighting.
The second inevitable happens. Now the two factions start fighting each other. Brother against cousin against friend. Fratricide is the order of the day, the movement for independence and rights is long forgotten.
The indigenous people are at a twilight crossroad. Independence is a shattered dream, many are so exhausted they want peace at any cost. Their children scatter all over the world -- Australia, England, America, any place that will give a visa. A new diaspora is created. The next generation is exhausted. "Give us freedom" becomes "Just give me a job and some dignity."
The once proud guerilla movement is corroded to the point of random kidnapping of foreigners. No faction claims credit, thus every person is a suspect. Even those who have assimilated and taken mainstream jobs are not protected. It all depends on the way you look, the colour of your skin, the shape of your eyes, your last name.
Everything I wrote, it happened, more or less. Not far away in the Middle East, but very close to our own homes. Our hearts bleed for Palestine, but when will they bleed for our own people? This is an elegy for the Chittagong Hill Tracts.