The end of mango season

I was ready to leave Dhaka. But my emotions were – and remain – more than mixed. It’s like I kept them bottled up for two months, and in recent days I’ve allowed somebody to shake them up, down, around and, well, not quite back to where we started. And now I’m left trying to make sense of it all…

My eight weeks there represent double my longest stretch previously spent in a developing country, although I hesitate to compare Costa Rica to Bangladesh, not least because Costa Rica has no army while Bangladesh is run by a military caretaker government. Or because most people in Costa Rica can read while nearly half of Bangladeshis remain illiterate. Or because in Costa Rica I felt perfectly comfortable wearing a sundress on a hot day, yet in Bangladesh I wouldn’t dream of wearing anything Western unless it had sleeves and I paired it with a scarf.

No luck in comparing Costa Rica and Bangladesh. How about Egypt?

I visited Cairo immediately following Dhaka, thanks to my good fortune – for countless reasons – in marrying an Egyptian American with close family there. Usually when I visit Egypt I’m struck by the poverty, the increasing prevalence of veiled women and teenage girls, the pollution, the hectic traffic and the constant noise. Usually I’m struck by how different Egypt is from the States.

But this time Cairo was a welcome transition between Dhaka and Chicago (my hometown and my next destination). Cairo did not feel dirty, crowded or intimidating. Instead it somehow felt cosmopolitan, Western (they’ve even got a Starbucks now!), and – I never thought I would say this – organized. Sure, women were veiled, but many were out until midnight or later. The traffic was crazy, but cars did not have to navigate around animals, hundreds of pedestrians or jam-packed rickshaws. Even if they did, there were often three or four lanes. And there were a few children trying to sell cotton candy or Kleenex, but I was not followed by a half-naked, disabled children asking for spare change with their one good hand.

I hear that India would have provided a good comparison to Bangladesh, but my trip there was cancelled when Kolkata flooded earlier this summer. So it’s really difficult for me to contextualize Bangladesh.

But it’s not hard for me to admit that there are things I loved about living and working there. There are even things that I miss.

I miss being constantly surrounded by people, no matter where I am or what time of day or night it is.

I miss walking outside my home and having four rickshaw drivers anxiously awaiting my arrival and eager to take me wherever I need to go, even if they have no idea how to get there.

I miss anticipating Gloria! - if everybody wants you, why isn’t anybody calling?! – during aerobics class at Dazzle, the ladies-only gym I joined. I miss laughing when the Macarena inevitably made its second appearance during each one-hour class.

I miss talking with disadvantaged students and dedicated teachers about their problems, their dreams, and their idea of what a good school is.

I miss visiting villages where men, women and children are daily managing A Fine Balance between hope and despair, taking small steps to improve their own situation and the lives of those around them.

I miss struggling every day with my own response – or lack thereof – to extreme poverty.

I miss the mangos, especially the seasonal Choli variety, which became a mainstay in my diet and a sweet source of joy on even the most trying days. Okay, I really miss the mangos.

And I miss Parveen and Rashida, the two maids in my home there, who shed tears and called me their sister – in English – upon my departure.

Yet I do not miss sidestepping goat dung and hopping over chunks of missing sidewalk. And I don’t miss averting the eyes of curious men and constantly ensuring that I have my scarf properly covering my chest and shoulders while cursing myself for losing my sunglasses. I do not miss jumping out of the way of motorcycles whose drivers grew impatient with streets. I do not miss having to arrange safe transport to and from my destination hours in advance of meeting friends for dinner. And I will never miss stumbling upon grown men passing water with their backs turned to me.

Some experiences from this summer defy easy categorization, but they are ingrained in my memory. I cannot forget, for instance, riding in a rickshaw past the desperate woman in the slum begging – rather, crying – for money to bury her child, who was lying before her beneath a white sheet alongside a dirt path. Maybe I was stunned, especially as this happened the same day I learned my uncle succumbed to pancreatic cancer, but I deeply regret not asking the rickshaw driver to turn around so I could share with her what cash I had.

The volatility of my emotions in trying to sum up this experience is perhaps best expressed in my response to a question posed to me numerous times in the last month:

Would you come back to work in Dhaka?

It first arose at a socially awkward dinner composed mostly of Ivy League graduate and undergraduate students thrown together in Dhaka. After observing a humorous game of musical chairs focused on snagging a seat near the single Harvard professor in the room, I sat at the smaller table, sans professor, with three other women. Most of us were nearing the end of our time in Bangladesh; one was cutting her trip short by two weeks.

One intern gave a measured response to this query. I don’t think I’d come back, she said. There are so many other places to see in the world. Another student shared that she would consider coming back if she had someone to join her. It can be pretty lonely here, Destry said.

My answer was more visceral, and lacked the coat of diplomacy I’d typically apply.

No, absolutely not, I said.

My abrupt statement required some explanation, and so I provided one in a three-point fashion.

There’s no culture here, I proclaimed. There is very little culture by way of museums, theater, art and music; it’s displaced by a culture of shopping and eating out among those who can afford it. And I love to walk, but walking here is an act of defiance against streets mostly occupied by men and boys. More than anything, I said, I do not feel comfortable here being out and about, alone, especially after 7pm – at which time complete darkness overtakes this city wrought with insufficient street lighting and regular power outages.

My stance sparked conversation over dinner that evening, but the next morning I couldn’t help but wonder if my feelings were as clearly defined as I had portrayed.

In the days leading to my departure, Farzana, a Bangladeshi friend of mine, posed the same question. And I initially hid behind my honest but imperfect "intellectual” answer: I still haven’t figured out what role I – an American – could play here that an equally qualified Bangladeshi couldn’t do better.

Farzana challenged me. What if it was the perfect role for you, and you were the best person to play that role within BRAC or another organization here?

There are so many things to consider, I hedged. My husband, my family, our life back in the states…

But I realize that so much depends on what lens I use to consider this question. A few weeks back, I was struck by the motivations of Kelly, an expat I met in Dhaka. She graduated from the mid-career public policy program at Harvard a couple years ago, and has been living in Bangladesh for three years. Kelly, her husband and their children used to live in DC, a city they loved. But they decided they wanted to work in a place with real need, with tremendous need. Dhaka was their top choice.

When I use Kelly’s clear, practical and entirely unselfish criteria – need – my perspective on returning to Dhaka changes, quickly and almost entirely. Frankly, I like her criteria. I would love to be clear, practical, and entirely unselfish. I’m not quite there – my thought process is nuanced if nothing else – but I’m no longer responding with “absolutely not.”

Now, when friends and family ask if I will return to Dhaka, I envision not only polluted skies and heartbreaking inequities. I also see the girl who asked me how I could help her make it to college, and the woman at BRAC who told me that no matter her job title, she would work for women’s rights. And I picture the children that love going to school, even though their school is a single classroom in a hut made of bamboo and tin, and even though they are only there for three hours so they have time to help with household chores and farm work in the afternoons.

I wonder if I could help to make their lives better today, and their futures brighter. I think about what we could do if we worked together, and what resources we would need.

Would I go back?

We’ll see.