Red –
The color invokes passion, and rage; carnage, and warmth.
It is in the blood that flows inside us – illuminating our wounds, the soul’s witness to pain.
Red is etched onto our flags; burning bright, above the ground.
History submerged into the very last drop for these symbols of our people.
Sacrifice upon sacrifice, followed by martyr blood and destruction of livelihood and households
–ways of life gone up in flames, blown by the wind away in ashes.
Culture threatened by burning libraries, uprooting gardens of long-time harvests – appropriated in language that sours the tongue.
আমার সোনার বাংলা (Āmār sōnār Bāṅlā – My Golden Bangla)
You have now become a part of me, awakened within me, bringing me clarity.
I’ve held my people’s flag as a stranger, worn our clothing in repulse, criticized our peoples’ ways at the forefront of mention in disgust.
I’ve stayed ignorant of our history, not bothering to learn our mother tongue beyond the conversations I grew up with.
I’ve shown ingratitude to our meals, hating this and hating that,
Rice in carbs galore, stereotypical fish obsession combined with gloating diabetes–how our diets are our downfall.
I kept faith away from my culture, one held higher than the other.
Years of actively disassociating from my people, from my blood.
But our lives are shaped by the soil we’ve come from.
(filastin ya filastin – Palestine O Palestine) فلسطين يا فلسطين
You’ve shown me why we must resist.
Born in the colonizer’s world, we read what they’re writing, speak what they’re speaking, learn what they’re teaching.
Born in the colonizers world, we are subject to their lies and supposed morals, to their trends and social norms.
You’ve shown me resistance in one’s food and in one’s clothes,
in one’s manners and in one’s faith.
You’ve shown me resistance through loving our mother tongue,
our literature,
our pen.
আমার সোনার বাংলা (Āmār sōnār Bāṅlā – My Golden Bangla)
Western eyes behind my rose-colored glasses tainted the streets.
They made me see the smog and pollution, instead of the rolling hills, roads terribly made and torn up.
They made me see chaos instead of community – the rickshaws, cars and buses all honking in all directions at once.
They made me see open sewage lines and insects, escaping into the gated garages of apartments.
An abundance of balconies, laundry hung out every noon.
I would walk brisk and quick, palm over mouth, hands clutching onto belongings –
Our city of Dhaka, where cholito bhasha conveys my alienation from my district,
amidst class differences of survival versus
strenuous livelihood.
Discrimination of one’s status and skin color,
lineage and education run rampant in social dealings
overtake one’s life to succeed.
(filastin ya filastin – Palestine O Palestine) فلسطين يا فلسطين
The western practice of settler colonialism destroyed your streets; torn up by shells and gunfire, the smog of smoke burying the clear skies.
Ambulances and cars make their way across roads destroyed.
Yawning, colonizer-made chasms deep in the ground, homes ripped apart, staring right into the sunny sky.
An abundance of tents far away from what once was, joining long lines for food and water with prices sky-high.
Walk long and with struggle, out for a purpose, praying for another day to return –
Palestine, where living in genocide has led to such monotonous routines, and an eerie normalization of the world’s apathy towards war crimes.
আমার সোনার বাংলা (Āmār sōnār Bāṅlā – My Golden Bangla)
Traveling through the stark memories of childhoods reconstructed –
far away from the big city lights, sounds, and scents;
deep into the country where my parents lived out their lives,
stand tall, well-built infrastructure for us grandchildren to stay over luxuriously.
Old tin, dirt homes renovated to chalky floors and actual toilets.
The forest overlooks the mossy pond and graveyard marked by trees and rocks.
Our parents once dunked, scaled and climbed to the tops.
My people’s blood was shed for freedom,
And they rose to reclaim their truths;
a red perfect circle immersed in a perfect sea of green.
The rising sun.
Sacrificed for a country worth the fight, awash in beauty worth protecting
– just 53 years young.
(filastin ya filastin – Palestine O Palestine) فلسطين يا فلسطين
Now far away to homes that have been stolen from you, pillaged, and raided, where the key in another land hangs high as a reminder of who truly belongs.
Land with history upon history of family full of love, full of life.
Harvests of olive gardens left unattended, the season’s joys that can’t be passed down to the next generation.
You survive through your tatreez, through the stories of your elders, and through foods and spices that unite your people, scattered throughout the diaspora.
Your people’s blood was shed by colonizers
And you’ve risen to reclaim your truths;
A striking red triangle immersed in a perfect sea of green, black and white.
Revolution;
for a country worth the fight, awash in beauty worth protecting
– resisting for 76 years and counting.
আমার সোনার বাংলা (Āmār sōnār Bāṅlā – My Golden Bangla)
Witnessing the fight by our youth, by our students
is coalescent to justice advocated by the Palestinians, our friends.
Witnessing the persistence, the perseverance in face of death
murdered by officers of ‘the law’
indistinguishable to the children throwing rocks at huge tanks.
Witnessing the conviction, resolve, the unfaltering steadfastness
in the wake of fascism,
the face of ongoing repression.
(filastin ya filastin – Palestine O Palestine) فلسطين يا فلسطين
Your hunger, your thirst, your fight to be free
is one I’ve taken for my conscience, for me.
Your grief, your pain, your loss of loved ones in material and flesh
are tears in my soul I etch on each day, fresh.
Your strength, your faith, your determination in destruction shining bright
is a model and reminder for me to reflect, and implement.
Red –
Blood that cakes the streets, violence defiling the green of fresh crops.
Our people’s fights are intertwined; the circle and the triangle
Yes, red is in this murder; unjustified genocide and suppressive ruling over the masses.
Yet it is also in the passion and tenacity standing firm on justice’s door,
passionate to learn, to love, to long to live.
Our people’s fights are intertwined;
The circle and the triangle –
Two shapes braided in knots that grant acceptance
to who we are.
Our flags fly high;
fly free.
1 আমার সোনার বাংলা (Āmār sōnār Bāṅlā – My Golden Bangla) comes from the Bangladesh national anthem. Memorizing this song in elementary school is the closest I have been to Bangladesh’s literature, their freedom, and to the identity of being Bangladeshi.
2 Verse 4 Line 8 – Cholito bhasha is the colloquial, modern/standard spoken language that most people speak in. Bengali dialects can be understood to be divided into two variations each; spoken (cholito bhasha) versus literary (shadhu bhasha), and prestige versus regional. In this specific case, I am highlighting how each district/region of Bangladesh has their own dialect which helps identify where they specifically come from in the country. The regional dialects are separated into North Bengal, Western, Eastern, South Bengal (where my parents are from), Rajbanshi, and Western border dialects. Many Bangladeshis can speak and understand more than one dialect, however for some of us born in the diaspora (such as myself), I am only briefly familiar with my regional dialect, but can speak cholito bhasha as best I can.
3 Verse 7 Line 2 – This references how many Palestinian elders who were initially evicted from their homes years before and had to leave Palestine entirely, still have the keys to their houses hanging up wherever they ended up moving to.
