Bangladesh Feminist Archives

by Krishna 

I am grateful for this opportunity to speak. Honestly, it is a hard thing to write or even talk about. But we gotta start somewhere.

I am a bisexual woman and a practising Hindu. Well, these two weren’t a good match to put together, but I’ll gradually get into that. I am currently pursuing higher studies in a public university. Again, I’ll explain my reason for mentioning public here.

Let me start with my identity first. I identify as a bisexual woman. It’s not been long since I came out. I was a closeted bisexual even a year and a half ago. My coming out, too, is limited to very few individuals. Unfortunately, not even my family. My attraction for people was never bound to the opposite sex or gender. And there were countless times I would be ashamed of myself for feeling so. I would even hate myself for feeling these things — like why am I head over heels for my best friend, and why is that in an “illegally” romantic way?

Well, the little girl in me didn’t know how to cope with those feelings, and it created a kind of self-hatred in her. Because obviously, why would you have feelings for a person of the same sex as you? TV shows, articles, and books always say homosexuality is a sin. These books, articles, and TV shows aren’t wrong, right? And even if they are wrong, how am I still attracted to men? Why is everything so confusing? Do I have to choose one in the future? Am I supposed to like only men? But what if I don’t? What if I like a woman? I can’t pursue her? That is hurtful.

All these thoughts cluttered my little brain, and I would run for answers only to get kicked out from everywhere. Days, months, and years went by. Little me grew up and had a sudden exposure to the outside world. She didn’t know there were people like her. She didn’t know she wasn’t a loner. She didn’t know she was part of a whole community that was unfortunately — but not surprisingly — hated by the majority, by the people who lived in the same land as her. As proud as she was of her identity, she was equally fearful of the uncertainty that came with it. And this sudden exposure taught her a lot, but at the same time overwhelmed her too. Now, let’s have another little backstory here.

I have been brought up in a strict middle-class family. And my family was into nothing but institutional education. Their one and only goal was to make us — me and my sibling — do the best in studies, get top results, be at the top, and they would go to any extent to fulfil it. And by any extent, I mean the extreme. Physical abuse, mental abuse, manipulation — everything. I remember being beaten near to death with anything humanly possible by my parents for telling the wrong marks in an exam, and then being fed Napa.

We weren’t allowed to read books outside of textbooks because it would hamper our study. We weren’t allowed to have magazines at home. Keeping newspapers was both a budget issue and a “study-time-waste” issue. Mobile phones were nothing but a luxury, let alone the internet. The only mode of entertainment or knowledge could have been the TV, which was mostly used by the elders, and we weren’t allowed within the vicinity of the device when they were present. So, as expected, I grew up with almost no source of outside knowledge about the world, about people, or in general, about everything. All I knew was that I had to study hard, otherwise I’d be thrown out and I’d die mercilessly. And a little girl didn’t want that growing up. So I was kept blind for two decades of my life, and I hate them for this.

Anyways, Covid-19 started and everything went online, and my parents were drowning in paying excess money for mobile data for our classes. So, unwanted or not, they finally got a Wi-Fi connection in 2020, around September or so. And we had only one device back then, which was always in their custody as soon as classes ended. But since my sibling’s classes clashed with mine, my parents finally got their own phones. And that was the start of my journey into all of this.

I wasn’t allowed to have any social media, there was no way to hide — my mother would check devices thoroughly. Fortunately, I had to open a Facebook account for a program I joined, centred in Japan. Well, that was the only reason I was able to enrol in it — it was Japan. Because I wasn’t allowed in ECAs either. However, I then had an account, which my cousin brother opened for me in front of my parents. That was my first account.

My mother then deleted that account with the help of my brother because she thought I was spending too much time in it, even though I didn’t even have a device. The only device that was slightly accessible was her phone, which was almost always in her custody. The 5–10 minutes I had with her phone made her angry. I wasn’t allowed to send messages, because I would even get hit for sending texts, as she thought it was a waste of time.

Next, somehow I again had to open an ID, but she didn’t let me. Me and my brother used a spare ID of another one of my cousins who lived with us. Fast forward, I somehow managed to have a Facebook ID, and I entered a whole new world. It was sneaky, of course. Everything came as such a blow that I got overwhelmed, and taking it all at once was huge for me. I saw people my age doing incredible things, talking about things I once thought shameful, and most importantly — people like me. All of this felt unreal. And it scared me.

I hid myself within the walls and started observing everything. I came across a lot of things — good, bad, good-but-morally-bad, bad-but-morally-good — everything. Since my internet exposure started at 18–19, I could control myself from acting on impulse. But again, I was an adult who for the first time got a device in her hands. Sneaky or not, my knowledge and my POV started expanding. My conscience developed. And to this day, I think I have more emotional intelligence than most people around me, even the well-respected ones.

This gradually led me to the world of LGBTQIA++ community. I started digging a bit deeper into it. Google was helpful. Facebook or social media was confusing, because I didn’t know anyone who was queer and I didn’t know how to communicate. There were reasons behind that too. School life always went through me being an outcast for reasons I still don’t understand. Some said it was for being loud, some said too disciplined, some said not womanly enough.

All this time, Google was my most trusted source. I would collect small bits of information and join them piece by piece, building a small home inside myself. Even then, I wasn’t sure of my sexuality. I was scared. I thought maybe I should explore more — I was still in denial.

My personal life went on. I completed college, got into university. By then, I got into a relationship with a queer person. Through him, I learned more about the community. I realised again that I was still in a big black hole; I hadn’t escaped it. I came to know about people I previously knew who were queer. A sadness developed — mainly because I wished I could’ve known earlier, like they did. I wished I wasn’t kept in the dark for so long.

My relationship brought me into a new dimension, and I took whatever I could from it. Even now, I do so. During this process, my denial broke. I started embracing myself. I knew that I AM BISEXUAL.

Point to be noted: I still had no real interaction with the community as a whole. I only knew a few people via my partner, who happened to be queer. Gradually, my circle expanded. I came out quietly. I created a different ID where I came out to people I trusted — yet quietly. This different ID is where I happen to be me. Where I interact with people like me. Where I let my thoughts flow. This new life was scary, but it was me.

But there is still one thing that grieves me — being a part of the community yet not a part of it. It’s like I know people from here, but I don’t know where they live, where they come from. I understand the maintenance of privacy and security, but it gets tiring to be questioned again and again, and it creates a self-opposing mentality that is painful to deal with. Anyways, I learned to deal with it. Moving on to the next chapter — where both the queer and the non-queer communities kept me stunned for quite a long time.

Firstly, obviously, the non-queer community. To be a citizen of a country like ours, where the death penalty is acceptable for people like us, I fully kept my identity hidden. I didn’t want to die this way. As I started unraveling the world in front of me, I was awestruck. To many people in this country, the community deserves to die. Queer people were murdered here. People had to create different identities for survival. The extremism was known to me; what I didn’t know was that killing people was considered a good deed. Just when I got comfortable with my identity, I was immediately cut down to the ground.

The immense amount of hatred perplexed me. People say THESE THINGS are a disease — specifically a WESTERNISED DISEASE. Whereas the history of LGBTQIA++ communities dates back to ancient Indian subcontinent. Nevertheless, the non-queer community gave me reasons to run for my life at any moment. Living in the same country, some people boast superiority while people like us hide for survival.

Now comes the queer community. During my early exploration, I used to think queer people were some kind of gods — well, let’s not exaggerate — but I did think they were all great and worship-worthy. This created a bad inferiority complex in me. I thought I would never fit in. But gradually the delusion broke. A huge power and knowledge hierarchy exists in the community. Not being a seemingly active member, I observed this from a distance. The discrepancies caught me off guard.

There is a fine line between the “not that knowledgeable” and the “knowledgeable-intellectual” people. These two parts combine to form a third group — those who emerged from the first group, gained knowledge, and then started believing the community they came from is stupid and unworthy. These people don’t mix with the intellectual group, because they’re not “exactly like them,” and the same hate gets projected onto the lower group. This vicious cycle has become toxic.

Plus, there is identity phobia within the community — especially transphobia and biphobia. I won’t get into transphobia much, but yes, recently there have been incidents showing huge transphobia from people within the community — and that too from the so-called intellectual part. The saddest part is, clashes within an already minority group will never benefit anyone except those who hold power. And they feed on these clashes.

Next comes biphobia. Bisexual people are sexualised, harassed, hated, and invalidated by both queer and non-queer people. Some of the things I’ve heard:

• “Bi people are confused.”
  
• “They’re just playing around.”
  
• “They don’t need to be part of the community.”
  
• “If you’re bi, why date someone of the opposite gender?”
  
• “There’s no proof of your sexuality.”
  
• “Bi people are open to all kinds of sex; they don’t care.”
  

And worst — identity invalidation from queer people themselves:
“Are you sure you’re bi?”
“Are you sure you like women/men too?”

These questions are tiring and deeply invalidating. Facing biphobia right after entering the community was heartbreaking.

Now, let’s jump to the important part. Earlier I said I am a bisexual woman and a practising Hindu. These two don’t go well together. But I had to mention them together because of our context.

Being a Hindu minority in Bangladesh already has its drawbacks. There’s always a question of security. Growing up in a city might have been a plus — at least I didn’t face atrocities on a daily basis. But if we consider the Hindu population across the country, there is always fear — fear of life, property, safety. And why? Even now, when the news broadcasts attacks on Hindu minorities, people say it’s the “right thing to do” because “no other faith should live in a 90% Muslim country.”

Idols broken, people killed, girls raped — everything happens, and almost no one fights for justice. The ruling government, though considered somewhat safer for minorities, takes questionable steps too.

Belonging to two of the most marginalised groups in the country, a huge question remains: how do I live?

I live alone for studies. And I always fear being killed, raped, sexually assaulted. I cannot trust anyone with my safety. My family fears visiting my maternal home because they think they’ll get killed. I fear speaking out, because I might be hunted down.

Even though I talked about being bisexual and Hindu, these two identities clash in the worst ways. My society won’t accept my sexuality. People of my faith won’t accept it either. My religion doesn’t criminalise me — but people upholding it do. They will put me on trial for being who I am.

My family will question me. My society will question me. Even the community stigmatises me. How am I supposed to escape? How am I supposed to be free?

My religious view is spiritual. I believe in God. But my belief system doesn’t criminalise me as much as people do. I don’t get security from anyone. I see them abandoning me, killing me. Am I not a citizen of this state? Don’t I have the right to be who I want?

I am in a relationship with a person society won’t accept. Even our own families will go to any extent to defy us. Families were supposed to be our safe place. Yet here we are, searching for safety outside of family. We fear the people who gave birth to us. We fear losing our only relationship for being ourselves. Is it our fault to be like this? We didn’t ask to be born like this. Then why do we have to live like this? Why do we have to sacrifice everything just for being a little different? Why do we have to be tagged “selfish” for wanting a life everyone else gets to have?

Now I curse my birthplace every day for being born here. I find other countries to be fairytales. And nothing is sadder than feeling like an outsider in your own country.

There’s so much politics with everything.

Being a Hindu made me see huge cultural appropriations. There’s a group who loathe this faith, and another group who romanticise it — who find the heavily earned faith “aesthetic,” who use minority religions as decoration. Imagine someone writing “Bismillah” or “Alhamdulillah” on their cleavage or navel — you know how disrespectful that would be. I’m not saying this to boast Hinduism or any minority. But using religious symbols in this way is problematic.

Then comes my right to celebrate my festivals. As a uni student, the struggle we had to face to reschedule exams so Durga Puja wouldn’t fall between two exams — and still failed — is unacceptable. Why doesn’t my nation let me celebrate my festival in peace? Why is it so biased towards the majority?

As a minority woman, I always fear being sexually assaulted, hurt, or worse. Because everywhere I look, something atrocious is happening, and there are people supporting it wholeheartedly. There is no security for me or my family. The state doesn’t ensure our safety.

My identity as a woman is already a bane to society. My not-so-feminine body gets body-shamed. My calmness gets slut-shamed. My fierceness gets labelled “unworthy.” The nation doesn’t ensure anything for me.

My identity as a minority woman is hated too. To some, I am an outsider. To some, a bait to convert. To some, a future sex slave. And my sexual identity makes me run for my life. Even if I survive, the community stigmatises me for being bisexual.

All of this comes back to one question:
When will I be free and full of myself?

Sadly, there is no answer. Not from society, not from the community, not from the government. And till then, I have to live like this? There’s nothing I can do? But everyone is accountable to me for all these things. And I still live with this vague hope that one day, I will get the answer.

Will I be able to live? Or will I only survive?

The question remains.

I am Krishna, and this was my take on Political Is Personal.

—————————————————————————————————

This piece is part of Political & Personal: An Anthology of Gender & Sexuality Issues in Bangladesh, a weekly series by the Bangladesh Feminist Archives. To read all contributions and view submission guidelines, click here.