By Asef Abdullah
The classroom is a place for learning. It is meant to be a space for learners, a place where mutual understanding grows, respect for others is nurtured, patience is practiced, and everyone is given room to express themselves. But what happens when that space is no longer neutral? When the teacher, instead of guiding fairly, carries bias into the room? When the teacher spreads hatred instead of knowledge?
That is how we end up with a misogynistic society, a patriarchal system, and an oppressive culture. A biased, patriarchal classroom plants seeds of intolerance in young minds. Misogynistic teachers are one of the root causes behind the anti-women, anti-feminist attitudes so deeply ingrained in our youth and adults.
Here, I want to share my own experiences of the biased classrooms I have had to endure.
At present, I attend a very prestigious admission coaching center in Rajshahi. The coaching center is famous all over Bangladesh, and I am attending its Rajshahi branch. I chose this coaching center carefully, thinking that the teachers might be more sensitive and respectful, especially because it is one of the rare admission coaching centers where girls and boys study together. I assumed that such an environment would be more progressive—that the presence of young women would prevent misogyny and create a respectful space.
But from the very first day, I was proven wrong.
Most women in my classroom also hold deeply patriarchal mindsets. There is a saying, “Meyerai meyeder shotru” (girls are the enemies of girls), and my classroom forced me to believe this painful truth. As for the boys, they are easy to describe. They are misogynists, anti-feminists, patriarchal, and some of them are beyond humanity.
The classroom never felt safe or comfortable. The teachers were no comfort either. The Bangla teacher, in particular, is utterly disgusting.
During lectures, whenever he gives notes, he deliberately pronounces “note” as “noti” (নটী). Historically, the word has context, but today it is widely used for slut-shaming. Each time he says it, the boys burst out laughing. Even some girls laugh, as if they are being praised.
He also uses the word Hijra only to grab attention. Sometimes, when he asks a question and students remain silent, he says those students are neither men nor women, they are Hijra, while making hand gestures mocking Hijra communities. To shame inattentive students, he repeatedly calls them Hijra.
Once, he even called a student somokami (homosexual) for being inattentive. Then he began speaking about homosexuality, saying it is a sin and claiming that homosexuals are the reason for AIDS. He went so far as to say that a cure for AIDS should never be invented so that all homosexuals die suffering from it.
I had to stay silent and endure this level of hatred and homophobia.
On another day, he said in class that transgender people are the worst sinners and asked whether we respect them. Some students, confused, said yes. In response, he shouted:
“Naujubillah, Naujubillah! Will you respect them? If I were in charge, they should be burned alive. I hate them from my core. They changed themselves, going against Allah.”
He then asked whether we should hate them. The entire class answered quickly that they would always hate trans people.
Filled with such hatred, how are teachers supposed to teach patience, coexistence, or human rights?
From Class 6 to Class 12, I have faced several classrooms like this. I learned how to cope, but can such spaces ever be considered safe for education? As a minority, I may have opposed these teachers in my heart, but what about others? They will learn exactly what is being taught.
When I was in Class 7, I had a Bangla teacher who was openly anti-feminist. He could not tolerate Begum Rokeya, yet because she was in our syllabus, he had to teach her. He often claimed that Rokeya was an atheist and said she wrote those things because she was a nosta meye, a “bad girl,” a slut.
Recently, an English teacher at my admission coaching center said that Begum Rokeya was a hypocrite. His logic was that she studied under her brother’s supervision, established a school using her husband’s wealth, and yet claimed that men are the biggest barrier to women’s progress. Many girls in my class agreed with him. If Rokeya were alive today, perhaps she would again hear that “meyerai meyeder boro shotru.”
In high school, I hoped college would finally be a safe space. It was not. However, there was one exception. I had a Bangla teacher who was highly educated, with three master’s degrees, a PhD, a BCS cadre, and a lieutenant in BNCC. Other teachers mocked her, calling her “the most educated woman in Bangladesh.” I admired her deeply. She was the only teacher I truly liked in college.
My college life has ended, and now I am preparing for university. I am exhausted from pretending. My classmates are openly homophobic. None of them knows my identity, yet they casually call each other “gay” and “homo.” Each time, it cuts deep. But I cannot speak out. I cannot protest.
Every day, I live with misogyny, homophobia, anti-feminism, and hatred.
I hope my university life will be different. I hope I will finally find a safe space. I hope the classroom will be neutral, the teachers will be student-friendly, and education will not feel like survival.
They say, “The grass is greener on the other side.”
I hope this time, it is true.
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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.
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