The Submission - Amy Waldman [49]
Much of the news the papers carried was about Bangladesh, and most of it was worrying: the political fights, this one and that one accused of corruption or jailed, the violence, the two lady leaders and rivals poking each other in the eye at every chance. Floods washed over the land; people sought higher ground, saw their homes swept away, rebuilt. Ferries sank like stones. A strike crippled a city until it shook loose from whatever cause had grabbed its leg. Amazing how chaotic and impossible things could seem when they were concentrated into a few pages of black-and-white print, instead of diluted into long days of red chilies drying in the sun, light dancing on the water, tales of marriages arranged and awry, the tunes of Runa Laila, her niece’s sweet laugh, her mother’s spicy fish, her father’s comic stories of waking the sleeping guards at his rice mill, the swaddled peace of daydreams. The worst things then had their balance, could be put in their place.
The papers’ local news, like local life, tended to be blander. Changes in immigration rules. New Bangladeshi businesses or local associations in the New York area. Bangladeshis victimized by crimes or, in smaller type, arrested for them. Felicitations from local politicians for holidays and festivals. For a while after the attack, of course, the content had included stories about new immigration difficulties, threats to mosques, the detention of Muslims. But over the last year that sort of news had started to fall off, as if little by little everything might be returning to normal.
But now this Mohammad Khan had won the competition to design the memorial to Inam and the other dead. At Mr. Chowdhury’s, she squeezed the bag of rice into the bottom of her handcart. The store owner was arguing with Dr. Chowdhury—no relation—over whether the effort to take away Khan’s victory mimicked Bangladesh’s history. They didn’t include her in their discussion, so, as usual, she eavesdropped.
“It’s just like 1970,” Dr. Chowdhury said, smiling at Asma in greeting. “What Pakistan did to us, not wanting to recognize the election because it didn’t like the result. Exactly the same. America should be better.”
“This wasn’t an election,” Mr. Chowdhury said. He was an imperious man, undemocratic himself, Asma thought. “It was just a small group of people deciding. Because if it was an election, you think Americans would vote for a Muslim? So it’s the opposite. They tried to give it to him without an election. Now Americans are saying they don’t want him. We had the majority then; they have it now.”
“We wanted freedom. They want to discriminate.”
“Perhaps, but it’s not a parliament. It’s just a memorial. I don’t blame them for not wanting a Muslim name on it.”
“There will be Muslim names on it regardless,” Dr. Chowdhury said, jerking his head toward Asma, who was pretending to scrutinize the bitter melons.
“All I know is that in Dhaka, five thousand people would be living in the space they’ve set aside for it.”
Asma bridled at this comment. Her husband had no grave. Only in this memorial would his name live on. Only there could his son see it, maybe touch it. A parliament of the dead deserved respect, too.
Pulling her handcart of groceries, she walked home, replaying their argument in her head. She knew well the history of which they spoke because her father had been a part of it. When the military overseers of Pakistan had refused to allow the winning party in Bangladesh—then East Pakistan—to form a government, her father had put down his textbooks, left the university, and joined the fight. Hundreds of thousands, millions of deaths later, Bangladesh had its independence. His stories had made a deep impact on Asma as a child. She had resolved to be as brave, only to learn that as a woman she wasn’t expected to be.
At her building, Asma began the onerous task of carrying her bags of groceries up four flights, then coming down for the next batch. She left the bag of rice—twenty-five