Nadine Shaanta Murshid

In the psyche and schema of the average transnational Bangladeshi, rape is visible and legitimate only when it takes spectacular forms—violent, brutal, deadly.

The link between the structural and personal is continually at risk of getting obscured in favour of an individualist reading of interpersonal violence.

Our classist sensibilities cannot handle a Hero Alom singing Tagore songs and getting attention for it.

Before the elections, a five-year-old boy asked his mother, my friend, if he would ever be able to be the President of the United States because of the colour of his Brown skin. This is a question that American girls, too, have been asking their parents forever.

I don’t remember exactly when I heard about the 2019 version of coronavirus, Covid-19, but I do know it was during my travels in Asia this past January.

Over the past few weeks, I have heard variations of “I don’t know why but I don’t think Bangladesh will be affected by Covid-19 in the way that other countries have been.”

Every single day, a rapist is reported. Every. Single. Day. Let that sink in.

Election Day in Bangladesh is usually a festive occasion. The weather is wonderfully crisp. We are in our Friday best. With friends and