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Sausages on curfew break  August 2008

By: Naeem Mohaiemen

“On keeping straight face during 9 o’clock news”, digital print, 66x50 cm, 2008
Went for a random walk around Dhaka during the three-hour curfew break. No empty rickshaws anywhere. Walking is good for me anyway; have to get rid of flab. Ready for the ‘revolution’. Near our house, a flood refugee’s child is held up by the mother as he takes a shit. Liquid stream of light yellow forming a quick pool under him. At Shukrabad, two police idling and talking to a civilian. The civvy is saying, “You understand that a page of the book has turned, but now the wind has blown that page back over.” I want to stay and hear more, but I really don’t want to idle near the police. Not today. At Manik Mia Avenue, one of the armoured police cars is open while the men rest outside. They seem relaxed. This is the first time that I’ve seen the interior. Inside there are tall black seats, like on a deluxe bus (Dhaka-Chittagong, oy, oy).

I was supposed to meet a friend. I’m twenty minutes late. All cell-phone networks were shut off as soon as the curfew was lifted (clever move, that one), no way to tell him I’m late. Isn’t it interesting that the country’s dependence on mobiles in the last ten years has become such that you can control populations by toggling the on/off switch? I’m sure people had informal modes of communication before in order to organise political action, but over-dependence has made other channels wither. Now when we get <<no network>>, we’re paralysed.

Grameenphone/Aktel/Banglalink/Warid must be going batshit. Running a rainbow of mobile ads with competing rates. 1 taka 20 poisha::::amra ekhon 1 taka 15 poisha::::zahi postpaid::::20 ti FnF::::all you can eat::::stella has come to dhaka::::desh desh desh::::can you search montu. But their networks are shutting down on command. Funnily enough, with so many shops shuttered, those that have the Grameen blue or Banglalink orange painted on the shutters are getting maximum daylight exposure. But I don’t think this is what they had in mind.

I finally meet my friend. He’s been patiently waiting this whole time, during the time of no mobile. Oddly, he has a scarf around his neck. “Hey, why a scarf around your neck? In this heat?”:::“No, I need to hide my long hair. What if the military grabs us and cuts my hair off?”:::“Why would they do that?”:::“Well, they did it in January.”

People are walking and going about their business. Moving purposefully to get to their destination, eye on the clock. I suppose everyone got used to this crisis routine in Dhaka, over the past year. Now it returns. At some point we go by the Agora shopping mall. A mad rush inside, and the gates are shackled. Long lines of people at the cash machine. I go into another small department store, and the crush of people is unbelievable. Everyone moving very fast, all looking for essential items. I may be the only person who has come in for a luxury item like juice.

One bidesh-feroth dhongi says to another, “Did you imagine you would ever see Bangladesh like this?” Shut up you idiot (I think), this crisis isn’t being staged for the benefit of your summer vacation. But I’m being a bit unfair; these days, that American twang could just as easily be from Wills Little Flower School in Dhanmondi as it could be from New Jersey. A boy starts pulling his mother, drawing her toward some chocolates, but her eyes are firmly fixed on the essentials. The line is too long, to hell with my Pran juice. As I walk out empty handed, I hear a voice yell, “Bhai, sausage ache, sausage?”

Sausage! Superstore gulo eating Bangali’s head!

We finally decide to come back to Sat Masjid Road and survey the damage. Four Seasons burnt to a husk. Xindian, Café Kozmo attacked. But how did they manage to burn Seasons so completely? And why that Chinese restaurant? China ra ki korlo amader? Err, wait the owner isn’t Chinese anyway.

We park the bike and walk. Nothing going on, nothing to see. As we near BDR camp, a platoon of soldiers marches past, in slow single-file. I don’t know ranks, but these seem very junior. I spot a Pahari soldier among them. That’s not something you see every day. Possibly riot duty in Dhaka is the only work a Pahari will be trusted with.

People have stopped walking; they wait for the soldiers to pass. Not so nonchalant after all. Everyone is a bit on edge. But so are the soldiers. For a moment I imagine they are as scared of us as we of them.

Not quite what they imagined they would be doing, when they signed up. Not what we imagined either.

Cat on a hot tin roof.

Naeem Mohaiemen uses video, images and text to explore historic markers. He works in Dhaka and New York. This work is part of a project to be published in "Art & Democracy" (Project Projects Press).

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