Bangladesh. One of the poorest countries in the world. Yet, the kind of country brimming with culture and festivities. Exploding with color and vibrancy. The top of the glacier as a developing country is what the rest of the world sees, but what I see is my homeland filled with loving and welcoming people who never fail to make me feel grateful for where my history comes from. The true meaning of home is revealed to me every time I interact with someone in this country as everyone treats you like family.
The smell of fuchkas permeate the cloudy fog of pollution. Walking through the muggy and humid streets, while stopping at every cart to try a bite of a classic Bangladeshi dish. Buying groceries from the local markets where bargaining is almost a norm now. Taking a rickshaw to the bazaar while witnessing the hustle and bustle of an urban city trying their best to inspire and thrive.
“Where are you from?” A big piece of that question lies in Bangladesh. The birthplace of my parents as well as my home for a couple years on and off also remain to be the nest of my ancestry. Surely, part of my identity has its roots from the various traditions of this brave country.