A brief political history of my beard

My beard and I have been together for 40 years since it sprouted on my face. We had a relationship for a year when 1971 intervened but were later united after the war. There is nothing other than affection and laziness between us but over time I have noticed how my beard has developed a political identity and history of its own quite independent of me. I will present my case describing through three major moments of our life together.

* * *

My beard grew up in the tumultuous first decade of Bangladesh. We were the first university batch after independence and behaved accordingly. My beard not only flowed down like a river — we are a downstream country remember — but my babri hair too marched downwards. Both were dirty, knotted and hadn't met many combs since birth. Wild but not savage it was most probably smelly; I was a case of embarrassment and frustration for my parents.

I didn't make matters better by getting drunk, stoned and having a bevy of friends running from poets to political extremists who thought nothing of dropping to our home, drinking tea and eating toast biscuits — kutta biscuit as we called it — and smoking joints. Many wore their beards typical of that era including poet Nirmelandu Goon. A few years senior, he was the ultimate gentleman, a shareef person and, my parents confessed, he was the only bhadrolok I knew.

* * *

But my beard also had a dark side, no pun intended. I resembled several of the Lefties that were a thorn on the flesh of the Government particularly those from the JSD, now a pale shadow of what it was then. I resembled great revolutionaries of history too. How this came about I will not know but I did — or my beard did — look like Marx, Che, Castro and even the local Lefties like Sirajul Alam Khan, A.F.M. Mahbubul Haq and others. Worst, I had uncanny resemblance with the late Major Jalil — a founder of the JSD — and even I admit that. It was fun getting saluted on the streets by confused policemen but not much fun when they actually thought I was him or like him.

The Government couldn't do much about the beard but it ran a 'hair cutting programme' lining up men like us on the street and shearing them like sheep to make us look respectable in official eyes. Hair and beard have always been symbols of disobedience to many. But my first political encounter happened positively. My beard saved my life and it wasn't about Marxists but mullahs.

* * *

I had a friend Daud Haider who wrote a poem which was considered blasphemous and he was taken into protective custody. We of course organised all kinds of protests and in the process I was identified. I remember friend and magician Jewel Aich — his real name is Gourango Lal Aich or G.L Aich — a very gifted person informing me that I was, ahem, in trouble too.

The next day a huge meeting was held at the Dhaka University ground participated by the Muslims angry with Daud. And then a couple of speakers spoke against us and one against me. There is nothing like a few thousands at a meeting screaming for your blood to scare you shitless. As the procession moved through the corridors of Dhaka University chanting slogans I was stuck with my beard, hair, kurta and pajama — nowhere to escape.

I dreaded the next moment as the procession neared but I was pulled into it by a friend who ironically was also called Daud. So there I was, right in the procession, demanding the death of infidels including myself. I marched my way out of the University into the safety of the open streets. My beard had saved me from the wrath of the first push by the Islamists in Dhaka.

* * *

Within months, the Government declared emergency and Islamic and other politics died till resurrection by Zia a few years later. It was also a time when the military walked into civilian streets and enforced official will. One day they surrounded our para and later our home. A large number of armed soldiers took position followed by civilian assistants.

We were accused of keeping arms hidden in our house. At gunpoint, we searched everywhere — toilets, garden, upstairs, kitchen where a few rats camping inside scared the nervous soldiers into stepping back — looking for the weapons.

Then they entered my room and looked at my many books including works by Marx and Engels lying on the table. Most had pictures of the bearded Marx and Engels on the cover. By then I was scared shitless. Here was proof extraordinary of my extremist connections.

"So you write books?" a good soldier asked. I was taken aback and then realised what had happened. He thought I was Karl Marx or Engels or maybe both I am not sure but that's who they thought I was. I didn't take any risk so I nodded and agreed. Much better than explaining who or what Marx and Engles were. The search continued, nothing was found and after several memorable moments including having a gun shoved into my mouth, we were let go.

So there is this group of soldiers who thought Karl Marx lived in Dilu Road and was so vain that he has his own photo printed on the book cover. Thanks to my beard I had become immortal or at least my beard had.

* * *

As times changed, the political experience of my beard also underwent transformation. I was a radical in the era of socialism but once it collapsed my beard's political life also changed. There was something symbolic about the fall of Soviet Union in Afghanistan. It was the end of the beard as an international socialist symbol. But I was to regret that hope because if Marx had died, Osama bin Laden was born there. If you remember, he too, ahem, had a beard. And the second political life of my beard began.

* * *

Soon after 9/11, travel and other restrictions ensued. Suddenly, I was flung from one end of the political spectrum of a bearded Marxist into the garb of a bearded Jihadist. It wasn't me, it was my beard.

In 2008, I was nominated as a Human Right Fellow/Visiting Professor by an American college — Colby College and I duly applied for a US working visa. I already had a visiting one but this time I was denied a visa. It seems I was a security threat. Suddenly without any warning or intent not to speak of knowledge, I had joined the cause of Osama. Maybe not me but certainly my beard had.

* * *

What did I have to do to become an enemy? Communism was over, I was not a pro-Nazi but I was of course a passport Muslim. It doesn't take a genius to figure out the connection. I trawled the net surfing for a fanatic named Afsan but found none. My name is Persian so I looked at Iranian sites but not one Afsan with criminal intentions was found, not even one with a bad breath. Most Afsans were horribly harmless and if you don't mind, women. It is actually a feminine name thanks to my sainted aunt who named me but knew no Persian. And then my wife said, "I told you to trim your beard when in North America."

* * *

Colby College is a very powerful institution and they reached the big boss of US visa security in a day. In a week, my clearance had arrived and I spent a wonderful semester there with some of the best people on earth. My students were magnificent who in distant Maine paraded the streets demanding climate justice for Bangladesh. Not a single negative moment in the US and the best possible memories.

On my way back, the airport security refused to check me in till he made a few queries and calls. And then I was 'chosen randomly' for a special security check. During the flight a hefty man sat with me at the back of the plane where no one else did.

I am now always searched when I fly. It is always 'random', giving randomness a new meaning.

* * *

So there you go — snippets of my beard's political life. I have been saved and targeted as a Muslim radical, a communist radical, Islamic extremist, Leftist-gun-shelter-giver to name a few. Only I have never done whatever I was accused of. Nobody ever asks me what I think, they all ask my beard.

Now that my beard is all white I wonder if I am finally safe. But after a lifetime of many such experiences where my beard was more important than I am, I am not sure if I am ever going to be safe. Not unless I end my -ahem- relationship with my beard.

After all, all I have done is not shave.

———————-
Afsan Chowdhury is the Consulting Editor of bdnews24.com.