In Bangladesh, the divide between the rich and the impoverished farmers when it comes to power is stark and vertical. But there are also horizontal divisions—one of the most significant being that between men and women. We often speak highly of our mothers: mother tongue, maternal dignity, motherland—these words and emotions stir us deeply. Yet women have no power; society is entirely patriarchal, not just male-dominated but father-centred too. As a result, the search for the father persists in many areas, but there’s hardly a trace of the mother.

A learned woman, who has long identified as a feminist, told me she had a jarring realisation the other day. In a dream, her subconscious conjured only images of her father—her mother never appeared, not even briefly. Dreams, in such cases, reflect reality more profoundly than conscious life, for they are beyond the control of the will.

The truth of life is mirrored fully in dreams. I myself once wrote a book titled “Amar Matar Mukh” (My Mother’s Face), and even though the play of light and shadow on my mother’s face was more vivid and emotionally stirring than the wrinkles and calm on my father’s, I still wrote more about the father. The income came from my father, but it wasn’t much.

Yet it was my mother who ran the household, hosted guests, and ensured her children’s health—with remarkable skill and patience. She fed everyone, but no one bothered to ask what she herself was eating. Nor could she ask. Whatever sensitivity and tolerance I have learned—for myself and for others—I learned from my mother. But this is not just my personal story; it’s a common experience. One would know if anyone bothered to investigate. But who will?

In Bengali society, sons who call themselves brave often drag their mothers into fights with opponents, hurling insults in her name—hardly a reflection of any real reverence for mothers.

It's true that women didn’t fight directly in the Liberation War. But they bore the brunt of its storms more than anyone else. That history has not been written, and likely never will be, because much of it has already faded into the darkness of oblivion. Who assigns it value? If we did, why do we still suffer so terribly?

The consequence of depriving women of power is manifest in many forms. Rabindranath once accused mothers of raising their children as Bengalis but not as human beings. To the extent that this is true, it is equally true that the root cause lies in stripping women of power. This is a vengeance born in the inner chambers. One of Bangladesh’s greatest problems is its population size. This wouldn’t have grown so rapidly if mothers had the authority to decide about childbirth. But alas, they didn’t. The decision lay with the father, who, outside of fathering children, had few avenues for entertainment in his life.

Moreover, it’s not uncommon to hear of mothers being forced to continue bearing daughters until they produce a son. In our limited society, one form of entertainment for women is checking each other’s heads for lice—who's to say this hasn’t passed on to their children as a broader, inherited sense of pettiness? Who knows when Bengalis will stop engaging in meaningless debates, elevating trivial issues, and nit-picking endlessly?

The truth is, the lack of power afflicts both men and women here, although women suffer more. But even men aren’t that powerful. The primary reason is poverty. Yet this land once had plenty—flourishing in textiles and silk, blessed with agricultural potential and rich underground resources. The gas, coal, and oil now being discovered were always here, possibly even uranium—but we didn’t have the chance to explore them. Why? Because of colonialism. Sadly, Bengal’s wealth has always attracted invaders and caused its own poverty. The British came for these very riches. And the recent discoveries may again lead us to doom. Today, major economic decisions are made abroad. There’s reason to fear that this trend will only grow in the days ahead.

The real challenge is to increase power. This can’t be done individually—it must be done collectively. But power is now concentrated in the hands of a few. Our rivers are drying up or being turned into private property. Likewise, power is becoming privatised and vanishing; it no longer flows like a natural river, enriching the land. The way our national resources are being siphoned off to foreign hands reminds one of the early days of East India Company rule and the treachery of local collaborators like Mir Jafar. The freedom fighters are immortal, no doubt—but Mir Jafar never truly dies, does he?

Our hopes of becoming empowered surged during the crisis of 1971. The people united against a common enemy. There were many weaknesses in that unity. The Awami League, which was supposed to lead, was utterly unprepared. Their chief concern was ensuring that leadership didn’t fall into leftist hands. The middle class that came forward had very little connection with the real strength of our society—the peasant class. When political workers from villages spoke Bengali, they were sometimes suspected of being disguised Pakistani spies. And yet, a current had formed—a wave that, despite its debris, held hope. But the war ended in just nine months, and the momentum vanished. Now the debris is more visible than the flow.

There was a promise of decentralisation and equitable distribution of power. But that didn’t happen. The protectors turned into exploiters—or perhaps they were always exploiters in their hearts and only briefly played the role of protectors.

The Liberation War had instilled unity, dignity, and confidence. At the time, Tajuddin Ahmad, prime minister of the provisional government, declared that Bangladesh would never accept US aid. That sentiment was not his alone—it was shared by the people. That was the spirit of the time. Later, the winds changed direction. Now, a government’s “achievement” is judged by how much American support it can extract.

After independence, Tajuddin also said that the people of this country had no experience in governance. That was true. But even more unfortunately, there wasn’t much desire to learn. Those who came to power were more interested in monopolising it. The power of the people was hijacked—turned into personal or partisan capital.

To increase power, it should have been shared with the people. That way, everyone could participate in the economy, making it stronger. And since the people would act as protectors, the nation’s resources would remain secure, wouldn’t be plundered or rot from disuse.

But that’s not how things turned out. The curse of powerlessness remains. Even the Bengali language hasn’t become a language of the powerful. We’ve ended up under a new colonialism. Poverty remains unchanged. Bengali is still the language of the poor. If we want to change this identity, we must reorganise the distribution of power.

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The writer is an Emeritus Professor, Dhaka University