I remember my mother, Syeda Jahan Ara Karim, as a woman of remarkable fortitude, mild in manner yet formidable in resolve. As an educator, she broke barriers, serving as the first principal of the Intermediate Girls' College in Bakshi Bazar before transitioning to the Directorate of Public Instruction (DPI) as an assistant director in 1972. Throughout her life, she frequently spoke of the systemic discrimination against Bangalees in West Pakistan and the conspicuous absence of Bangalee representation in government administrative services. This narrative, drawn from my memory, recounts her experience speaking at a public forum in New York City about the Language Movement of 1952. 

Born in Jalpaiguri, West Bengal, my mother spent her formative years in Darjeeling before her father's work took the family to various regions of Bengal. We often engaged in discussions about history, politics, and her experiences as an educated Bangalee Muslim woman. She spoke vividly of the grandeur of Mount Kanchenjunga, the splendour of Victoria Memorial, the bustling streets of Esplanade, and the unique taste of "chaap" at Nizam's from her childhood memories. Yet, her reminiscences were also marked by painful recollections of the harrowing Calcutta riots, of being trapped in a women's dormitory while violent mobs roamed outside, demands that "any Muslim woman be given up." Eventually, in 1948, her family relocated to Dhaka in the then East Pakistan.

A distinguished scholar, my mother earned her master's degree in economics from Calcutta University in 1948, followed by another MA in Economics from Columbia University in the US in 1952, before embarking on her teaching career at Eden Girls' College in Dhaka the following year. In 1950, she married my father, another academic. Both were awarded prestigious scholarships for higher studies at Columbia University. Notably, my mother ranked first in the All-Pakistan Scholarship Board, a distinction open to both men and women from both wings of Pakistan.

For my mother, this transcontinental move was transformative. Boarding an aeroplane for the first time, she transitioned from a society where Bangla was the dominant language to one where it was English. She had to navigate an entirely new cultural landscape, adjusting to new customs, behaviours, climates, diets, and the pace of New York City.

Despite these changes, she remained deeply proud of her Bangalee heritage—language, customs, literature, and music. She never abandoned her cultural identity, always wearing sarees, the Bangalee woman's attire. Once, while studying at the Low Memorial Library, an older American gentleman approached her and inquired about her origins. When she responded that she was from East Pakistan, he asked why she did not adopt the Western attire. Without hesitation, she replied, "I come from a civilisation much older than yours, and I have no need to adopt your ways."

The events of February 21, 1952 had left an indelible mark on her. That day, in Dhaka, police opened fire on protesting students who were demanding the recognition of Bangla as one of the state languages of Pakistan. The tragic loss of life and the brutal suppression of linguistic rights made my parents very concerned. News of the killings reached the international press, raising many questions about the status of Bangalees in the newly independent Pakistan.

In response, the Pakistan Embassy in New York organised a teach-in, inviting foreign journalists and the few Pakistani students studying in the city. During the event, the then Pakistani consul general to New York dismissed the reports as "propaganda" and "mischief-making by political troublemakers." He categorically denied any state-led violence, asserting that no "atrocities" had been committed. None of the students in attendance dared to challenge him, except my mother. She stood up and said, "I would like to say a few things."

With unwavering clarity, she dismantled the consul general's claims, presenting a structured argument that validated the students' demands for the recognition of Bangla. She noted that the demonstrators had acted within their legitimate rights, emphasising that Bangla was fundamentally distinct from Urdu—not only linguistically, but in script, phonetics, and cultural heritage. "We write in a different script, our language has Prakrit roots, while Urdu follows the Perso-Arabic script. We are ethnically and historically distinct," she said in the room full of people. Her words left an impression with the reporters who came over to talk to her. As my parents were leaving the auditorium, the consul general ran after them to ask where they were studying. My mother said that event became a scar against her in the Pakistani administration. As a government official, she needed permission to attend conferences overseas, which used to never be granted to her following the incident.

Her courage that day was symbolic of a broader struggle—to prevent the erasure of our linguistic and cultural identity. The Language Movement of 1952 was not merely about the right to speech; it was an assertion of our existence. On that day, my mother, like countless other Bangalees, refused to be silenced. Today, as we commemorate the sacrifices made during the movement, I honour my mother's voice. It was the collective voice of Bangalees advocating the rightful recognition of our native language and land.

Dr Lamia Karim is professor of anthropology at the University of Oregon, Eugene in the US.

Views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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