Nearly two decades after she was forced out of Kolkata, Taslima Nasrin is returning to the city for a public appearance. The exiled Bangladeshi writer says the visit feels like coming back to “my own country”.
Exclusive | Taslima Nasrin: ‘A Writer’s Freedom Should Not Depend on the Generosity of a Government’
In an exclusive interview with Fozia Yasin, Nasrin speaks about returning after nineteen years, the political culture that once forced her out and whether anything has really changed. She reflects on exile, secularism, women’s rights and freedom of expression, as well as the possibility of one day returning to Bangladesh
Nasrin’s relationship with Bengal goes back to the mid-1990s, when death threats and fatwas over her writing forced her to flee Bangladesh. Kolkata, with its shared language and culture, became the closest thing she had to a home in exile. But that refuge too proved fragile.
In 2003, the West Bengal government banned her book Dwikhandito (Split in Two), the third volume of her memoirs, following protests that it hurt the sentiments of the Muslim community. The ban was lifted in 2005, but the controversy had already made Nasrin a lightning rod. In November 2007, protests over the book turned violent in Kolkata. In November 2007, protests over the book turned violent in Kolkata, and the authorities arranged for her to leave the city. What followed was an exile within her exile, nearly nineteen years away from the city she had once regarded as her closest refuge.
Her appearance on August 1 will be her first public appearance in Kolkata since 2007, bringing her back to a city that has remained central to her sense of belonging. For a writer who spent nearly two decades watching successive governments decline to let her return, the visit marks a striking reversal.
But Nasrin sees the return as more than a personal homecoming. For her, it is also about free expression and the protection of dissenting voices at a time when writers and artists across the region continue to face threats over their work. It is a theme she has returned to throughout her career: that the right to speak, question and dissent cannot depend on whether those in power find it politically convenient to defend it.
Trained as a physician before turning to writing, Nasrin first drew international attention with her 1993 novel Lajja (Shame), which depicted communal violence against Hindus in Bangladesh and was subsequently banned by the Bangladeshi government. Fatwas and death threats followed, and in 1994 she fled the country of her birth. Bangladesh has since refused to renew her passport or grant her a visa on her foreign travel documents, leaving her legally barred from returning even as she says she has never surrendered her right to go back.
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In an exclusive interview with Fozia Yasin, Nasrin speaks about returning after nineteen years, the political culture that once forced her out and whether anything has really changed. She reflects on exile, secularism, women’s rights and freedom of expression, as well as the possibility of one day returning to Bangladesh.
“Exile may change a writer’s address, but it does not end her work,” she says.
What was the first thought that crossed your mind when you learned you would finally be able to return to Kolkata after nearly two decades?
My first thought was: ‘Is the door really open at last?’ For nearly nineteen years, I kept alive the hope that I would return one day, even when that hope seemed almost irrational. Governments changed, years passed, and the door remained closed.
Then came the joy: I was going back to a city I had once called my own. But the joy was immediately mixed with grief. A door may reopen, but it cannot return the years spent outside it. I am returning to Kolkata, but the nineteen years I lost are not returning with me.
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Kolkata was once a place you described as your closest refuge outside Bangladesh. How do you expect the city, and your feelings about it, to have changed?
I do not expect the Kolkata of my memory to have remained unchanged. Cities change, people change, and exile changes the person who returns. I may recognise the streets, the language and the familiar rhythms of the city, but I will be looking at them through eyes marked by nearly two decades of separation.
My affection for Kolkata has not disappeared, but perhaps its innocence has. Once, I loved the city with an unquestioning sense of belonging. Now that love carries a wound, an old grievance and a certain caution. I am not returning to reclaim the past or to settle permanently in Kolkata. I am returning to meet the city again, not merely as a guest, but as someone who still feels that she belongs to it.
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Your return is happening under a new state government that has welcomed you, in sharp contrast to the governments that kept you away. What does that shift tell you about Bengal's politics today?
I should clarify that I was invited by the Secular Mission Trust, not by any political party or the state government. The government has, however, agreed to provide the security necessary for my visit, and I am sincerely grateful for its support.
This suggests that the present government understands something previous governments failed to recognise: protecting a dissenting writer does not mean endorsing everything she writes. It is simply the democratic responsibility of the state.
At the same time, I would not turn my return into a certificate of democratic virtue for any one party. The real test will be whether the government protects every threatened voice, including those with whom it strongly disagrees. A writer's freedom should not depend on the generosity of a government, the ideology of a political party or the permission of a religious group. It must be protected as a fundamental right.
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You have written that changing governments means little if the underlying political culture does not change. Do you see genuine change in Bengal, or merely a change of faces?
One decision, however welcome, cannot prove that an entire political culture has changed. My return is an encouraging sign, but the real test will come when another writer, artist or dissenter angers an influential group and the government must choose between constitutional principles and electoral calculations.
Faces can change while the old habits remain…the appeasement of religious groups, fear of the mob and the sacrifice of individual rights for political convenience. Genuine change will have occurred only when defending an unpopular voice becomes normal, not exceptional. I hope my return is the beginning of such a change, but history will provide the answer.
Looking back at 2007, what do you believe was really behind your forced departure from Kolkata. Was it about your writing, or about who was willing to protect you?
My writing was used as the excuse, but writing alone does not expel a writer from a city. Religious fundamentalists created pressure and threatened violence. Instead of controlling those who threatened violence, the government removed the person being threatened. Exiling me became the easiest political solution.
So it was not only about what I had written. It was about whether the state possessed the political and moral courage to defend my constitutional rights. Had the government been willing to protect freedom of expression and maintain law and order, I would not have been forced to leave. The fundamentalists demanded my removal, but the government carried it out.
Your work has always stood at the intersection of women's rights, secularism and religious criticism. How has your thinking on these subjects evolved over the last two decades?
My fundamental principles have not changed, but my understanding of their interconnectedness has become even sharper. Women's rights cannot survive without secularism, and secularism cannot survive without freedom of expression. Patriarchy often seeks shelter inside religion, culture, family and even the state. If those institutions are placed beyond criticism, women can never be truly free.
I also see more clearly today that equality before the law, though essential, is not enough. Women need education, economic independence, bodily autonomy and freedom from religious and social control.
Criticising a religion is not the same as hating its followers. Human beings deserve rights and protection. Ideas do not deserve immunity from scrutiny. I defend the rights of believers, but I also defend everyone's right to question, criticise or reject belief.
Having spoken against religious fundamentalism in all its forms, what do you believe is the greatest challenge facing those who defend secularism and free expression today?
The greatest challenge is not fundamentalism alone. It is the combination of fundamentalist intimidation, political opportunism and moral cowardice disguised as tolerance.
Religious extremists issue threats, while governments and even sections of liberal society often ask the threatened person to remain silent in order to avoid “hurting sentiments” or disturbing social harmony. In many parts of the world, criticism of Islam in particular can lead to imprisonment, murder or exile. Yet instead of confronting this terror, many people blame the critic.
Secularism means protecting both belief and non-belief. Freedom of expression must include the freedom to question, ridicule or reject religious ideas. If the limits of public speech are determined by whoever is most easily offended, or most willing to threaten violence, then freedom no longer exists.
You have been closely following developments in Bangladesh. How do you view the present situation, and would you ever consider returning?
I am deeply distressed by the direction Bangladesh has taken. A movement that promised liberation opened the door to a darker order, because secular democratic forces were weak and religious extremists exploited the resulting vacuum. I see growing religious intolerance, increasing insecurity for minorities, women and freethinkers, and a dangerous weakening of the rule of law. The secular values for which so many people once struggled are being pushed further and further to the margins.
Would I return? Bangladesh is the country of my birth. I have never surrendered my right to return, and I never will. But the question is not simply whether I am willing to return. The Bangladeshi authorities have refused to renew my Bangladeshi passport, and they have also refused to issue me a visa on my foreign passport. Without a valid passport or visa, I am legally prevented from entering my own country.
Even if that barrier were removed, returning cannot mean knowingly walking into imprisonment or death. I would return when the state can guarantee my safety, freedom and dignity, not as a favour, but as the fundamental right of a citizen. The desire to return has always been there. What has been denied to me is both the legal means and the possibility of returning safely.
Our readers would love to know what you are working on at present.
At present, I am preparing a collected edition of the seven volumes of my autobiography. Writing them demanded complete honesty. I did not try to present myself as noble, flawless or innocent, nor did I hide the mistakes, weaknesses and uncomfortable truths of my life in order to create a flattering self-portrait.
Alongside that work, I continue to write essays on women's rights, secularism, humanism, religious fundamentalism and freedom of expression, as well as poetry shaped by exile, memory and return. Exile may change a writer's address, but it does not end her work.
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