Summary
Sultan, a queer individual, discovered his identity through education, starting from a silent childhood. His experiences were shaped by social non-acceptance, familial expectations, and a punishment-based school system. Sultan’s story shows how marginalized children achieve inner freedom without succumbing to societal pressures.
Biographical Information:
- Name: Sultan(pseudonym),
- Age: 28
- Place of Birth: Bangladesh
- Current Residence: Mirpur
- Languages Spoken: Bengali, English
Yasmin: Sultan, could you tell us about your childhood? Do you remember the sights of your town?
Sultan: Yes… In that town, the smell of rice mixed with the smoke of the kilns in the alleys. I was quiet, my eyes bigger than my mouth, hair… hair growing like it was conspiring with the earth. When other boys spat with sharp voices, I would scratch my hair and make it shine like a black river.
Yasmin: How did your parents react?
Sultan: My father passed away when I was young. From my adolescence, my mother would shout every day—“Will you become a girl? I used to cry at so many saints and holy men just to see a boy’s face, then Allah showed mercy—you were born—I had given birth to a boy!” Now you want to learn to dance, grow your hair—Allah’s wrath will fall on you. My only elder sister ran the household in my mother’s absence, sighing as if carrying a burden. Neighbors laughed, boys in the street mimicked me like monkeys. Teachers, pretending to be guardians of knowledge, wouldn’t grade my answers—they measured hair length instead.
Yasmin: And during exams?
Sultan: Before the exams, everyone was eager to decide the punishment. Oral exams were another form of mockery. Punishment was the main subject. They would say with their eyes—“You don’t deserve this grade; not for your kind.” My marks scraped along the floor. Not because I lacked talent, but because my hair was too long.
Yasmin: Did you resist this pressure at all?
Sultan: Yes, one evening I broke down and stood in front of the mirror, cutting my hair. The scissors moved like knives. As the strands fell, I felt fragmented, diminished, domesticated. I became a bird trapped in a cage. My mother smiled for the first time in a year. Neighbors said—“Finally, he looks like a man.” Teachers nodded as if a troublesome weed had been removed. But inside, I was empty; I had buried a friend with my own hands.
Yasmin: And then?
Sultan: Night would come, and imagination/desire/clothes would return in dreams. In dreams, my hair grew again. It passed through paddy fields, caught in the wind, braided with clouds. I walked proudly, lightly, freely. Every dawn, I woke with a wet face, pillows soaked with tears.
Yasmin: How did you feel about education?
Sultan: I knew—without education, queers and silent ones like us would never be free. Freedom does not come without books. So when the institution left me hungry, I studied in secret. By the faint light of a hurricane lamp, I read the law. I believed that one day, words would become weapons.
Yasmin: Final words?
Sultan: Hair can be cut, dignity cannot. One day, maybe in court, maybe on the street, I will return—with the spirit of hair, even if the hair is gone—and I will fight.
