As I was born around the same time as Bangladesh, I grew up step by step with it, walking in sync. My childhood in Dhaka, then an underdeveloped capital city of a newly independent country, unfolded amidst an unstable and complex political reality with constant shifts. Bangladesh, oppressed and neglected under Pakistan’s misrule and ravaged by war, struggled to stand on its own feet, facing countless challenges. Simultaneously, there was an internal clash and confusion about the nature, identity, and outline of this newly independent country. Different ideologies and political factions, which had united under a single flag to achieve independence, now found themselves entangled in a battle of power and ideology. Socialism and democracy, Islam and secularism, Bangladeshi nationalism and Bengali identity—all clashed in a complex web of contradictions. My upbringing was like a microcosm of Bangladesh’s political future, where the sweet dreams of independence continued to clash harshly with reality, getting entangled in a net of conflicting ideologies.
Globally, it was the Cold War era, marked by the conflict between Communism and Capitalism. The imperial struggle between two ideological superpowers, the United States and Soviet Russia, divided the world into Left and Right. The Vietnam War, the India-Pakistan conflict, and America’s dispute with Cuba all added to a tumultuous global landscape, paired with a severe economic recession. Bangladesh was not immune to these influences. Even after the devastating 1970 cyclone claimed hundreds of thousands of lives and caused unimaginable damage, Pakistan’s government remained heartlessly indifferent. Before people could overcome their hunger and resentment, the war of ’71 began. In a country left completely devastated, post-independence looting, internal power struggles, the geopolitical interests of neighboring and foreign powers, the rise of opportunists and the corrupt, repeated political coups, relentless vengeance, betrayal, and self-destructive conspiracies—all these forces seemed determined to sink a nation of immense potential each time it tried to rise. And yet, despite natural calamities and hostile forces, Bangladesh persevered—a brutal example of political tragedy. Caught up in the deceit of political tactics and false narratives, the fickle people, often called the Hujuge Bangali or impulsive Bengali, would sometimes descend into self-destructive frenzy, seeking liberation in the very traps set by both local and foreign conspirators. Every time they foolishly attempted to save the branches by cutting the roots, resulting in wasted efforts and hijacked revolutions.
What fate continually brings calamities upon this land, oppressing it under the hands of tyrants? How often have opportunistic looters and greedy exploiters fostered poverty? Yet, the Mazlum—the oppressed have never given up. Like the displaced on the eroding river banks, they have started over on new land, initiating the struggle for life anew. These people, living amidst perpetual uncertainty, have frequently turned to spirituality as a guiding force in their lives. People of this land have always been inherently inclined towards spiritual consciousness. Even a person without the ability to read religious texts attains spiritual realization, a mystical awakening, while rowing a boat, singing spiritual Bhatiyali songs, the Baul fakirs cherish the ‘Dil-Quran’ within, while the mystics at the shrines utter the wisdom of Ma’rifat every time they open their mouths—a hidden marvel! Without spiritual understanding, the essence of this land will not be grasped through history books alone. To comprehend the minds of people here, spiritual insight is indispensable. Ma’rifat (mysticism) is the vehicle of religious learning in this land, especially for those who can’t write or read. Many illiterate people sing and understand profound spiritual insights through Ma’rifati (mystical) songs.
Long before, there was Buddhist mysticism here, as well as spiritual practices of various races and tribes, including Hindu and Jain rites, a natural mysticism was present. When Sufism arrived, it brought a revolutionary transformation; but repeatedly, these beliefs have been attacked, and people have lost their way whenever religion has been used as a tool for domination, oppression, and repression. Yet religion is not a weapon, not a noose, nor a prison; religion is a path—purely for liberation, for all forms of liberation. Religion’s role is not to suffocate but to give breath. Breathing freely and living breath by breath—that’s the most basic need of all, and it’s precisely to sustain that breath that food, livelihood, and so on, are necessary. Eating with dignity and living with faith is a fundamental right. Both religion and society bear the responsibility of ensuring these basic rights. This is the foundational promise of a modern state system. Those who use religion to deny people these basic rights, who obstruct the taste of spiritual freedom, who imprison people under the guise of religious control, and who disrupt the peace of practicing religion freely by decrying it as Bida’t (innovation) and issuing Fatwa, spreading Fitna-fasad, are the Munafiqun (hypocrites), the true enemies of Islam. Religion exists for humanity, not humanity for religion; people have the freedom to practice their faith in a way that brings them peace without harming others.
Alongside the struggle for survival, the greatest crisis in this land has always been various forms of inequality, caste discrimination, class divisions, and religious rivalry. Although people have confronted these with spiritual consciousness, whenever monopolistic Brahmanism or religious rule took hold, merchant dominance increased, and class inequality deepened, and inevitably, the crisis worsened. This was the very issue that prevailed during Prophet Muhammad (PUBH)’s time in Arabia. The extreme rise of consumerism and oppression gave birth to the Prophet Muhammad as a savior, who preached equality and fought against all forms of discrimination. He liberated religion from the clutches of rulers, brought it to the oppressed and the exploited, prescribed Quranic ordinances to safeguard their interests, abolished class and caste distinctions from religion, made religion accessible to all, and forbade all forms of tyranny.
Long before society understood socialism as an ideology, he stood in solidarity with the ‘Mazlūm’ against the ‘Zalim’, and rallied the faithful against the treacherous. The whole world was then engulfed in discrimination and conflict, with everyone passing falsehood as truth and truth as falsehood. The people were deeply materialistic, with a state of “Might is Right.” In such a dark and authoritarian time, the Prophet Muhammad’s message of peace and equality spread far and wide. Sufis came to the remotest corners of India and even to Bengal to extend the Prophet’s universal message. They established Islamic egalitarianism. People of all castes, religions, and economic backgrounds stood together in worship; wherever they went, Sufis integrated the Prophet’s all-inclusive philosophy with the local culture. To separate religion from culture, or culture from religion, is suicidal for any nation. Sufis are especially cautious in this regard during their spiritual outreach, striving to bridge the gap between religion and culture. Sufies were culturally rich. Many of them were enlightened poets and philosophers, such as Rabia al-Basri, Mansur Al-Hallaj, Yunus Emre, Rumi, Ibn Arabi, Al-Ghazali, Ahmad Sirhindi Muzadded Alfesani and Nizamuddin Auliya. The contributions of Sufism to Islamic abstract art, Mughal miniature painting, Indian classical music, Turkish dervish dance, qawwali in India and Pakistan, folk songs in Bengal, and modern Iranian cinema are vast. Their impact on politics and social struggles is monumental.
The practice of Sufi egalitarianism existed here long before Marxist socialism arrived. Consequently, even the uneducated, so called lower-class people were already aware of their God-given and socially-granted rights and their class inequities. As soon as the British merchants began their exploitation, Sufi fakirs stood in resistance, calling for a combined struggle with Hindu sanyasis. Then, a century ago, a Maulana of Bengal recognized the commonalities between Islamic egalitarianism and Marxist socialism. He emerged as a ‘Pir’ in the political arena of this land, reforming the methods of struggle in light of Marxism and Sufism. But while discussing him, one must understand the role and the rise and fall of Marxist socialism in the contemporary politics of this land.
For a child who heard the sound of gunfire instead of ajaan at birth, growing up amid post-war instability meant that his subconscious would be bound to politics and social conflicts from an early age. Although, given my age, I wasn’t supposed to remember, it feels as if I recall everything—as if I, too, am part of a collective memory of the war period and the time that followed. My father was an active freedom fighter and an organizer in Bangladesh’s Liberation War; he was trained in Dehradun. Growing up, I often heard his stories, and it felt like I had participated in that war myself, as if I had witnessed it all. Hearing the heart-wrenching stories of how he risked everything just to see me after my birth during the war would bring tears to my eyes. It made me feel as if I were born a freedom fighter.
As a child engrossed in fairy tales, I had a simple, imaginative understanding of the world. But that imaginary world of tales was soon replaced by another dream world when I got my hands on a biography of Karl Marx written for children, which I had received from one of my uncles. In the 1970s, he was a prominent leader of the student wing and later joined Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s socialist party, BAKSAL (Bangladesh Krishak Sramik Awami League.) He became the president of the Jatiya Sramik League, an affiliated labor organization of BAKSAL In the early 1980s, during Hussain Muhammad Ershad’s rule, when open politics was banned, ‘domestic politics’ became prevalent. At that time, my ‘Baksali’ uncle came to live in our Dhanmondi residence. He used to stay in one portion of the house where many secret meetings of BAKSAL and the Sramik League were held. People from the villages of his constituency visited him frequently—village chairmen, landlords, landless people, politicians, local goons, college teachers, even students often with criminal cases. And I mingled with them all, forming a deep camaraderie.
Once every year during Eid vacation, our family would visit my grandparents’ village, where I would bond closely with the locals. But the diverse individuals who frequented my uncle’s room became my main source of understanding rural politics or ‘village politics’. I was astounded by the ignorance of my urban friends about 80-90% of Bangladesh’s population—the rural populace. Observing the ignorant perceptions my rising middle and upper-class friends held about villages and villagers, despite their families having lived there just one generation ago baffled me. From an early age, I understood that no politics in Bangladesh would succeed without giving higher preferences to these people, the rural working majority, ensuring their security and well-being.
My ‘Baksali’ uncle had an extensive collection of political books, most of them of leftist nature. I was an avid reader and devoured whatever books I could find, even if they were beyond my understanding or age. Just as I read Lady Chatterley’s Lover at a young age, I eagerly consumed works by Mao Zedong, Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, and all the books with red-cover—the tempting color of my youth, juvenile novels by Raguda/Pragati, and writings of Bengali leftist writers. Consequently, I became quite politically aware at a young age. During this period, I read Anne Frank’s diary and learned about the villain Hitler. It was the first time I learned how to hate someone, how to view a person as the devil. I also learned that my childhood’s imagined mythical hero, Karl Marx, had shared the same homeland as Hitler. I couldn’t fathom as a young boy how anyone could oppose Marx’s ideals of equality. At that time, Marx was a saint to me.
In my childhood, Anne Frank’s Germany felt as familiar as my own country. There were no foreign lands in my mind, only known and unknown places. I felt that I knew Anne’s land—its gods and divines, innocent souls that are wounded, its kings who are oppressors, a prophet like Marx who defends the oppressed, the strange boy Oscar in Tin Drum who can control his growth but doesn’t want to grow, and the tragic heroine Anne—intimately. I despised Hitler, her killer, so much that I never even wanted to read his writings or to know what he actually thought and envisioned. Yet, driven by curiosity about what a devil’s diary would be like, I read Mein Kampf. I was surprised to find a boy with dreams, compassion for his community, a desire to make a difference, and a failed dream of becoming an artist. I felt as if I had read the biography of Marx, Lenin, Mao Zedong, Abraham Lincoln or Mahatma Gandhi, which was ironically my true feeling. Back then, I didn’t understand anti-Semitism or know that it was forbidden to view Hitler as anything other than a devil. Just like how Islamic extremists insist on viewing Iblis solely as the devil, banning any mention of his past virtues as Azazil. This made me more interested in understanding the social context and complexities of Germany. I gradually developed a more analytical self, able to view any situation with a critical eye.
The Marx-Hitler dichotomy, the complex legacy of Marxism inherited by Bangladesh, socialism hanging in the balance in our constitution, the conspiracy theories around Mujib’s assassination, the politics of famine, the debate over whether Siraj Sikder was a killer or a revolutionary, whether Maulana Bhashani was progressive or reactionary, all passed through my youth, leaving me with both political romanticism and the agony of shattered utopian dreams. Through it all, especially after actively participating on the frontlines of the 1990 Mass Uprising and later encountering the pitfalls of the movement I believed to be a revolution, my political perceptions were shattered. Gradually, my focus shifted from politics to literature and philosophy. With a membership at the Goethe-Institut Bangladesh’s library, with its vast collection of English-translated German books, I plunged into the depths of German philosophy, beginning with Engels and then exploring the works of Kant, Heidegger, Nietzsche, and Freud—all of whom deeply influenced my desire to learn more about world philosophy. Gradually, I began to view even the smallest things through a philosophical lens.
To critically understand Marxism, cinema had a significant impact on me. Since childhood, I would go with my mother to the Indian Cultural Center to watch movies. From the time when I could sit on her lap, I watched the films of Satyajit Ray, Ritwik Ghatak, Rajen Tarafdar, and Guru Dutt. I didn’t understand them then, but I watched. I can vaguely remember watching films like Titas Ekti Nadir Naam and Palanka, as these leftist films left an unconscious mark on me, helping me to understand the poverty and social disparities of our people at a young age. Later, when I watched Ritwik’s Jukti Takko Aar Gappo, it struck my inner world deeply, and I began to grasp the realities beyond the romanticism of politics.
Though I hadn’t seen many Chinese films, despite my curiosity about them due to Mao, I regularly watched Russian cinema at the nearby Russian Cultural Center, starting in junior high school. Later, in high school, I attended film screenings at the Goethe-Institut, where German New Wave cinema blew my mind. These films opened a new world before me. Also known as Neue Deutsche Welle, this movement had a profound impact on global cinema, with rebellious directors like Werner Herzog, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Wim Wenders, Volker Schlöndorff, and Alexander Kluge. These filmmakers moved away from traditional narrative structures, addressing post-war Germany’s identity, the Berlin Wall, social issues, and psychology in a reflective, critical, and artistically innovative manner. Many of these low-budget films dealt with Nazi Germany’s legacy, the post-war moral devastation, and the new political landscape of divided Germany, as well as a reevaluation of Marxism.
One New Wave film deeply moved me—Volker Schlöndorff’s The Tin Drum, based on Günter Grass’s story of Oskar Matzerath, a boy who, disillusioned by the adult world’s hypocrisy, decides to stop growing—a theme resonant with my own adolescent struggles. As World War II unfolds, Oskar witnesses the rise of Nazism and the war’s atrocities, all while remaining physically a child. His drum becomes a symbol of protest against the surrounding chaos and moral decay. Grass was already a hero in my mind due to his visit to Dhaka when I was young. I imagined Grass himself as Oskar in his youth. Through his work, I started reading German poetry, and later, Rainer Maria Rilke entered my life, transforming my perspective. Engrossed in political romanticism, I was captivated by German-Russian communist propaganda films and literature. Then, Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet and his poetry became a jolt that led me into the world of poetry.
This sudden shift from politics to poetry was like falling in love anew. Though my poems had been published in magazines since I was six, and I had spent my childhood writing and reading out my own rhymes at children’s organizations like Khelaghor and Kochikachar Ashor, I was influenced by my maternal grandfather, a prominent children’s writer, and my slightly older uncle, who was also a poet. It was with him that I often ventured into literary and cultural circles during my youth. My uncle, at that time, was deeply left-leaning, an avid reader of Bengali literature, and we spent our days and nights discussing the socialist writings of authors like Manik Bandopadhyay, Mahasweta Devi, and Charu Majumdar.
Then much later I came across Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God. Reading those poems, I learned that it’s possible to love Allah! Later, I discovered that Rumi and countless Sufi poets had echoed these same ideas. There was a time when, due to my socialist beliefs, I dismissed Rilke as overly romantic and disconnected from the struggles of ordinary people. But as I delved deeper into his poetry, I began to understand the profoundness of his insights. Rilke’s sorrows felt like an inseparable part of my own existence, and his celebration of solitude and uncertainty opened up a path for me. It led me towards a deeper understanding of the self and the cosmos. In Letters to a Young Poet, I found a kindred spirit—a reminder that an artist’s journey is often fraught with challenges. His call to embrace one’s inner voice, to listen to the heart, resonated deeply within me. Finally, I understood that poetry is not merely a vehicle for political expression but a means of exploring the complexities of existence, a bridge between the personal and the universal, and a path to grasping unseen truths.
In my school years, while my classmates would sneak in Henry Miller’s books or read Lolita by Nabokov—and I read them too—I was still more attracted to those ‘forbidden books’ with tempting red covers in my uncle’s library than to the textbooks taught in classrooms or to the actually forbidden books. Among those stacks, I came across glimpses of Maulana Bhashani. For a long time, I saw him as the founder of the Awami League and a socialist proletarian leader but I never took an interest in Bhashani’s religious side. Besides, I was becoming more and more detached from politics. In the beginning of ’90s, I became involved in Dhaka’s Shahbag-centered Little Magazine Movement. Instead of focusing solely on my own writing, I felt a compelling urge to do something organizational for literature and culture, as if that subconscious Marxist influence from my youth still lingered, driving me toward a kind of cultural revolution. Later, with the making of the film Phulkumar in 2000, I co-founded Jolchobi Movie Factory, a platform for young film enthusiasts.
Then, for some time, disappointed by the hypocrisies of people around me whom I overestimated once, I withdrew from everything, and during this period, a profound change occurred in my life—I found a remarkable Sufi saint. He appeared at a time of crisis. According to him, “the foundation of Sufism is love, or Ishq. Love is the basis of faith. Through the realization and emergence of this love, the light of Ilm-e-Ladunni (inner wisdom) arises. Those whose hearts lack this light of faith are oblivious to Allah and blind to religion.” He has awakened an endless love in the hearts of millions of devotees, transcending religion, caste, and creed. He is the most troubled by his disciples’ hardships, has lived in poverty all his life out of empathy for the poor, has slept on the ground, and has grieved for human suffering, immersing countless disciples in the ocean of love.
It was from him that I once again heard about Bhashani; he held a particular admiration for him, was himself interested in Marxism, and would often discuss the larger than life figure, sharing many unknown stories, especially about his spiritual insights. This rekindled my own interest, and this time, I discovered a Sufi Maulana in Bhashani, finding many similarities between the two of them, particularly in their simple lifestyles, spiritual wisdom, and political acumen. He was a disciple of Hazrat Khwaja Yunus Ali Enayetpuri, had a connection with Bhashani—they met and exchanged letters. Bhashani used to say about Enayetpuri, “If you want to learn politics, come to me; if you want to learn religion, go to Enayetpur.”
In the history of Bangladesh’s socialist movement, the role of Maulana Abdul Hamid Khan Bhashani—a devout Sufi and socialist—remains paramount. Active in politics from the anti-British movement through to the politics of Pakistan and, later, Bangladesh, Bhashani, known as the leader of the oppressed and the champion of the peasant movement, advocated for ‘Islamic socialism’. He dreamed of a free society for the oppressed, blending Islamic values with socialist ideals. His socialist stance earned him the titles, ‘Red Maulana’ and ‘Mazlum Jononeta’. According to Bhashani, Islam promotes equality and economic justice, making Islamic socialism a suitable model for the farmers, workers, and impoverished people of Bengal. Rejecting Karl Marx’s view that “religion is the opium of the masses,” he reformed secular socialism, intertwining it with spirituality to make it resonate with the devout Bengali population. Believing in Sufi Islamic mysticism, Bhashani dreamed of a religion-based socialism but was strongly opposed to an Islamic Republic. In 1956, when the draft constitution bill in Pakistan’s Constituent Assembly declared Pakistan an Islamic Republic, Maulana Bhashani openly opposed it in a public meeting at Paltan.
Most leading figures in Bangladesh’s politics were influenced by Bhashani and many, including Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, were his ideological disciples. Although ideological differences later led many of them down different paths, their relationships with Maulana Bhashani remained intact, almost like the bond between a pir and murid—non-judgmental and deeply personal. Even when they opposed him politically, their respect and affection for him never wavered. His honesty and compassion for people earned him respect across all political parties and ideologies in Bangladesh’s politics. He was unyieldingly truthful; he spoke the truth, no matter how uncomfortable or dangerous. Like a true Sufi saint, he was also a visionary. Nearly all his predictions about the political landscape of Bangladesh ultimately came true.
In the political realm, he was both the spiritual saint of Santosh and a political beacon for this land—a truly rare personality! However, such politically active Sufi figures were not uncommon during the Mughal era or even earlier. The Sufis of that time not only guided sultans and kings politically and spiritually but also opposed them when necessary in support of the oppressed. After Nawab Siraj-ud-Daulah’s defeat, it was Fakir Majnu Shah—both a saint and a revolutionary for the oppressed—who first called for independence from the British traders, inspiring later uprisings such as the Chuar Rebellion in 1798-1799 and the Santal Rebellion in 1855 against the British.
During the Mughal era, Mysticism and the fakir-sannyasi tradition experienced a golden age. However, after Siraj’s defeat, they became the first targets of the British and their local allies, who began depriving them of various privileges. This led to the Fakir-Sannyasi Rebellion in 1776 which was one of the first independence movements in this region. From that time, the British, along with the local civil society and orthodox Muslims, started organizing anti-Sufi propaganda, aiming to label Fakir Majnu Shah and his followers as terrorists and un-Islamic. Later, this opposition to Sufism was sustained with the advent of British funded Wahhabism from Saudi Arabia, under which Haji Shariatullah and, later, his son Dudu Miyan were tasked with purging ‘bida’ah’ or ‘bida’t’ in the name of attempting to ‘reform’ Islam. Haji Shariatullah’s Faraizi Movement, which sowed the seeds of Wahhabism here, and Titumir’s communal ‘Basher Kella’ during the Indigo Rebellion, have been rebranded over time as symbols of Muslim struggle. Meanwhile, Fakir Majnu Shah and Bhavani Pathak have been erased from history or demonized while innocent Sufi fakirs and Hindu mystics were labeled as barbaric terrorists. This reveals how the politics of shrine destruction began here and who initiated the anti-Sufi propaganda. Artists, writers, and intellectuals subtly embedded these narratives into public consciousness, in continuous attempts at turning a land of mystics and saints against its own spiritual heritage.
Bhashani was both a saint and a revolutionary leader in the tradition of Fakir Majnu Shah. Though his disciples, followers, and associates sought to realize his vision of Bangladesh in their own ways, Maulana Bhashani remained unwavering in his principles until his last breath, never compromising or seeking power. He dedicated his 95-year life to the working people and Bangladesh’s sovereignty.
Another prominent ally of Maulana Bhashani and pioneer in socialist politics was the peasant leader Haji Mohammad Danesh. He was an active participant in the anti-British independence movement and led the Tebhaga movement to secure farmers’ rights, alongside revolutionary leaders like Ila Mitra. Initially, he was a member of the Muslim League in the 1940s, but later he joined the Communist movement and began advocating for socialist ideals. He became one of the leaders of the Communist Party of East Pakistan, dedicating his life to building a society free from exploitation. Danesh’s political philosophy was rooted in establishing workers’ and farmers’ rights and building a society based on economic equality.
Maulana Bhashani and Haji Danesh were both pioneers of progressive and left-wing politics in Bangladesh, committed to securing the rights of the oppressed. They both fought political and social battles for the common people, although their ideological paths and political strategies differed somewhat. Bhashani’s political ideology centered on ‘Islamic socialism,’ which combined the principles and values of Islam with socialist ideals. On the other hand, Haji Danesh was an advocate of pure Marxist socialism, inspired by Maoist ideology. Their political strategies also varied; while Bhashani promoted social justice through democratic processes and Islamic values, Haji Danesh took a revolutionary approach, favoring social change through a workers’ and farmers’ uprising. Ultimately, both had a vision of a socialist society in support of the oppressed and impoverished. In an interview two years before his death, Haji Danesh spoke of Maulana Bhashani, saying, “He genuinely wanted to see people smile. He believed that the liberation of the oppressed would come one day, and that it would come under the leadership of communists. That’s why he loved and respected communists.”
Among Bhashani’s notable associates was Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy, an undisputed leader in Bangladeshi politics who served as Prime Minister of undivided Pakistan. Suhrawardy joined the Awami League, founded in 1949 under Bhashani’s leadership after the breakup of the Muslim League. However, from the beginning, he and Bhashani held vastly different political ideals and goals—they were polar opposites, though they collectively helped establish the Awami League as a major political party. While Suhrawardy valued and respected Bhashani’s wisdom, he often disregarded it when their views clashed, at times even treating it dismissively. When others focused only on the present, Bhashani would consider the future, suggesting decisions that seemed reckless or irrational at the time, causing some to lose confidence and leave to form new parties. But ultimately, Bhashani’s predictions often proved correct. Many who once disagreed with him later acknowledged his wisdom.
In a way, the ideological divide between Bhashani and Suhrawardy set in motion some enduring conflicts and divisions in Bangladesh’s politics, with effects still felt today. Suhrawardy, an Oxford graduate from an elite, highly educated Muslim family in India, naturally leaned pro-Western and firmly supported American capitalist democracy. Bhashani, on the other hand, stood firmly against it and advocated for a socialist system that would establish an egalitarian democracy for the oppressed, free from capitalist and American imperialist influences. Rooted in Marxism, Bhashani adapted its principles to promote a socialism uniquely suited to this land. He prioritized the interests of the proletariat and the oppressed above all. As both a Marxist and a Sufi, he was the ideal leader for the people. Bhashani based his political and spiritual vision on the teachings of Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and the ideals of humanity. He also borrowed from other religions, philosophies, and political ideologies as necessary. From the time of British rule, he envisioned the possibility of a free, sovereign state for Bengalis, and he had developed a comprehensive plan for such a state, advising everyone over time on what needed to be done. Some heeded his advice, others did not, but none fully implemented his vision.
Bhashani was vigilant about foreign influence in our geopolitics, maintaining a conservative stance on foreign policy and international forums. He envisioned a sovereign state free from the influence of superpowers, advocating for non-alignment and a strict opposition to capitalism and any form of colonialism. He believed, “Only a socialist land system can bring an end to all their suffering—no other system can bring progress and prosperity to the lives of farmers.”
In contrast, Suhrawardy’s ideology was grounded in capitalist democracy and the creation of a liberal secular state, focused on overall human development by eradicating religious and ethnic discrimination. His foreign policy leaned toward liberal and pro-American views. Later, this foreign policy stance created significant friction between Bhashani and Suhrawardy, largely due to the prevailing global political situation. At that time, the world was divided between the United States and the Soviet Union. Suhrawardy leaned toward a pro-American foreign policy, while Bhashani sought a non-aligned foreign policy independent of the United States. He did not believe in any form of international alliance. On foreign policy, the right-wing leaders of the East Pakistan Awami League sided with Suhrawardy, while the left-wing faction, under Bhashani’s leadership, called for an independent, non-aligned foreign policy and maximum autonomy for East Pakistan. Consequently, the Awami League became divided. Bhashani, a vocal opponent of American imperialism in parliament, eventually resigned as president of the Awami League over these ideological conflicts.
With boundless love and compassion, Bhashani devoted his life to combating both nafsaniyat, base desires and the sufferings of the people. He ruled over both ruhaniyat, spirituality and the social world; besides being a Sufi saint, he was a kingmaker, raising rulers to power and then returning to the streets himself. His Islamic socialism represents a unique blend of Bengali Marxism and mystic Sufism. However, the distorted portrayal of Sufi practices in our literature, art, cinema, media, and intellectual discourse has misled our people, preventing a true understanding of Sufism, while one cannot understand Bhashani without understanding Sufism. Although his vision remains timeless and relevant, he was largely misunderstood by my generation. Yet, it remains possible: if the emerging generations choose to look without prejudice, they must see through both his eyes—Marxism and Sufism—to grasp his true insights.
