Nationalism is reshaping itself—From a distance, sifting sands look like pretty dunes. Yet, when you are getting drowned inside one, it is hard to breathe.
Yesterday, March 26, Bangladesh celebrated Independence Day, a day that hits close to home as their neighbor. In 1971, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman declared freedom, sparking a war they won. This day is special because it is a reminder of their Bengali spirit—language, identity, and resilience.
This spirit permeates every heart that sings “Amar Sonar Bangla” with pride. This anthem was written in 1905, yet it resonates loud even when times are difficult.
But this year, it felt heavy. News of strife—protests, violence, economic woes—shadowed the joy. Last year’s clashes still sting, and we feel their sadness across the border. March 26 reminds them, and us, of their strength. They’ve risen from ashes before, and though today’s tough, that spirit endures. As neighbors tied by history, we ache with them but hope too. Here’s to their light shining through the storm.
My golden Bengal, I love you so true,
Your boundless skies, your breeze, my heart’s flute they imbue.
Oh mother, Spring’s fields dance green with delight,
Your sweet blooms’ scent—from Padma’s flow—lifts my soul to flight.
Oh mother, dear, your rice-rich earth I claim,
It blends with my bones, like Meghna’s muddy frame.
By your river’s edge, where bulbuls trill their song,
My ears drink joy—like Dhaka’s dawn—sweet and strong.
What beauty, what shade, your banyan trees bestow,
What love, what care, in your cool shadows grow.
Oh mother, your words, soft as Rupnarayan’s tide,
Ring in my ears, a lullaby I can’t hide.
In Shraban’s rain, your clouds weep low and deep,
A silver veil o’er Buriganga’s sweep.
When your floods rise, oh mother, wild and grand,
My heart trembles—like Chittagong’s shore—on shifting sand.
Your sun climbs high, a golden crown to wear,
Your moon at night, a dream beyond compare.
Oh mother, your face in my sleep does gleam,
Like Sylhet’s tea hills, a vision supreme.
In Baishakh’s storm, your thunder cracks the sky,
Your lightning dances, Kaptai’s waters fly.
When I’m far away, my soul still yearns for you,
Your call through the wind—like Cox’s call—rings true.
Your mango groves in Jaishtha bloom so sweet,
Their fragrance drifts where Sundarbans meet.
Oh mother, your fruit, your shade, my life sustain,
A taste of home—like Barisal’s rain—again and again.
In Asharh’s downpour, your rivers roar alive,
Your fishing boats on Brahmaputra thrive.
When I see your strength, my fears all fade away,
Your might, oh mother—like Khulna’s pulse—holds sway.
Your autumn fields in Kartik glow with gold,
Your harvest tales by Jamuna’s banks are told.
Oh mother, your grace in every grain I see,
A farmer’s pride—like Rajshahi’s glee—sets me free.
In winter’s calm, your fog wraps me so near,
Your dewdrops shine, like pearls on Tongi’s pier.
Oh mother, my life, my death, to you I give,
My golden Bengal—by Ganges’ grace—I live.
Moon at Half Past Noon 
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