Blog

Shariful Islam

Recent weeks have revealed a painful truth about Bangladesh’s social structure: the people who suffer the most are the ones who hold the least power. On one side, Bauls were attacked after the arrest of Abul Sarkar. On the other side, the Karail slum—home to thousands of river erosion victims—was reduced to ashes. These events might look separate, but at their root lies a deeper question: Why do the poorest bodies always become the battlefield for larger cultural, political, and economic tensions?

The Hidden Economics Behind Cultural Clashes

Publicly we often frame conflicts like “Baul vs. Tawhidi Janata” as ideological or religious. But behind these clashes lies an economic competition no one talks about.

A young madrasa student—often an orphan—grows up with one dream: to become a waaz preacher traveling across the country. Preaching brings respect, visibility, and crucially, income. Bauls, on the other hand, keep alive a musical tradition rooted in rural Bengal. Their presence means local communities still support music, gatherings, and cultural events.

When cultural life thrives, large winter waaz events might decline.
When waaz events decline, preachers lose earning opportunities.

Underneath the slogans and chants is a simple struggle: livelihood.

The Story of the Teesta Father and His Three Sons

To understand how conflict shapes lives, consider one story—tragically common yet rarely discussed.

A father dies in the fierce currents of the Teesta river.
His three sons scatter in three directions, each shaped by poverty:

• One moves into Karail slum, hoping a city job will save his family.
• One becomes a Baul, because music is the only inheritance he recognizes.
• One is sent to Aminbazar’s Madrasai Madinatul Ulum, in the hope that religious education may offer security.

Three different paths.
Three different identities.
But the same result: whenever violence, fire, or social unrest occurs, they are always the first victims.

If their father had not drowned, their lives might have been completely different. None of them would grow up in such fragile circumstances where one fire, one attack, or one conflict could erase everything they own.

Are We Looking at the Real Culprits?

Take the Karail fire.
Such fires in major urban slums rarely occur by accident. They often follow patterns—land interest, pressure from powerful groups, real-estate speculation, or political intimidation.

Yet, who suffers?
The same families who already survived river erosion, lost homes, lost land, lost identity.
They rebuild in Dhaka, only to lose everything again.

But our outrage often targets the visible victims, not the invisible planners.

The Missing Conversation: Jobs for Madrasa Students

Another question rarely asked:
What employment pathways exist for madrasa students?

When thousands of young men graduate with no clear job market, they become vulnerable. Vulnerable to exploitation, to radical influence, and to seeing cultural identity as economic competition.

If a madrasa graduate had stable employment, professional skills, or vocational training:

• He would be less drawn to violence.
• He would not see Bauls as economic rivals.
• Cultural coexistence would be easier.
• Communities would be calmer.
• And the most vulnerable groups would not clash with each other.

This is not about blame. It is about infrastructure.

Bauls Too Are Economic Victims

Bauls are often portrayed as cultural figures, but they too struggle to survive. When rural festivals shrink, when communities fall under social pressure, when winter events become dominated by religious gatherings—Bauls lose income and visibility.

They are not opponents to religion.
They are fellow survivors in an unequal economy.

The Cycle We Must Break

Every time conflict arises—religious, cultural, or political—the ripple of harm hits the same people:

• The slum dweller
• The Baul
• The madrasa student
• The rickshaw puller
• The river erosion victim

They are not the designers of conflict.
They are the ones who inherit its consequences.

Instead of asking who fought whom, we should ask:

• Who benefits when a slum burns?
• Who gains when poor communities clash?
• Who profits when cultural spaces shrink?
• Why are vulnerable youth left without pathways for real employment?
• And why does the state allow the same families to lose everything again and again?

The Real Work Ahead

If we want long-term peace and dignity for all, we must shift focus from surface clashes to structural solutions:

• Create real job opportunities for madrasa students.
• Protect slum residents legally and economically.
• Preserve cultural diversity so Bauls can survive.
• Investigate fires and hold powerful groups accountable.
• Support communities displaced by river erosion with long-term rehabilitation.

When livelihood is secured, conflicts naturally decrease.
When opportunities exist, extremism declines.
When stability grows, culture becomes a shared space, not a battleground.

Conclusion

The deaths, the fires, the clashes—none of these begin with ideology.
They begin with insecurity, displacement, and powerlessness.

Until we address these foundations, the poorest will continue to be the first to burn, the first to fight, and the first to fall.

And the Teesta father’s three sons—living in a slum, singing on the road, or studying in a madrasa—will keep carrying burdens they never created.

Don’t Sell Yourself

Two Small Stories, One Dangerous Habiti

We usually talk about corruption as if it comes from big things: poverty, desperation, lack of education, political decay. That’s a comforting way to think, because it makes corruption feel far away, like something that belongs to “the system,” not to us.

But corruption doesn’t begin in parliament or in a ministry.
It begins in the private moments where we quietly decide what our conscience is worth.

The idea behind “Don’t Sell Yourself” is simple:

Corruption is not only taking money you shouldn’t.
It is selling your dignity, your responsibility, or your true value—
whenever the chance appears.

This can happen in two directions:

• when we use power to exploit others, and
• when we allow others to strip our worth down to a bargain price.

Two small stories—one about a teenager, one about an artist’s fee—show how this works.

Story 1: The Teenager Who Learned What Blackmail Is

One of my students is a teenager—sharp, sensitive, intellectually curious. His favourite artist is Bob Dylan, not just for the melodies, but for the questions in the lyrics. He is the only son of two doctors. His parents are educated, well-off, and they love him deeply.

They once told me:
“Sometimes he becomes very angry and demands things that are not necessary at all. If we refuse, he makes a scene until we give in.”

This is not unusual. It’s almost a cliché of modern parenting.
But underneath it, something important was happening.

One day, instead of scolding him, I decided to name what was going on.

I asked him,
“Do you know what blackmail is?”

He said, “Yes.”

Then I asked,
“Do you understand the difference between what is necessary and what is unnecessary?”

He said, “Yes.”

Then I said:

“You know your parents love you very much.
You also know that if you become angry,
if you create a scene and apply pressure,
they will finally give you what you want—
even when it is unnecessary.

That is not love.
That is blackmail.”

He went silent.

Something shifted.
He stopped doing it—not because I punished him, not because I shouted, but because the mechanism was named.

This small episode reveals a bigger truth:

Corruption is not born from poverty alone.
Corruption is born whenever pressure is rewarded
and conscience is negotiable.

The logic is exactly the same as in high-level corruption:

• “If I use pressure, I will get what I want.”
• “If I create a crisis, people will give in.”
• “If I have power, I can make others surrender.”

What is practiced as emotional blackmail in a family can later appear as financial blackmail in an office, academic blackmail in an institution, or political blackmail in the state. The scale changes. The psychology does not.

This is the first face of selling yourself:
selling your conscience in exchange for power over others.

Story 2: The Musician Who Sold Himself Too Cheap

The second story is not about exploiting others.
It’s about quietly allowing others to exploit you.

For my three-hour performance, I used to charge 25,000 taka. That was my professional rate. It reflected my experience, my preparation, and my value as a musician.

Then I met an agent.

He kept saying one sentence again and again:

“You are too expensive.
If you reduce your charge, you will get many more shows.”

This is a familiar line for artists and workers everywhere:
“You’re too expensive.”
“Others will do it cheaper.”
“If you care about money less, you’ll get more chances.”

Out of curiosity and a bit of insecurity, I decided to test it.

I told him:

“Whatever you give, I will perform.”

At first, he gave 20,000.
Then 15,000.
Then 10,000.
Eventually, he offered 5,000.

Yes, my performances increased—but not dramatically.
The small increase in shows did not compensate for the massive drop in value.

Within about a year, my fee had fallen to one-fifth of what it was.

My skill hadn’t decreased.
My experience hadn’t disappeared.
The quality of my performance had not become 80% worse.

Only one thing changed: I handed someone else the right to decide my worth.

That was my mistake.

The lesson was painful and clear:

If you agree to sell yourself too cheaply,
the world rarely argues with you.
It simply accepts your new price.

At some point I realised: this is not a negotiation anymore; this is erosion.
I cut ties with that agent.

Today, my shows are growing again, slowly and honestly, at rates that respect the work. There may be fewer shows than the fantasy of “more, more, more,” but they are better, healthier, and more aligned with what I deserve.

This is the second face of selling yourself:
selling your own value for less than its honest worth.

Two Directions of the Same Problem

Put these two stories together and a single pattern appears.

1. Upwards corruption:
   • The teenager uses emotional pressure to control loving parents.
   • Later, an adult might use institutional, financial, or political power to control others.
   • In both cases, the person sells their conscience for the pleasure of getting their way.
2. Downwards corruption:
   • The musician allows an agent to slowly cut down his worth.
   • Workers underpaid “for exposure,” professionals told to be “grateful,” artists pushed to play for “visibility” all face this.
   • In these cases, the person sells their dignity for the illusion of more opportunity.

Both are different forms of the same act: selling yourself.

• In the first, you exploit others.
• In the second, you allow others to erase you.

The “Don’t Sell Yourself” movement speaks to both.

What This Movement Is (and Is Not)

It is important to say clearly what this movement does not stand for.

“Don’t Sell Yourself” is not:

• Anti-money
• Anti-success
• Anti-professional growth
• A moral attack on people who struggle to survive

It is:

• A refusal to turn conscience into a bargaining chip
• A refusal to use love, power, or crisis as tools of manipulation
• A refusal to accept exploitation disguised as “opportunity”
• A defence of fair value for honest work

The movement asks one central question:

When you are given the chance to gain advantage—
by pressuring others or by undervaluing yourself—
will you take it, or will you resist?

Corruption as a Habit, Not a Sudden Accident

What these stories show is that corruption is less like a lightning strike and more like a habit. It grows through repetition.

• A child learns that shouting works.
• A junior officer learns that “speed money” works.
• A manager learns that cutting salaries and calling it “market reality” works.
• An artist learns that saying “yes” to bad deals brings a few more shows.

Every time, a small internal vote is cast:

“This is acceptable. This is how things are done.”

Over time, these votes accumulate.
Corruption stops feeling like corruption.
It feels “normal.” It feels “necessary.” It even feels “smart.”

That is exactly what “Don’t Sell Yourself” wants to interrupt.

The Moment of Choice

The crucial moment is rarely dramatic.
Most of the time, it looks like this:

• You can take some money that isn’t clean—and nobody will know.
• You can threaten someone emotionally—and they will obey you.
• You can accept half your worth for a job—and at least you “get the gig.”

These are the quiet crossroads where character is tested.

When unfair advantage becomes possible,
that is when your character is being examined—
not by a court, but by yourself.

Integrity is not usually discovered for the first time under maximum pressure.
It is trained in these small decisions, long before power arrives.

Don’t Sell Yourself — In Either Direction

So when we say “Don’t Sell Yourself,” we mean:

• Don’t sell your conscience
  by using pressure, manipulation, or corruption to get what you want.
• Don’t sell your worth
  by allowing others to reduce your value far below what you honestly deserve.

Sometimes this refusal will cost you:

• a lost deal,
• a smaller number of shows,
• a missed promotion,
• a harder, slower path.

But the alternative costs much more:

• a self you no longer respect,
• a profession that no longer has dignity,
• a society where everything and everyone has a price.

A Quiet, Difficult Promise

The message of this movement is simple, but not easy.

When the opportunity appears,
when the money is big,
when the system looks the other way,
when silence is rewarded,
when someone tells you “this is how things work”—

don’t sell yourself.

Not because you are perfect.
Not because you want to be a hero.

But because once conscience or dignity is sold,
they almost never come back at the same price.