RECENTLY, I was invited to present an online seminar hosted by a language education research centre at a UK university. I had the freedom to choose my topic. And I chose to talk about our ongoing research on local textbooks, varieties of English, and ideologies. This research is based on an analysis of textbooks used in Bangladesh.
Every time I write or talk about textbooks and curriculum, I can鈥檛 distance myself from the questions of belonging and inclusion. National textbooks usually construct mini-utopias. Such imagined worlds have different names in different educational jurisdictions. For example, the new curriculum in Bangladesh seeks to prepare students for 鈥楽mart Bangladesh.鈥� Smart Bangladesh seems to have replaced 鈥楽onar Bangla鈥�, which may have lost its appeal due to overuse. It has also failed to find a home for itself beyond rhetoric.
As a utopia, Smart Bangladesh has certain essential attributes. It is founded on the spirit of the language movement and the liberation war. It also promises to be a world defined by fairness, justice, and dignity for all. Furthermore, it will be a secular utopia. Apparently, the principle of secularism is a way of ensuring fairness for all. However, it can also perpetuate discrimination. It will give legitimacy to those who are already secular and illegitimacy to those who are not.
There is also a wide gap between secularism in policy and its application in society. In theory, India is still a secular country. But we know that the secular label has not stopped the ruling BJP from promoting Hindutva ideology and Hindu chauvinism.
In constructing secular utopias through curriculum and textbooks, there are also other disconcerting questions. Should the constructed world be distanced from the lived world, or should it approximate the everyday world?
Secularism in Bangladeshi textbooks is deployed in a specific sense. This usually means omitting Islam and Muslim legacies from the textbook world. This discursive exclusion is a way of giving legitimacy to exclusionary practices in a wider society. No other religious groups are ever required to be secular; they can be part of the textbook world with all degrees of their religiosity. Although Bangladesh is not a model for national commitments to minority rights, it is somewhat heartening that non-Muslims do not have to go through secular gatekeeping. Practicing Muslims鈥� dresses and appearances may make them ineligible for entry into certain services and opportunities. Bearded and hijabi Muslims can be denied jobs or other opportunities in certain sectors for their apparent religious identities. However, no religious symbols ever work as barriers for other religious groups. Holi festivals are permissible on the Dhaka University campus; the group reading of the Qur鈥檃n is not.
As I reflect on Bangladeshi textbooks, I wonder how practicing Muslims view these books and the book-made utopia. As they are unlikely to call themselves secular, how do they relate to the secular imaginary? What is their sense of belonging to this textualised world?
I wish I could extend our textbook research to engage with practicing Muslims and elicit their views on the secular utopia. The madrasa education community can be key participants in this research, although non-secular Muslims also exist outside the madrasa sector. It will also be insightful to understand how teachers in schools and madrasas handle secular materials in their teaching.
The madrasa community鈥檚 sense of belonging can be predicted from mainstream discourses and demands. Secular scholars often express their xenophobic concerns about madrasa students. They voice publicly that the increased presence of madrasa students at Dhaka University may turn the secular institution into a madrasa. Some public institutions have followed discriminatory policies and practices against them in the past few decades.
There are also expert recommendations for adopting a unified curriculum. This indirectly threatens the existence of madrasa education.
How do non-secular Muslims fare in society outside of academia?
In early 2023, I was in Bangladesh on a research trip with some Australian colleagues. On one weekend, I planned a daytrip for them in a riverine sub-district in the north. We were going to have a boat ride on the Brahmaputra. A local friend made all the arrangements. We rented a car for the whole day.
As we were about to start, I found the car waiting outside, but I couldn鈥檛 spot the driver around. I soon discovered that the driver had been there all the time; I just didn鈥檛 recognise him because of his dress and appearance. He was wearing pyjamas, panjabees, and topi. He was also a bearded man in his early twenties. I took this as a windfall opportunity, as I thought I could ask him some questions about his life and experience in society.
Imran (not his real name) was a hafiz of the Qu鈥檙an. As he drove us out of the city, I requested that he recite some verses for my colleagues. He obliged immediately. I wouldn鈥檛 fantasise that this was the best recitation, etc., but he did it very well. With his permission, I started asking him my questions.
Imran had been a professional driver for several years. He chose this career path because there were not many jobs for Madrassah graduates out there. Secular experts who express their unsympathetic concern about the unemployability of the religiously educated group are right. Their education may not prepare them for work outside mosques or madrassahs. However, unemployment is an issue for secularly educated graduates as well. While the question of skills often gets highlighted, job creation is something that does not receive equal attention.
Imran decided to pull himself out of the typical employment options for a hafiz and train for professional driving. However, his experience was not encouraging. It points to the dilemma facing madrassah-goers in an unequal society. This society is critical of mullahs, madrassahs and practicing Muslims. But it also doesn鈥檛 have a clear position about this undesirable other community. This non-secular group can鈥檛 be left on their own; they are also unwelcome to share spaces with the secular.
A driver who looks like a mullah is unwelcome in the driving profession. There is no good reason for such social prejudice. However, Imran often encountered expressions such as 鈥榃hat are you doing here outside your masjid and madrasa?鈥�
Bangladesh has created a social system where there are essentialised relationships between groups of people and social norms. The system has sorted out who belongs where and where they are or aren鈥檛 expected; what is considered normal and what is not normal. We may assume that anyone can go to expensive hotels or restaurants if they have money. However, a group of men fitting the stereotypical representation of 鈥榤ullahs鈥� trying to access these places will have troubles. Their intentions may be questioned. They will also be considered unbecoming in these places, even if they are ready to pay.
Imran narrated that he found himself a misfit in the drivers鈥� community for other reasons as well. He said that smoking, occasionally even taking drugs, a lack of hygiene, gossiping, and wasting time are common features of the social life of this community. More serious problems, in his view, were practices among drivers of lying, cheating, and not keeping promises. He couldn鈥檛 join his community in any of these activities. He was often othered by his fellow drivers, even for his desirable differences.
Imran wasn鈥榯 sure about his future. He found it hard to stay in a profession where he couldn鈥檛 share conventional social and professional norms and practices. He said he would be looking for an exit and exploring opportunities for re-entering the religious sector. This may be a case of re-essentialising social norms, but he at least tried to break them.
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Obaidul Hamid is an associate professor at the University of Queensland in Australia. He researches language, education, and society in the developing world.
