Sep 10th, 2007, 09:47 pm
Last Friday had to have been one of the coolest and most random days I’ve had in my time abroad.
After jummah, I met a young Bangladeshi American couple from New Jersey that was vacationing in Buenos Aires. It’s random enough to meet Bangladeshis, much less Bangladeshi Americans, in this city, as I only know one other bangladeshí yanqui besides me.
My two Muslim American friends that are studying here and I took them out. I felt like I was in some weird Islamoamerican version of Argentina because I’m not exactly accustomed to being around four other Americans that practice my religion down here.
That night, all but one of us ate dinner at a cheap, shabby hotel filled with Bangladeshi men. The hotel, which is located just about ten blocks away from where I live, is probably not the type of hotel you’re thinking of. Basically, it’s a combination of an apartment building and a hotel, where each unit just has one room, and everyone shares a bathroom. A lot of people that can’t afford to live in real apartments live in places like that for extended amounts of time.
While I was there, I saw about five of the who-knows-how-many Bangladeshis that live there, but just two of them did most of the cooking. The food was delicious. They prepared fried rice, chicken, beef, and eggs, all mixed together. There was even achar, or pickled mango. You Bengalis know what I’m talking about! It was great to eat a full Bengali meal made by authentic Bengalis actually from Bangladesh after such a long time away from home. I can’t even begin to describe their hospitality.
The sheikh that gave the khutbah at the masjid that day was at the hotel as well. Because I had seen him dressed in a dishdasha and a kuffiyeh, I was taken aback to see him in “normal” clothes. Plus, he spoke calmly in Spanish and Urdu and didn’t speak Arabic in a loud voice like he had at jummah. He was actually a pretty down to earth guy. Originally from the city of Lucknow in northcentral India, he studied Islam in Saudi Arabia for fifteen years. At some point, the Saudi government, I think, sent him to Ciudad del Este, Paraguay ten years ago to serve the large Muslim community there. He speaks Urdu, Arabic, Spanish, and Portuguese fluently and some English. We talked to each other en castellano because that was the only language we had in common. Yeah, I never thought I would be talking to an Indian sheikh in Spanish.
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Posted in Argentina, Islam/Muslims, Latin America, South Asians, Bangladesh, Life | 2 Comments | Trackback
Mar 17th, 2007, 01:38 am
I dearly miss Bangladeshi dawats. They formed an integral part of my life growing up. Because I’ve always lived in places with small Bangladeshi communities, dawats (invitations) were my primary source of socialization with Bangladeshi Americans and Muslims from my early years till high school.
“What the $%#@ is a dawat?” Well, first you can tone down your language. I believe dawat means invitation in Bengali, but in the context of Bangladeshi American life, it means a get together of family friends, who are almost always Bangladeshi. Sometimes you get the occasional white guy who works at your dad’s office who obviously feels really uncomfortable and out of place. And he usually comments about how spicy the food is.
Dawats are especially important for the older, immigrant generation. Not quite comfortable with American life, they find solace in socializing with other Bangladeshi immigrants. Dawats allow them to talk to others with whom they can relate. When I was younger, I didn’t understand why my parents loved dawats so much. But now, as an American living in Argentina, I can totally empathize. Whenever I meet Americans randomly in Buenos Aires, I feel like I’ve met a long-lost friend, even though we probably wouldn’t care to hang out with each other back home. It’s funny how that works.
The younger, American-raised generation has mixed feelings about the dawat scene. There are those who absolutely hate them to those who love going for the food. Because they are more comfortable with American culture than their parents and have friends outside of their Bangladeshi circle, they generally don’t rely on dawats as their prime source of socialization.
I’ve been to dawats across the U.S., and they all seem to consist of the same things. They typically start with guests arriving at least twenty to thirty minutes late. Even though they were told to come at seven, they think it’s no big deal to show up nearly an hour later. The uncles then go to the living room while the aunties congregate in the vicinity of the kitchen or some other room. Keeping with tradition, males and females are almost totally segregated. Also keeping with tradition, the females, especially the aunties and teenage girls, almost always wear saris and salwar kameezes. And the guys, well, they just wear Western garb. The toddlers and little kids run around the house screaming, or they find toys to keep them occupied. Then they run around the house screaming. The older kids and teenagers play video games or hang out in some isolated area. Oh yeah, the teenage guys and girls try not to acknowledge each other too much, fearing that their parents might suspect some shadiness. This definitely applies to the college crowd, who I will talk about right now. In between uncles/aunties and high schoolers, they’re not quite sure where they fit in. They try to avoid talking with the elders too much because they have this feeling that they’re trying to hook them up with some girl or guy in Chittagong.
After hanging out for about an hour, dinner is served. It typically consists of Bangladeshi fare, but “American” dishes such as ravioli may be served to satisfy the American-raised youngsters. Drinks usually consist of soda and water. Oftentimes, there won’t be any silverware, and one must ask for a spoon or fork. I was (and still am) that person.
About two hours after dinner, mishti (sweets) and cha (tea) are served. Of course, no good dawat is complete without roshogollas. These days, many families even serve “American” dishes, like store-bought pumpkin pie. We have to try to be American sometimes, you know.
The dawat can end anywhere from one to several hours after desert. There never is an official end time. In fact, they can last all night. I’ve never been to a dawat like this, but I’ve heard crazy stories about how some lasted till the crack of dawn. We really know how to party.
Posted in South Asians, Bangladesh | 14 Comments | Trackback
