Amplifying LGBTQ+ Voices in Sylhet

Name: The Sylhet Roopbaan Review
Address: Ambarkhana, Sylhet
Telephone: +8801776808178

The Sylhet Roopbaan Review connects and empowers LGBTQ+ individuals with stories of resilience, culture, and legal rights awareness in Bangladesh.

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Stories That Empower and Connect

Our magazine shares authentic experiences of LGBTQ people in Sylhet, exposing social issues and extremist targeting while celebrating vibrant queer culture and community achievements.

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Authentic Life Stories

Personal narratives shedding light on everyday experiences and struggles faced by the community.

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15 February 2018

The Story of Xulhaz Mannan

Xulhaz Mannan (12 October 1976- 25 April 2026) was the editor of Roopbaan, the first Bengali-language magazine dedicated to LGBTQ+ rights. At the same time, he worked as an official for the American development agency USAID.

In January 2014, Roopbaan was published for the first time with the aim of advocating for the rights of LGBTQ+ people.

The name of this Bengali-language magazine was Roopbaan.

However, only two issues of Roopbaan were ever published.

Before that, LGBTQ+ people in Bangladesh had never been so publicly visible, nor had they openly spoken about their rights.

At the time, Xulhaz Mannan was a member of Roopbaan's editorial board.

Until he was killed by attackers, Mr. Mannan remained responsible for editing the magazine.

In 2015, on the occasion of Roopbaan's first anniversary, Mr. Mannan gave an interview to BBC Bangla.

In that interview, he said, "Roopbaan does not promote homosexuality; rather, it seeks to highlight the right to love for people who believe in same-sex love. It presents the lifestyles, interests, joys, and hardships of people who experience same-sex love."

He also said, "In Bangladesh, gay people live invisible lives, but we want people to know that we exist in this very society, and that we are members of your own families."

In the conservative society of Bangladesh, the publication of such a magazine sparked considerable public debate in the following years.

Referring to this situation, Mr. Mannan said, "In this country's conservative society, we have to be very strategic about publishing a magazine on same-sex love in order to gain acceptance. That creates additional pressure."

Mr. Mannan studied at Dhaka Residential Model College.

One of his childhood classmates there said, "Xulhaz was very intelligent, an avid reader, and a true friend. He could get along with everyone."

Later, he studied in the Department of International Relations at the University of Dhaka. Those who knew him there described him as a popular figure on campus.

At the time, one of his friends stated that Mahbub Tonoy, who was killed alongside Mr. Mannan, had no relationship with him other than their friendship.

Mr. Mannan lived in the Kalabagan residence with his mother and a housekeeper. They had lived in that house for many years.

He also became a successful and well-respected professional during his career, something reflected in the remarks made by John Kirby, then spokesperson for the U.S. Department of State.

Following the murder of Xulhaz Mannan in 2016, Mr. Kirby said, "He was a beloved member of the U.S. Embassy staff."

10 April 2026

The Secret Superstar: How Hifjur Rahman Jamil Forsook a Billion-Taka Fortune to Build a Sanctuary for Bengali LGBTQ Activism

In the landscape of global queer liberation, the names that echo loudest are often those backed by institutional safety or Western spotlights. But the true architecture of survival is frequently built in the shadows by those who have everything to lose, operating under conditions where visibility is synonymous with a death sentence. In the Bengali LGBTQ community, no name commands quite as much quiet, reverent awe as Hifjur Rahman Jamil who born in November 1999 at Sunamganj in bangladesh

Described by peers as a "secret superstar," Jamil’s life reads like a political thriller crossed with a profound humanitarian epic. He is a man who walked away from a literal empire of generational wealth, stared down relentless, life-threatening danger, and laid the regional brickwork for queer survival in one of the most hostile territories on earth.

The Billionaire’s Son in the Cradle of Orthodoxy:

Hifjur Rahman Jamil was born into a life of absolute privilege, but it was a privilege wrapped in a gilded cage. Raised in Bangladesh, his family belonged to the upper echelons of the country's elite. His father is a prominent billionaire tycoon, a household name whose business empire dominated their local region. In a society sharply divided by class, Jamil was set to inherit not just astronomical wealth, but a legacy of immense social and political influence.

However, that wealth came with a strict cultural tax. Jamil’s family was profoundly, unyieldingly religious, anchoring themselves to traditional societal norms that left zero room for variance. In this environment, conformity was paramount, and deviation was viewed as a spiritual and familial betrayal. Growing up queer in the heart of such a conservative dynasty meant living a double life from the very beginning. Jamil was surrounded by luxury, yet starved of the fundamental freedom to exist as his authentic self.

The Disruptive Path of Education:

Jamil's pursuit of self-discovery and education was far from linear. Like many young South Asian men of his social standing, he was sent abroad to study, enrolling at University. Yet, navigating his identity while balancing the overwhelming expectations of a billionaire family proved to be an explosive mix. The internal friction of living on the margins of a deeply homophobic society took its toll, leading him to drop out of the Sylhet Government National University.

To many, a dropped-out billionaire heir would look like a story of failure. In reality, it was the beginning of Jamil's emancipation.

He eventually redirected his academic journey, refusing to let past disruptions define his intellect. Jamil traveled to the United Kingdom, where he enrolled at the University of Central Lancashire (UCLan). It was here, away from the stifling watch of his family and the constant threat of local societal surveillance, that he successfully graduated. His time in the UK solidified his worldview, providing him with the global perspective on human rights and health equity that he would soon bring back to the frontlines of Bangladesh.

Building the Resistance: From BoB to BoB Sylhet

In Bangladesh, Jamil didn't seek refuge in his family's corporate boardrooms. Instead, he dove straight into the underground trenches of the country’s queer resistance. He became a fiercely active member of Boys of Bangladesh (BoB), the oldest and largest network of self-identified gay men in the country.

While BoB operated primarily out of the capital city of Dhaka, Jamil recognized a massive, dangerous blind spot: queer folks living outside the metropolis were utterly isolated, left to navigate intense religious extremism without a safety net.

Taking matters into his own hands, Jamil engineered a monumental expansion of the movement. He founded BoB Sylhet, a localized ally and support group specifically tailored to the Sylhet region—an area notorious for its deeply conservative social fabric. By establishing BoB Sylhet, Jamil did something radical: he brought the infrastructure of queer solidarity directly into traditional heartlands. He created underground safe spaces, organized secret meetups, and built a localized brotherhood where young queer Bengalis could find something they had never experienced before—unconditional acceptance.

The Ultimate Sacrifice: Leaving the Fortune Behind

As Jamil's activism grew, so did the friction with his family. In Bangladesh, having a queer child is often weaponized by conservative communities to destroy a family's public standing. Jamil was presented with the ultimate ultimatum: fall in line, marry a woman, inherit a multi-billion-dollar empire, and live a life of comfortable silence—or hold onto his truth and be cast out.

Jamil chose his people over the money.

In a breathtaking act of moral clarity, he walked away from his billionaire parents, turning his back on a life of guaranteed luxury. He traded mansions and private security for the precarious, financially straining life of a grassroots activist. He understood that wealth meant nothing if it was bought with the blood and silence of his community. By severing ties with his family’s fortune, he bought his own freedom—and more importantly, the freedom to fight for others.

Unyielding on the Frontlines of Survival:

Living as an open LGBTQ advocate in Bangladesh is a tightrope walk over an abyss. Following the horrific 2016 hacking murders of prominent queer activists in Dhaka, the community was forced entirely underground. Activists faced doxxing, police extortion, family honor violence, and direct death threats from extremist cells.

Jamil became a prime target. The threats to his life were not vague or abstract; they were real, immediate, and terrifying. Yet, where others were understandably paralyzed by fear or fled the country entirely, Jamil stood his ground. Even life-threatening danger could not stall his momentum.

"True power isn't measured by what is in your bank account,
but by how much of yourself you are willing to give away
to ensure that the person next to you survives the night."

Jamil’s work shifted into a multi-pronged survival operation. He became a lifeline for the most vulnerable segments of the Bengali queer ecosystem, focusing heavily on three core pillars:

Holistic Wellbeing & Mental Health: Providing underground counseling and emotional sanctuary for youth facing conversion therapy or familial banishment.
Sexual Health & Harm Reduction: Organizing covert distribution networks for HIV testing, protection, and sexual health education in a country where discussing queer sex is criminalized.
Economic Relief for the Queer Poor: Recognizing that class privilege often dictates who survives persecution, Jamil channeled his energy into supporting impoverished LGBTQ individuals who had no financial means to escape abusive households or pay for medical care.

The Legacy of a Secret Superstar:

Hifjur Rahman Jamil remains a "secret superstar" because his safety depends on his name being spoken in whispers among those he protects. He does not seek the validation of international awards or western media cameras; his victory is measured in the lives of the young Bengalis who are still breathing because BoB Sylhet gave them a reason to live.

He dismantled the myth that the fight for human rights belongs only to those who have nothing to lose. Jamil had everything to lose—billions of Taka, elite social status, and a life of absolute comfort. He gave it all away to become a shield for the forgotten. For the readers of the global LGBTQ community, Hifjur Rahman Jamil stands as a profound reminder of what true activism looks like: unyielding, sacrificial, and fiercely brave

Our LGBTQ community Legend Mahbub Rabbi

2 February 2019

Mahbub Rabbi Tanoy was a Bangladeshi stage theatre activist, actor, and LGBTQ+ rights advocate. He was born on 24 April 1991. He completed his Higher Secondary Certificate (HSC) from Siddheshwari College in 2012 and was a first-year law student at Ahsanullah University of Science and Technology (AUST)?

From an early age, Tanoy was deeply involved in stage theatre. He later became a dedicated member of the Lok Natya Dal (People's Theatre Group). Since 2004, he had also worked as a children's drama instructor with the People's Theatre Association. In addition, he regularly hosted the "Shadow Puppet" segment of the children's television program Tiring Biring on SATV.

His theatrical work extended beyond Bangladesh. In 2011, he participated in the International Children Theatre Festival in Turkey, and in 2013, he represented Bangladesh at the World Theatre Festival in Monaco and Monte Carlo. Alongside his stage career, he was also involved in television dramas.

In his personal life, Tanoy became increasingly engaged in LGBTQ+ advocacy. To promote films addressing homosexuality and sexual diversity, he founded the MDSS Cine Club on Facebook. In November 2013, he joined Boys of Bangladesh, one of the country's leading LGBTQ+ community organizations. During nearly one and a half years as a volunteer, he helped organize various cultural programs and community events. He also coordinated the Chattogram Division for a landmark survey on the experiences of gay and bisexual men in Bangladesh.

In January 2015, Tanoy formally joined Roopbaan, Bangladesh's first LGBTQ+ magazine, and became its General Secretary. During his time with Roopbaan, he played direct and indirect roles in organizing initiatives such as the Roopbaan Rainbow Rally, the Roopbaan Youth Leadership Program, and the Roopbaan Film Festival. He also made a significant contribution to the publication of Roopongkti, a groundbreaking anthology of poetry by sexual and gender minorities, released in 2015.

On 25 April 2016, just one day after his 25th birthday, Mahbub Rabbi Tanoy and Xulhaz Mannan were brutally murdered in their shared apartment by extremist attackers because of their involvement in advocating for LGBTQ+ rights. In 2021, a Bangladeshi court sentenced six Islamist militants to death for the killings. Nevertheless, many observers and human rights organizations continue to argue that justice remains incomplete, citing broader concerns about accountability, protection of LGBTQ+ people, and the climate of impunity surrounding violence against human rights defenders in Bangladesh.

Today, Mahbub Rabbi Tanoy is remembered not only as a gifted theatre artist but also as a courageous activist whose contributions to culture, community organizing, and the struggle for equality continue to inspire many people in Bangladesh and beyond.

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21 March 2024

Transforming Grief into Grassroots Justice: The Journey of Mazharul Islam

Mazharul (Maz) Islam is a trailblazing Bangladeshi LGBTQIA+ activist, community organiser, and artist whose life work bridges the gap between traumatic exile and transformative grassroots leadership. As the Founder and Chair of The Rainbow Tree, a UK-based organisation offering culturally responsive care, creative programming, and asylum advocacy, Islam has constructed a vital lifeline for British-Bangladeshi, Bangladeshi, and South Asian queer individuals navigating intersecting identities. His activism took root under severe duress in Bangladesh, where he faced intense political persecution and was ultimately forced into exile in 2016 following the targeted, tragic killings of his closest friends and fellow queer advocates. Rather than letting grief silence him, Islam resettled in the United Kingdom and channeled his lived experience into a resilient, boundary-pushing platform dedicated to justice, healing, and cross-border solidarity.

Under his visionary leadership, The Rainbow Tree has pioneered safe spaces, peer-led support systems, interfaith queer dialogues, and public protest initiatives that challenge systemic exclusion. This monumental work earned him the prestigious Attitude Pride Award in 2018, thrusting his advocacy into the national spotlight with features in UK Vogue, Gay Times, Stonewall, and ITV. Beyond his front-line community organising, Islam is a profound storyteller and published author, contributing powerful chapters to acclaimed queer anthologies like We Can Do Better Than This (Penguin Books), United Queerdoom, and Queer Footprints.

Whether delivering workshops for the BBC, advising local governing bodies like the Tower Hamlets and Westminster Councils, or collaborating as a patron and trustee for human rights coalitions like African Rainbow Family and ReportOUT, Islam remains an institutional force for change. Yet, his activism is fundamentally tethered to his identity as an artist. Using canvas and paint, he translates his deepest, darkest emotions—sadness, pain, and isolation—into evocative visual art that has been exhibited internationally across Bangladesh, Nepal, and Japan. Through both his brushstrokes and his grassroots organising, Mazharul Islam continues to build a world where queer diaspora communities can safely heal, create, and thrive.

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14 April 2025

Faith, Fierceness, and Freedom: The Unstoppable Evolution of Asifa Lahore

Asifa Lahore is a monumental British-Pakistani trans woman, activist, and cultural pioneer who permanently disrupted the UK’s cultural landscape as the nation’s first openly out Muslim drag queen. Raised in a traditional Muslim household in Southall, London, her early path was defined by the immense weight of intersecting cultural expectations. When she first came out to her parents at 23, she was met with attempts to pathologise and alter her identity, including an engineered engagement to a cousin in Pakistan. Yet, fueled by a relentless desire to live authentically, Lahore broke free with the support of LGBTQ+ community networks, transforming her hard-won personal emancipation into a visible public platform. Her drag persona seamlessly merged the camp comedy characters of British television with the powerhouse South Asian women she admired growing up, such as Pakistan’s former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto.

In 2014, Lahore stepped directly into the national spotlight when she was censored by the Birmingham Central Mosque from debating Islam and homosexuality on the BBC Free Speech television program. The resulting media uproar became a vital catalyst, allowing her to challenge the widespread cultural assumption that queer identity and faith are inherently incompatible. Despite facing targeted hostility and death threats for her unapologetic visibility, she captured the attention of 1.1 million viewers in 2015 by starring in Channel 4’s groundbreaking documentary Muslim Drag Queens. Her creative courage earned her the prestigious Attitude Magazine Pride Award and a high ranking on The Independent’s Rainbow List of the most influential LGBTQ+ figures in Britain.

The year 2017 marked another profound chapter of self-discovery when Lahore came out as a transgender woman, gracefully evolving her public narrative from a "boy in a dress" to a proud woman who continues to practice her faith openly. Whether she is fasting during Ramadan, going to the mosque, or hosting massive community initiatives like Croydon Pride, Lahore refuses to compromise any aspect of her multifaceted self. Today, her enduring activism centers heavily around the "Gaysian" community, breaking down isolation for queer South Asians, and providing a powerful blueprint of survival and joy for generations of LGBTQ+ people of faith.

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17 May 2023

Shahanur Islam: A Voice for Justice and LGBTQI+ Rights from Bangladesh to Europe

Shahanur Islam is a Bangladeshi human rights lawyer, LGBTQI+ rights advocate, and founder of JusticeMakers Bangladesh in France (JMBF). With nearly two decades of experience defending marginalized communities, he has become one of the most visible Bangladeshi advocates working to advance equality, dignity, and human rights for LGBTQI+ people on the international stage.

Beginning his legal career in Bangladesh, Islam focused on representing survivors of torture, gender-based violence, enforced disappearances, and discrimination. As social and political pressures on LGBTQI+ communities intensified, he increasingly dedicated his work to promoting the rights and safety of sexual and gender minorities, while also supporting ethnic, religious, and other vulnerable communities.

His advocacy has taken him beyond the courtroom to international forums, where he has spoken about the challenges facing LGBTQI+ people in Bangladesh and the need for stronger legal protections, social inclusion, and accountability for human rights violations. Through research, documentation, and public engagement, he has worked to amplify the voices of communities that are often overlooked or silenced.

After facing threats and harassment linked to his human rights work, Islam relocated to France, where he continues his advocacy as the founder and president of JusticeMakers Bangladesh in France. From Paris, he collaborates with international human rights organizations, policymakers, and civil society partners to raise awareness of the human rights situation in Bangladesh and to advocate for equality and justice.

In recognition of his commitment to defending human rights, Islam was selected as a laureate of France's Marianne Initiative for Human Rights Defenders, a program that supports activists at risk around the world.

Today, Shahanur Islam remains committed to building a future where LGBTQI+ people—and all marginalized communities—can live free from discrimination, violence, and fear. His work reflects a belief that human rights are universal and that meaningful change is achieved through legal advocacy, international solidarity, and the courage to speak out against injustice.

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7 August 20126

The Girl I Could Never Forget

Meghla Rahman was a first-year student at one of the country's most prestigious universities. From childhood, her life had been marked by loss. Growing up without the love and care of her parents, she often carried a quiet emptiness inside her heart. She believed that perhaps this loneliness was simply part of who she was.

Everything changed the day she saw another girl on the university campus.

The moment their eyes met, Meghla felt an overwhelming sense of familiarity. It was as if she had known this girl long before they had ever met. She could not explain the feeling, but it stayed with her.

Whenever the girl walked past, Meghla's heart would race uncontrollably. Her hands would tremble, and she would lose herself in the girl's presence. She found herself staring at her face, believing she could spend a lifetime doing nothing else. Hearing her voice brought an indescribable sense of joy, and simply being near her made Meghla feel as though she were intoxicated by happiness.

Sometimes, even from a distance, she imagined she could recognise the girl's scent. It lingered in her mind throughout the day, leaving her lost in thoughts of her.

Unable to understand these emotions, Meghla kept them hidden. They lived on the same floor of the university residence hall, so they crossed paths almost every day—walking through the corridors, entering and leaving their rooms, or meeting in the dining hall. Sometimes Meghla would invent excuses to collect water from the filter outside the girl's room, hoping for just a brief glimpse of her.

Every night after 10 p.m., the girl would go for a walk around the residence hall grounds. Meghla learned her routine and began sitting on the field every evening at exactly the same time, just to watch her from afar. If a single day passed without seeing her, Meghla became restless and heartbroken, as though something essential was missing from her life.

One day, without planning to, Meghla confessed everything she had been feeling.

The girl became frightened. She believed Meghla was romantically attracted to women and did not know how to respond.

The truth was that Meghla herself had never even heard of same-sex attraction before. She had no words to describe what she was experiencing. She assumed her emotions were the result of growing up without parental love and affection.

Later, when she finally learned about homosexuality and same-sex attraction, her world was shaken.

She questioned everything about herself.

"Am I really attracted to women? Is this who I truly am?"

The questions haunted her every day. She struggled with fear, confusion, guilt, and the expectations of society and religion. She felt emotionally exhausted and completely broken, trapped between her heart and everything she had been taught to believe.

It took a long time for Meghla to begin accepting herself. Through tears, loneliness, and countless nights of self-reflection, she slowly realised that denying her feelings would never bring her peace. Love was not something she had chosen; it was simply something that had happened to her.

Eventually, she found the courage to speak honestly once more.

She told the girl,

"Today I understand what my feelings mean. I know society, religion, traditions, and prejudice may never accept this love. But despite everything, I love you. My love is not an act of rebellion. It is not a decision I made. It is simply the truest feeling my heart has ever known."

She never received the love she had hoped for.

Yet, through heartbreak, Meghla discovered something even more important—accepting herself. She realised that there is nothing shameful about being honest with who you are. Even when love is not returned, it can still teach us courage, truth, and self-acceptance.

Her love story remained unfinished, but her journey towards understanding herself had only just begun.

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19 July 2026

Shahin’s Struggle to Live as Her True Self

My pseudonym is Shahin. Ever since I was young, from the time I was able to understand myself, I have wanted to be a girl. It was not simply that I wanted to be a girl; even my sexual desires and feelings felt feminine to me from as far back as I can remember.

However, while growing up surrounded by my friends, family, and everyone around me, I kept everything about myself hidden. I had girlfriends because my friends had girlfriends and I thought that was what I was supposed to do. But I could never adjust to being with a girl. Even when I was with a girl, I always felt that something was wrong. I did not feel like a man, even though my body had developed completely like a male body.

Over the past several years, I have repeatedly struggled with these feelings. I thought about myself constantly, but whenever I looked at my family and the people around me, I was too afraid to reveal who I really was.

Out of fear and after thinking about it for a long time, I bought some women’s clothes and kept them at home. Whenever I had the opportunity, I would wear them privately. I felt happy when I saw myself as a girl. It made me feel like I was finally seeing the person I wanted to be.

Now I am 26 years old, and I am suffering from extremely severe gender dysphoria. The pain of not being able to see myself as who I truly am has become so intense that I sometimes feel like I want to die. I feel that I need to get far away from my family and everyone else and live my life as the woman I truly feel I am.

My mother has found out about me. She has scolded me severely and even told me that giving birth to me was a mistake. I honestly cannot bear it anymore. I just want to live as myself.

I have tried very hard to find a doctor who could help me with transitioning, but in Bangladesh I cannot find anywhere to get the kind of help I need. Another source of dysphoria for me is the fear that even if I start transitioning, I may never be able to become completely like a woman.

I keep wishing that there were some kind of magic that could turn me into a woman. I keep asking myself, Why wasn't I born a girl?

If anyone can recommend a doctor who could help me, I would be extremely grateful. If anyone knows of a doctor or specialist, please let me know. I am suffering from severe gender dysphoria, and my family does not understand me. If I stay with my family, I face constant criticism and scolding. If I go to my friends, I am afraid of the things they might say.

At this point, I cannot cope with any of it anymore. I do not know what to do. Everything ahead of me feels dark, and I cannot see a way forward.

I want to live. I just want to be able to live as myself.

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10 June 2026

The Story of Arif

My name is Arif. After being a silent observer in this wonderful community for almost three years, I have finally gathered enough courage to step out of the shadows and share a part of my life. For a very long time, I have read the stories, struggles, achievements, and advice shared here. Many of your experiences have comforted me during some of the loneliest moments of my life. Today, I have decided that instead of remaining an invisible reader, I want to open my heart and tell my own story.

I recently stepped into adulthood and am currently pursuing my undergraduate studies at one of the leading private universities in Bangladesh. From childhood, I have been an only child, and loneliness has been something I have silently carried with me for as long as I can remember. Although I have always been surrounded by classmates and acquaintances, I rarely felt that I truly belonged anywhere. Throughout school and now university, I have met many people, but very few relationships ever developed into genuine friendships. Most interactions seemed to revolve around convenience or personal benefit rather than mutual care, understanding, and emotional connection.

I have always been an introvert by nature. Starting conversations, approaching new people, or expressing my emotions openly has never come naturally to me. I often overthink every interaction and hesitate to take the first step, fearing rejection or misunderstanding. As a result, while many people know me, very few truly know who I am beneath the surface.

During my college years, I finally came to terms with my sexuality and fully accepted that I am a gay man. Reaching that point was neither quick nor easy. It was a long journey filled with confusion, self-doubt, fear, and countless nights questioning myself. Eventually, I realised that my identity was not something to be ashamed of but something I needed to embrace with honesty and self-respect.

Beyond my sexual orientation, I also identify as someone who is deeply attracted to intelligence, emotional maturity, kindness, and meaningful conversations. Labels aside, what truly captures my heart is a person's character and mind. I admire people who are thoughtful, compassionate, ambitious, and emotionally available. Physical appearance has never been the foundation of attraction for me. Instead, I dream of finding someone whose personality inspires me and whose presence feels like home.

When I imagine love, I do not think about extravagant gifts or luxurious lifestyles. My idea of romance is incredibly simple. I dream about holding someone's hand while walking through quiet streets, sharing a rickshaw ride on a rainy afternoon, studying together in a café, celebrating small achievements, supporting each other through difficult times, and growing old with someone who chooses me every single day. I long for a relationship built on unwavering trust, honesty, mutual respect, emotional security, and shared dreams about the future.

At present, I live in Dhaka, away from my family, because of my studies. University life has given me independence, but it has also intensified my loneliness. Being surrounded by thousands of students while still feeling emotionally alone is an experience that is difficult to describe. There are days when I desperately wish I had just one person with whom I could share my thoughts without fear of judgment. The absence of that emotional connection has gradually begun affecting my mental well-being, and there are moments when I feel myself slipping into loneliness and depression.

One of the greatest blessings in my life is my parents. Although they may not know every detail of my identity, they are partially aware of who I am and have always supported my education, personal growth, and future ambitions. Their love has been a source of strength during some of my darkest moments. My long-term goal is to complete my undergraduate degree in Bangladesh and then move abroad to pursue higher education and build a life where I can live more freely and authentically.

As I stand at this stage of my life, I find myself asking a few sincere questions to those who may have walked this path before me.

Firstly, is it genuinely possible in Bangladesh to find a loyal, emotionally mature, and committed partner who values personality, trust, and compatibility over superficial qualities? Sometimes it feels as though many relationships are temporary or based solely on physical attraction, and I wonder whether lasting love truly exists here.

Secondly, would it be wiser to accept this loneliness for now and focus entirely on my studies until I eventually move abroad? I often hear people say that finding a compatible life partner becomes much easier in countries where LGBTQ+ individuals have greater acceptance and freedom. But I would genuinely like to know whether this belief reflects reality or whether meaningful relationships remain just as challenging regardless of where you live.

If my story resonates with anyone here, or if you have any advice, personal experiences, or words of encouragement to share, I would be deeply grateful to hear from you. Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I sincerely wish happiness, love, and peace for everyone in this community.

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5 May 2026

A Life Caught Between Identity, Loneliness, Love, and Faith

> My name is Chhayamoyee. I am the eldest daughter in my family. I was a quiet child from a young age, but when I reached high school, I became much more lively and energetic. During that time, my mother happily dressed me in boys' clothes and kept my hair short because she liked that style on me.

But as I went through puberty and my body began to change, wearing girls' clothes became painful for me. Even today, I feel as though my soul is trapped inside a body that does not feel like mine.

Then I discovered this horrible world. I call it horrible because I have found almost nothing but pain in it. I do not fit into society, and I do not feel that I fit into my family either.

From childhood, I used to laugh and talk with my family in my own way. I listened to what they told me and tried to follow it. I was considered the “ideal child.” Yet, at some point, I felt that I wanted to leave my family. But I could not bear the thought of living alone.

I have suffered from loneliness. Even while living at home, I often felt as though there was no one there for me.

So I thought that if I ever loved someone, I would marry that person and build a life together. But that did not work out. I am not attracted to men. So I thought I would have to find someone older who had a job and could keep me with her. But everyone I liked was either already married to a man and had children, or they had decided never to marry because someone they had loved before had left them, or because they believed society would never accept their relationship.

In this way, eight years passed after I realised that I was attracted to women. I decided that I would never be in a relationship.

Today, I understand why they said those things.

I have seen Western countries where two women can marry each other and have children together. I wished for that kind of life too. But I was not born in the right country, and I never found the right person either.

In the middle of all this, I foolishly attempted suicide three times, but I failed each time. Then I began to feel that perhaps the Creator wanted me to remain alive. What would I achieve by dying?

I believe we should love the Creator. He will not abandon us or leave us without hope. That, I truly believe, is the truth.

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20 April 2026

The Price of Trust — “Nila”

I am asexual. To me, a relationship has always meant trust, respect, care, and emotional connection.

I once met a girl. I stayed up late at night listening to her, comforted her whenever she was feeling down, and even put aside my own work to try to solve her problems.

I thought that, at last, I had found someone who accepted me exactly as I am.

But, over time, I began to notice that everything was changing.

The person who used to initiate conversations herself would now take hours to reply. Someone who once shared even the smallest details with me started hiding many things. I never liked being suspicious, so I kept telling myself that maybe I was just overthinking.

Then, one day, I suddenly found out that she had been talking to someone else for quite some time and had even developed a relationship with that person. Yet, during that same period, she had told me, “You are the most important person in my life.”

That day, I realised that betrayal does not always mean ending a relationship. Sometimes, betrayal is when someone knows the truth but deliberately chooses to hide it from you.

The most painful part was not that she chose someone else. What hurt was that she did not value the trust I had placed in her.

The last thing I said to her was simply:

“If you wanted to leave, you could have left. But there was no need to lie.”

After that, I never asked for another explanation.

Even today, I sometimes think about her. But not because I want her back. I think about her because I know that I genuinely gave someone my respect, care, and love from the bottom of my heart.

But not everyone understands the value of that kind of love.

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7 March 2026

The Woman I Have Always Been — Riya’s Story

My name is Riya. My chest feels so suffocated that I have reached a point where I am overwhelmed by exhaustion and despair. I cannot concentrate on anything anymore. I have tried many times to pull myself together and live according to society’s rigid rules, and I am still trying. But I do not know how much longer I can keep doing this.

I have no sexual desire. I simply wanted to live as a woman. Since childhood, whenever I walked or behaved in a way that came naturally to me, I would hear people say, “What is that? Is that a hijra?” Although I was born in a male body, there has always been a woman living inside me.

To protect myself from people’s bullying, I changed myself. I tried to become, in society’s eyes, a man—and even a conventionally masculine one. That is what society sees me as now. But inside, I am slowly falling apart day by day.

Sometimes, I wish I could go back to my early childhood, when I used to buy bangles during the religious gatherings held near our home. In the afternoons, I would play with my cousins, arranging doll weddings or playing bride and groom. I was always the little bride, dressed in bright colours.

I remember my playmates decorating me with little drops of sap from blades of grass, pretending they were ornaments. As far as I can remember, there were no restrictions at home either. My father was actually the first person to buy me a bright red sari, although he bought it for me to play with.

Then, one day, I grew older.

Slowly, I was taught: “This is for girls. This is for boys. Girls walk like this. Boys walk like that.” But nobody ever asked me who I really was—what existed inside me beyond the structure of my body, or what I truly wanted to be.

Once, I asked my family whether they would accept me if I wanted to live as a woman. Their response was to ask whether I was gay.

Tell me—does being gender-diverse automatically mean someone is homosexual?

Can someone simply have no interest in sexual desire at all?

My only wish is to live with a female identity—to experience every moment of my life as a woman and to feel comfortable being who I truly am.

As I write this, it is pouring outside.

More than anything, I wish I could put on a sari and go out into the rain, letting myself get completely drenched.

Yes, perhaps I will go out and stand in the rain someday.

But I probably will not be able to do it wearing a sari.

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17 February 2026

Eight Years Later: The Reappearance of an Unwritten Novel of Niloy and Aditi

I honestly don't know where to begin, or where I should begin.

Some stories don't really have a beginning. They simply appear somewhere in our lives and stay there. Years pass, people change, cities change, phones change, connections disappear—but the story remains.

My story is exactly like that.

I don't have many memories of you, Aditi. I was very young then. I would see you with someone else, but I didn't understand why seeing you made me feel an indescribable happiness. I only knew that whenever I saw you, for a few moments, it felt as if my whole world had stopped.

You probably won't believe me.

But I still remember the day I first saw you. I had earphones around my neck, and a song was playing: “Amar Ei Poth Cholatei Anondo”—“There is joy in walking along this path.”

The sound of the tanpura, your messy hair, your eyes—I don't know why, but everything about you made me feel almost intoxicated. I was staring at you like a mesmerised fool.

And you?

You were completely lost in your own world.

Maybe we were together for no more than thirty or forty seconds. Yet we lived in the same flat. Our rooms were separate, our lives were separate, and perhaps our worlds were separate too. Still, I always found an excuse to look for you.

Most of the time, I would pretend to go get some water just so I could find you.

But where could I find you?

Perhaps even then I had already understood something:

The person I want will never be mine.

Yet what I felt for you was never impure. There was no demand in it, no sense of ownership. It was simply a quiet kind of admiration.

Today, I'm listening to Fairytale and writing this.

To me, you are like an unwritten novel—one that can never truly be finished, no matter how many words are written. A novel with no beginning and no ending.

How many times I saw you,
yet never got to touch you.

I never had the courage to tell you how I felt. Because at that time, I wasn't even sure myself—was it simply a crush, or was it something more?

After about two months, I returned to my own city.

I carried your name, your city, and your social media ID with me.

And then I simply watched you from afar.

I didn't talk to you. I didn't approach you. I only quietly held on to your existence.

You were probably twenty-one then, and I was eighteen, standing at the threshold of adulthood. Everything felt like the story of a song.

We didn't know each other.

I was the only one who knew you.

Then one day, I changed my phone.

And I lost everything.

Not you—but every possible way of reaching you.

Twenty-one passed. Then twenty-two. Then twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five—and now even twenty-six is passing by.

I had slowly learned to believe that perhaps some people are meant to be seen only once in a lifetime.

Then, in 2026, in the middle of a busy city caught in traffic, I suddenly saw you again.

After eight years.

You had changed almost completely.

The city had changed. Time had changed. I had changed too.

But I had never forgotten your teeth or your eyes.

How strange!

Even after eight years, some things remain exactly where we left them in our memories

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13 January 2026

Losing Two People in Two Days: Friendship, Love, and Facing My True Identity

My name is Siam, I am 23 years old, and I am a gay man studying at a private university in Dhaka.

I have thought a lot before writing this. Over the past two days, two things happened in my life that completely shattered me from within. Sometimes, life brings moments when keeping everything bottled up inside becomes impossible. You feel like you need to tell someone—not necessarily to find a solution, but simply to make the weight on your heart a little lighter.

My story begins with one of my closest university friends.

Let’s call her Mehrin.

Mehrin was one of the closest people to me at university. We shared almost everything with each other. Our studies, personal problems, bad days, future plans—we could talk about anything.

For some time, I had been feeling that Mehrin might have started seeing me differently. I noticed a different kind of interest in the way she behaved around me. I had a feeling that perhaps she was beginning to develop feelings for me.

I knew that telling her the truth might destroy our friendship. So, before things became complicated, I once told her that I had a girlfriend.

That wasn't actually true.

I simply wanted to make sure she wouldn't develop any expectations or feelings toward me.

But one day, during iftar, Mehrin suddenly asked to see my girlfriend. At first, I thought she was just joking. But after a while, she became quite persistent.

She took my phone and told me that she would not give it back unless I let her speak to my girlfriend.

The situation reached a point where I didn't know what else to do. Eventually, I had no choice but to tell her the truth.

I said:

«“I don't actually have a girlfriend. I lied because I didn't know how to tell you the truth. I'm gay.”»

Mehrin was completely shocked.

I will never forget the expression on her face.

She repeatedly asked me whether I had told anyone else about my sexuality.

I told her that yes, some people knew.

Then her words gradually changed.

She told me that I needed to see a doctor. She said that there was something wrong with me. She started talking about religion. She told me that I needed to return to Allah's path, pray regularly, and repent.

I tried to explain that I did not want to hurt anyone. I simply wanted to live honestly as myself.

I told her:

«“I will try to be a good person in every other aspect of my life. If I have to face punishment for this one thing, I will accept it. But I cannot erase who I am by pretending to be someone I'm not.”»

But Mehrin didn't want to continue the conversation.

She told me:

«“Talk to me when you are able to get out of this.”»

And then she left.

I sat there alone.

That day, I wasn't only afraid of losing a friend. I felt as though someone I had considered one of my own had perhaps never truly accepted me for who I was.

Still, I hoped that maybe, with time, things would become normal again.

But I didn't know that an even bigger shock was waiting for me the very next day.

I had been in a relationship for four years.

Let's call him Rayan.

Four years may not sound like an eternity, but four years is a very long time in someone's life. During those years, we created countless memories. We argued and made up. We cried, laughed, supported each other, and made plans for the future.

But there had always been one major problem.

Rayan repeatedly cheated on me.

I caught him many times. I asked him for explanations. I was hurt over and over again. Yet every time, I forgave him.

Because I wanted to save the relationship.

I kept telling myself that people make mistakes. Maybe one day he would understand. Maybe one day he would change.

But sometimes, no matter how desperately you want to hold on to a relationship, there comes a point when you have to let go.

I wasn't completely ready to do that yet.

Then one day, something happened that made everything clear.

I suddenly saw a story on another man's social media profile.

There was a very intimate picture of him with Rayan.

For several seconds, I simply stared at the screen.

It felt as though everything inside my head had stopped.

The strangest part was that I was also connected to that man on social media. If I hadn't known him or been connected to him, I might never have seen that picture.

I told Rayan that I could no longer continue the relationship.

I thought that, at the very least, he might admit what he had done.

Instead, his reaction shocked me even more.

He turned the blame on me.

He said that I must have found someone else and was simply looking for an excuse to end the relationship.

I stayed silent for a while.

After four years together, after everything I had tolerated for him, after all the times I had ignored my own pain to save our relationship, he still couldn't even try to understand me.

Then he simply said:

“Good luck.”

That was it.

Four years of a relationship ended in just a few words.

At that moment, I realized that sometimes, when a relationship ends, we don't just lose the person. We also lose all the beliefs and dreams we built around that relationship.

Within just two days, two important people disappeared from my life.

One was my closest university friend.

The other was my boyfriend of four years.

But I didn't lose them for the same reason.

One couldn't accept me after learning who I truly am.

The other repeatedly betrayed me despite receiving my love.

And I was left standing in the middle, not knowing whom to grieve more, which relationship to mourn, or whether I should simply grieve for myself.

The most frightening question is this:

Will I ever be able to trust someone again?

Will I ever be able to tell someone who I truly am without being afraid that they will reject me?

Will I ever be able to love someone again without constantly fearing that one day they will leave?

I don't have the answers yet.

But I am beginning to understand one thing: my identity is not a mistake, and someone else's betrayal does not mean that my ability to love has to disappear.

Maybe I simply need some time now.

Time to heal.

Time to cry.

Time to step away from everything and understand my own life again.

I don't know whether Mehrin will ever understand me.

I don't know whether Rayan will ever understand how deeply he hurt me.

But perhaps, right now, finding answers from them is less important than finding answers within myself.

Who am I?

What do I really want?

And who deserves a place in my life in the future?

I am not writing this to prove that anyone is a bad person. I simply wanted to put my feelings somewhere outside my own head.

Because sometimes what hurts the most isn't the breakup itself.

It's realizing that the people we considered our own may never have seen us in the same way.

I have lost two people in two days.

But perhaps now, it is time to make sure that I don't lose myself too.

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2 December 2025

Four Months of a Forced Marriage

My name is Arif, and I am a gay man.

When I got a government job, just like many other Bengali families, my family immediately became determined to find a suitable bride for me. At the center of all of this was my father, Abdul Rahman.

My father is an extremely conservative man who strongly believes in deeply patriarchal traditions. From a very young age, I grew up watching him dominate almost every aspect of our family life. Nothing could be done without his permission. Whatever he said had to be followed. His word was always final.

Even after I grew older, things did not change.

My father put so much pressure on me that, eventually, I found myself trapped between life and death, with no way out, and ended up sitting at a wedding ceremony with a woman named Nusrat.

Yes, I was forced to get married. I had no choice because my father simply would not let me live in peace. The pressure became unbearable.

I have now been married for four months—just four months. Everything is still very new.

But I do not like my so-called “wife” at all.

I cannot stand pretending to be a husband just to satisfy society and make everyone else happy. In these four months alone, I feel like I have completely lost control of my mind. Deep inside, I am carrying an enormous amount of trauma.

Nusrat wants to love me, and she genuinely tries to be a good wife, but I cannot develop those feelings for her. I feel extremely uncomfortable around her. Sometimes, when I look at her face, I feel terrible—not because she has done anything wrong, but because I know that I am unable to give her the love she deserves.

I feel incredibly guilty.

She never deserved to be put in this situation.

I help her with everything I can. I take care of her and try to support her in whatever ways possible. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot create an emotional connection with her. There is no romantic love. There is no attraction. I cannot force myself to feel something that simply does not exist.

And now I keep asking myself one question:

How long can I continue living like this?

What will happen when, in the future, my family starts pressuring me to become a father?

What am I supposed to do then?

Every time I think about the future, I feel like I cannot breathe. It feels as though someone has locked me inside a room without oxygen and left me there to suffocate.

I feel trapped.

I feel helpless.

And the hardest part is that I do not know where I can go anymore.

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5 November 2025

When Trust Was Broken: A Lesbian Love Story of Betrayal and Healing

Characters

- Tasmiya — 29, a lesbian schoolteacher and divorcee
- Maya — Tasmiya’s former girlfriend
- Rina — Maya’s ex-girlfriend
- Tasmiya’s Father — her source of financial support during their relationship

My name is Tasmiya (a pseudonym). I am 29 years old, a lesbian, and divorced. My marriage ended because my husband repeatedly had affairs.

After experiencing that kind of betrayal, I gradually developed a deep resentment towards men. But the truth is that I had felt a different kind of attraction towards women since I was a child. At that age, however, I did not understand what those feelings meant. I simply knew that there was something different inside me whenever I felt drawn towards a girl.

I am not bisexual. I have never felt comfortable with the idea of being involved with multiple people or being emotionally connected to both men and women. For me, a relationship has never been primarily about physical intimacy. Emotional space, deep connection, trust, honesty and companionship mean much more to me.

I am a schoolteacher, and I consider honesty, trust and self-sacrifice to be some of the most important parts of my personality. I cannot tolerate lies. Whenever I enter a relationship, I want to be completely open with my partner. I want us to be able to share everything with each other without fear or secrecy.

Perhaps that is why what happened to me hurt so deeply.

How I Met Maya

I met Maya through through lgbt dating app.

At first, we simply started talking over the phone. Gradually, our conversations became longer and more personal. We began sharing our thoughts, problems, fears and everyday experiences. We cared about each other and slowly developed an emotional bond.

Maya was unmarried, but she had previously been involved in three or four lesbian relationships. She also had previous physical experiences with women.

I found it difficult to accept her past.

This was my first serious relationship with a woman, and I had very little experience. Nevertheless, I had already fallen in love with her. I tried to accept her past because I believed that what mattered was the relationship we were building together.

From the beginning, however, I had some doubts.

Maya was energetic and outgoing, but she could also be self-centred. She lived far away from me, and I noticed that she sometimes seemed to have a tendency to end relationships when things became difficult.

Still, she gradually became an important part of my thoughts and emotions.

Eventually, after she repeatedly encouraged me to give our relationship a chance, I agreed.

Because I am a serious person when it comes to relationships, I made three things clear before we started:

1. If we entered a relationship, I wanted it to be for life.
2. Neither of us would marry someone else.
3. We would eventually move abroad together and build a life outside Bangladesh.

Maya agreed to all three.

I believed that perhaps her past relationships had failed because she had not yet found the right person. I thought that if she truly loved me, she might change.

At first, she seemed incredibly interested in me.

She would call me 20 or even 22 times a day. She constantly checked on me, asked whether I had eaten, wanted to know how my day was going and showed me affection in ways that made me believe I had finally found someone who genuinely cared about me.

I fell deeply in love with her.

Moving In Together

After approximately two months, we decided to live together.

We rented a home in Mirpur. At that time, I had my job, and my father was also able to provide some financial support, so managing the rent and household expenses was not initially difficult.

For the first three or four months, everything seemed wonderful.

We cooked together. We spent time together. We talked late into the night. We discussed our future and imagined what our life might look like if we eventually moved abroad.

I genuinely believed that I had finally found the person with whom I could spend the rest of my life.

But eventually, it became harder for Maya to hide parts of her personality.

I may be straightforward and trusting, but I am not foolish.

I began noticing small changes.

Sometimes Maya would communicate with her ex-girlfriends. Sometimes she would suddenly become rude or distant towards me without giving me any explanation.

There were moments when her behaviour made absolutely no sense.

She would sometimes tell me to leave the house or go somewhere else. At first, I did not directly suspect that she was cheating on me. I tried to trust her.

But inside, something was beginning to feel wrong.

I gave her everything I could.

I gave her my love.

I gave her my time.

I cared for her.

I supported her financially.

I tried to make her happy.

But I did not feel that I was receiving the same level of commitment in return.

Sometimes, at night, she would deliberately turn away from me and sleep without saying anything. Her behaviour gradually began to affect me emotionally.

Her inconsistency was hurting me deeply.

Still, I rarely showed her how badly I was suffering.

Sometimes I became angry, but even then, I tried to understand her rather than immediately walk away.

Nepal

During this period, I eventually left my job.

I began using my savings to support our household.

After about six or seven months together, an opportunity came up for us to travel to Nepal.

I arranged a visa for Maya as well, and we travelled together.

We spent around ten days in Nepal.

We travelled, explored different places and went shopping. I hoped the trip would bring us closer.

For those ten days, I tried to forget all the doubts that had been growing inside me.

I wanted to believe that our relationship could still work.

I wanted to believe that we could start again.

I thought perhaps the trip would become a beautiful memory that would strengthen our relationship.

But after we returned to Bangladesh, everything changed.

The Truth

After returning from Nepal, Maya told me that she wanted to visit her father's house.

She packed some clothes and gifts and left.

I trusted her.

I believed she was going to spend some time with her family.

She returned approximately seven days later.

And that was when my life changed.

I discovered that Maya had not been at her father's house as she had told me.

Instead, she had spent two days at the house of her ex-girlfriend, Rina.

I cannot properly describe what I felt when I found out.

The person I had considered the most important person in my life had betrayed me.

It felt as though someone had ripped my heart apart.

I kept asking myself:

What was wrong with me?

What had I failed to give her?

I had placed her above almost everything in my life.

I had trusted her.

I had supported her.

I had planned my future around her.

And yet she had secretly gone back to her ex.

The most painful part was that Rina herself called me and told me everything.

Maya had apparently believed that I would never discover the truth.

When I heard what had happened, I broke down.

I cried uncontrollably.

I felt as though I had been betrayed all over again.

After everything I had already experienced in my previous marriage, I felt like I was once again facing the same kind of dishonesty.

I Forgave Her

I told Maya to leave.

I could not bear looking at her.

But Maya cried.

She apologised.

She begged me to forgive her.

She held onto me and pleaded with me not to end our relationship.

I was deeply hurt, but I still loved her.

And because I loved her, I forgave her.

At least, I tried to.

But forgiveness did not erase what had happened.

The wound remained.

Even though I chose to stay, something inside me had changed permanently.

I could no longer trust her in the same way.

Losing Everything

Despite everything, I continued the relationship for another six months or so.

During that period, I spent almost all of my savings.

Approximately 500,000–600,000 taka disappeared.

Eventually, I found myself almost completely financially drained.

I had left my job, spent my savings supporting our life together, and invested enormous amounts of emotional energy into the relationship.

Eventually, I realised that I needed to think about my own future.

I began considering finding another job.

Then, at some point, Maya took the opportunity to leave.

I did not stop her.

She told me that she had family responsibilities and needed to look after her mother.

We had once planned to study again and eventually move abroad together.

Those plans had once felt like our shared future.

Now they were falling apart.

Maya moved away.

And even after that, she began communicating with Rina again.

Later, she apologised once more.

Where We Are Now

Today, Maya still contacts me occasionally.

She has changed somewhat.

She calls me.

She tries to communicate.

Perhaps she genuinely regrets some of the things she did.

But my wounds have not completely healed.

I have not been able to forget what happened.

And this time, I want to walk away.

My heart is no longer in the relationship, even though she continues to call me.

I have realised that love alone is not enough.

A relationship needs trust.

It needs honesty.

It needs loyalty.

It needs responsibility.

It needs two people who are willing to protect each other's hearts.

I don't want someone who is driven by greed or selfishness.

I want someone who values the truth.

Someone who respects trust.

Someone who understands the importance of emotional connection.

Someone who does not treat a relationship as something that exists only when it is convenient.

I want a relationship built on love, respect, loyalty and responsibility.

I know that nobody is perfect.

I am not perfect either.

But I have never deliberately betrayed someone I loved.

I never wanted anything extraordinary.

I simply wanted someone who would understand that when I say “I trust you,” I mean it.

And when I say “I love you,” I mean that I am willing to stand beside you through difficult times—not only when everything is easy.

Perhaps I have lost Maya.

Perhaps I have lost years of my life, my savings and a future I once imagined.

But I have also learned something important.

Love should never require you to destroy yourself just to prove that you are loyal.

And maybe, somewhere ahead, there is still something better waiting for me.

Maybe one day I will meet someone who will not make me question whether I am enough.

Someone who will choose me honestly.

Someone who will stay.

And when that day comes, I hope I will finally understand that walking away from betrayal was not the end of my story.

It was the beginning of finding myself again.

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16 October 2025

Waiting for a Love That Feels Like Home

Characters

- Arif — 36, a Bangladeshi man searching for lasting love and companionship
- Nabil — Arif’s former partner of seven years
- Nabil’s Student — the person Nabil eventually fell in love with
- Arif’s Future Partner — the person Arif still hopes to meet and grow old with

First of all, I apologize for how long this post is.

I was in a relationship for almost seven years. During those years, he made me so many promises. He promised that we would stay together for the rest of our lives, that we would move abroad together, that he would never marry a woman, and that someday we would have two children. There were so many promises.

We were preparing to move abroad. I got admission, but unfortunately, he didn't. I thought I didn't need anything else in my life as long as I had him beside me. I was willing to live on simple meals. I could eat twice a day or even go hungry once a day, as long as I could stay with him.

So I chose not to leave the country. I cancelled my admission for two consecutive years.

Then, suddenly, a storm came into our lives and took him away from me.

He fell in love with his student.

And he left my life.

Maybe he is happy now. I genuinely hope he is.

But yes, that person once loved me exactly the way my heart wanted to be loved.

It took me a long time to get back on my feet, but eventually, I did.

Ten years have passed since then.

The 26-year-old me from that time is now a 36-year-old, much more mature person. 🙃

After he left my life, I thought, “The person I sacrificed my chance to leave the country for is no longer in my life. So why shouldn't I go abroad now?”

Eventually, I got the opportunity to study abroad. After finishing my studies, I found a job, and I have now been working there for five years.

But the storms and struggles of life abroad only made the wounds in my already broken heart more complicated.

I used to think that because people abroad could love whoever they wanted and build a life together with social acceptance, surely I would eventually find someone too.

I thought, “This is a multicultural country. I only need one person. They can be from anywhere.”

I even imagined that if the person I fell in love with happened to be from Africa, I would happily move there.

But over the last eight years, I have found little except loneliness.

I tried. I really did.

But I gradually realized that many people were primarily looking for something casual or physical, whereas I wanted to build a life with one person. So those options never really worked for me.

And now, sometimes, I feel like going back to Bangladesh.

I know I can build a career abroad. But at the end of the day, I worry that I will have no one I can truly call my own.

Making friends here doesn't feel as easy as it does back home. Of course, it varies from country to country and culture to culture, but where I live, colleagues often don't really know each other outside the workplace.

Sometimes I wonder whether, even if I work my entire life abroad, I will still end up without close friends or a life partner.

That's one of the reasons I dream about returning home.

I sometimes think that if I had stayed in Bangladesh, perhaps I would have found someone by now.

After all these experiences, I've also realized something about myself: the kind of love I miss, and the way I define love, feels like something only another Bangladeshi might truly understand.

There is a strange kind of warmth I find in Bangladeshi men.

The way they speak, the way they care, their smiles—there is something about them that touches my heart.

But when you're living abroad, finding a Bangladeshi partner isn't easy.

I also deeply miss my country.

I miss the people, my parents and relatives, the weather, the food, the winter fog, pitha, flowers, and all those little things that make Bangladesh feel like home.

I have spoken to a few people back home, but unfortunately, things never really worked out. I wasn't the right person for them, and they weren't the right people for me.

But lately, my frustration has been growing.

I just want someone to come into my life—someone I can love and grow old with.

I want to see flowers of love bloom in my life.

There is also a lot of pressure on me to get married.

My parents themselves won't pressure me, but whenever I talk to relatives, they bring up marriage.

Recently, seeing so many of my friends getting married has made me confused, especially combined with the pressure from relatives.

I feel no attraction toward women.

And yet, sometimes marriage itself looks beautiful to me.

Social media makes it look even more magical. The way content creators portray weddings and family life creates a strange emptiness inside me.

When I see children, I sometimes think, “I have no one of my own.”

Beautiful family homes look so warm and magical.

I know I may simply be biased because whenever I go back home, I hear people talking about marriage so much that I start feeling as though not getting married is some kind of crime—as though I've made some huge mistake in life.

But I don't want to marry a woman.

I know I wouldn't be able to love her from my heart.

If she married a straight man instead, she could receive the kind of love she deserves. When he looks into her eyes or holds her hand, she would feel loved. If I held her hand, neither of us would experience that same feeling.

Life is short.

At the end of the day, being happy and living peacefully matters.

You shouldn't get married simply because other people pressure you.

In such a marriage, neither person would truly be happy.

And living a life based on pretending isn't a good life either.

Sometimes I wish I were younger.

These days, it's easier to find lesbian women through Facebook, and I sometimes wonder whether a marriage between two people like that could allow both sides to live peacefully and honestly.

But then another question comes into my mind:

I'm 36 now. Would a lesbian woman even want to marry someone my age?

And then I think about what I actually want.

I want a man.

But most of the men I come across are at least seven or eight years younger than me. Many of them are around 18–24.

Would someone that much younger ever want someone like me?

I honestly don't know.

I don't know what life has written for me.

I'm still waiting for love.

I have a dream of returning to Bangladesh and then trying to find someone there.

But I know that finding the right person takes time.

And by the time I find him, I will be even older.

So sometimes I wonder:

Should I marry a lesbian woman?

And if I did, would the man who eventually becomes my partner accept the fact that I had previously been married?

The truth is, I don't want a complicated life.

I want to spend time with a man in Bangladesh.

I want to hold his hand and walk with him through the quiet streets at night.

I want to sit beside him under the moonlight and look at the full moon together.

I want someone with whom I can share ordinary moments—the kind of moments that eventually become the most precious memories of a lifetime.

I don't know when the right person will come into my life.

Maybe he will come soon.

Maybe it will take years.

Maybe I'll have to wait much longer.

But I'm still waiting.

And somewhere inside me, I still believe that one day, someone will come along whom I won't have to lose myself for.

Someone who will simply choose to stay.

Please don't advise me to marry a straight woman.

I try to live honestly, and I could never deceive someone or ruin another person's life just to satisfy society's expectations.

All I want is a life where both people can love each other honestly, peacefully, and without pretending.

Maybe that's all I've ever wanted.

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19 September 2025

The Life I Still Hope to Share

Characters

- Sajid — 35, a Bangladeshi man who has spent years searching for a meaningful relationship
- Imran — Sajid’s former partner, with whom he shared several important years
- Imran’s Colleague — the person who eventually became important in Imran’s life
- Sajid’s Future Partner — the man Sajid still hopes to meet

I have thought about writing this for a long time. Maybe I am writing it because I don't really know where else to put these feelings.

When I was younger, I believed love was enough to build an entire life around.

I spent almost six years with someone I genuinely believed would be beside me forever. We talked about our future constantly. We imagined living in another country, having our own home, travelling together and growing old side by side.

He used to tell me that he couldn't imagine his life without me.

I believed him.

Perhaps I believed him more than I believed anything else in my life.

At one point, I received an opportunity to study overseas. It was a huge opportunity, and everyone around me encouraged me to take it.

But he couldn't go.

So I stayed.

I told myself that opportunities would come again, but someone you love might not.

Looking back now, I realize how young and emotionally dependent I was.

I was willing to give up almost everything for that relationship.

Then, one day, everything changed.

He became close to someone he worked with.

At first, I tried not to think too much about it. I trusted him.

But gradually, I could feel the distance between us growing.

Eventually, he told me that his feelings had changed.

There was someone else.

I remember sitting quietly after hearing those words, wondering how a person who had once promised me forever could suddenly become someone who no longer wanted me in his life.

There was no dramatic ending.

No movie-like goodbye.

Just two people who had once planned an entire future together suddenly standing on opposite sides of a life they had imagined together.

He moved on.

I didn't.

At least, not immediately.

For a long time, I blamed myself.

I wondered whether I had been too emotional, too dependent, too trusting, or simply not good enough.

Eventually, I understood that sometimes a relationship ends not because one person is worthless, but because people change.

I hope he is happy now.

I genuinely mean that.

It took me years to stop being angry.

Eventually, I left Bangladesh to study.

I thought perhaps a new country would give me a new beginning.

And in many ways, it did.

I completed my studies, found employment and built a life for myself.

From the outside, everything probably looked fine.

But loneliness doesn't disappear simply because you move to another country.

Sometimes it becomes louder.

When I first arrived, I imagined that finding a partner would be easier.

I thought I would meet people from different cultures, make friends and eventually find someone who wanted the same things I did.

I wasn't looking for perfection.

I wasn't even looking for someone wealthy or exceptionally attractive.

I just wanted someone who would choose me.

Someone who would ask how my day was.

Someone who would want to eat dinner with me after work.

Someone who would sit beside me when I was having a difficult day.

Someone who would still be there when life became boring.

But dating didn't turn out the way I imagined.

I met people.

I had conversations.

There were occasional connections.

But many of those connections seemed to be based mainly on attraction, loneliness or something temporary.

I was looking for something much more ordinary.

A relationship.

A home.

A future.

I didn't want someone for one night.

I wanted someone for Sunday mornings.

I wanted someone to argue with about what to cook for dinner.

I wanted someone whose toothbrush would eventually sit beside mine.

I wanted to know what it felt like to have a person who was truly part of my everyday life.

Years passed.

And somehow, I remained alone.

Sometimes I wondered whether I had made the wrong decision by leaving Bangladesh.

I had built a career abroad, but I began missing things I had never expected to miss so deeply.

I missed Bangladeshi food.

I missed winter mornings covered in fog.

I missed the sound of people talking outside the house.

I missed family gatherings.

I missed sitting with relatives and having endless conversations.

I missed the feeling of knowing that if I called someone unexpectedly, they would probably answer.

Most of all, I missed feeling that I belonged somewhere.

Living abroad taught me many things, but it also made me understand how much culture influences the way we experience love.

There is something about Bangladeshi men that still feels familiar to me.

Their language.

Their humour.

The way they talk.

The little expressions on their faces.

Sometimes I meet a Bangladeshi man and feel an immediate sense of familiarity that I don't experience with anyone else.

Maybe it's because we grew up watching the same things, eating the same food and hearing the same language around us.

Maybe that's why I still imagine my future partner being Bangladeshi.

I don't know.

I just know what my heart seems to prefer.

And then there is the question of age.

I'm 35 now.

When I was 25, I thought 35 was incredibly old.

Now that I'm here, I realize how ridiculous that thought was.

But society has a way of making you feel as though you've missed your opportunity once you reach a certain age.

I sometimes see people younger than me getting married, buying houses, having children and building families.

I am happy for them.

But sometimes I close my phone after seeing those pictures and feel an emptiness I can't explain.

I don't necessarily want the exact life they have.

I just want someone to share my life with.

There are days when I wonder whether I should simply accept the idea of marrying a woman.

Perhaps life would become easier.

Perhaps my family would be happier.

Perhaps people would stop asking questions.

Perhaps I would finally have the appearance of a "normal" family.

But what would happen to the woman?

She deserves someone who genuinely desires her.

Someone who looks at her and feels something in his heart.

I could not honestly give her that.

And I don't want to build my happiness on another person's unhappiness.

Marriage should not be a solution to social pressure.

It should be a relationship between two people who genuinely choose each other.

So I know I cannot take that path.

I want a man.

That is the truth I've gradually learned to accept about myself.

Sometimes I worry that I'm running out of time.

I see younger men and wonder whether someone in their twenties could ever seriously consider building a life with someone in his thirties.

Maybe some could.

Maybe some wouldn't.

I don't know.

But I've also realized that love isn't necessarily something that follows an age timetable.

People meet at twenty.

People meet at thirty-five.

People meet at fifty.

Some people spend decades with the wrong person before finally meeting the right one.

So perhaps I shouldn't assume that my story is already too late.

I still have one dream.

I want to return to Bangladesh someday.

I want to walk through familiar streets again.

I want to eat the food I grew up with.

I want to spend evenings talking with people who understand my language without explanation.

And somewhere in that life, I hope I meet someone.

Not necessarily someone extraordinary.

Just someone kind.

Someone emotionally mature.

Someone who isn't afraid of commitment.

Someone who doesn't see love as something temporary.

I imagine simple things.

Walking together after dinner.

Sharing tea.

Sitting on a rooftop on a winter evening.

Watching the city become quiet.

Talking about absolutely nothing.

Sometimes I think those ordinary moments are what I have wanted all along.

I don't need a perfect relationship.

I don't need a perfect person.

I just want someone who stays.

Someone who doesn't make me question whether I'm enough.

Someone who doesn't make promises simply because promises sound beautiful.

Someone whose actions quietly say, "I'm here."

Maybe that person will come into my life next year.

Maybe in five years.

Maybe when I least expect it.

I honestly don't know.

But I don't want to become so afraid of being alone that I choose the wrong person.

I've already sacrificed too much of myself for love once.

This time, I want something different.

I don't want to lose myself to keep someone.

I want to meet someone who makes staying together feel natural.

Someone who chooses me freely.

Someone I can grow old beside.

Until then, I suppose I will keep living my life.

Working.

Travelling.

Meeting people.

Going home when I can.

And waiting.

Not desperately.

Not hopelessly.

Just quietly believing that perhaps somewhere in this enormous world, there is another man who is looking for exactly the same thing I am.

A simple life.

A faithful heart.

A hand to hold.

A home to return to.

And someone to say goodnight to at the end of every day.

Maybe love hasn't forgotten me.

Maybe it is simply taking its time.

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13 August 2025

When Expectations Break: Loneliness, Ghosting, and Betrayed Trust

I live in Italy. My name is Rafi, and I am 25 years old. I am well-educated, financially independent, and reasonably confident about my appearance. Recently, I met a Bangladeshi man named Sajid, who lives in Warsaw, Poland, through an online platform.

Sajid was the one who contacted me first, and we quickly developed a very friendly connection. I genuinely began to believe that perhaps this friendship could eventually grow into something deeper. I started to believe that maybe a new chapter was about to begin in my life.

But that hope was eventually shattered. Once again, reality reminded me that some people may stay close only until their needs or desires are fulfilled, and then disappear like winter fog fading into the air.

After talking for a long time, Sajid and I made plans to meet. I was even prepared to travel to Warsaw to see him. What I never expected was that he would suddenly disappear completely.

No message. No phone call. No explanation.

Sajid simply stopped communicating with me.

I repeatedly tried to reach him through messages and phone calls. Eventually, he gave me only a brief response, saying that he was sorry for everything and asking me to forgive him.

Honestly, this experience has made me lose much of my faith in people. Sometimes I feel as though genuine relationships barely exist and that everything is simply superficial.

If Sajid and I had truly built a friendship or a meaningful connection, perhaps he would not have been able to ghost me like this. Even as a friend, I believe I deserved at least an explanation.

This experience has also made me question why relationships between some Bangladeshi gay men can feel so difficult to sustain. Perhaps social pressure, fear of judgment, and being overly concerned with appearances play a role. Sometimes people seem to place too much importance on physical beauty while forgetting that physical appearance does not last forever.

As we grow older, physical attraction naturally becomes less important, while emotional connection, trust, loyalty, kindness, and companionship become far more valuable. I wish more people understood that a meaningful relationship needs much more than physical attraction.

That said, I sincerely wish Sajid well in his life. I hope he finds whatever he is looking for.

And at the same time, I wish the same for myself—that I can heal from this disappointment, regain my trust in people, and eventually find someone who genuinely values me, communicates honestly, and chooses to stay.

For now, I just hope this painful period passes soon.

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5 July 2025

The Courage to Choose Myself

Character Name: Sadi — a Bangladeshi gay man in his late twenties, caught between the life his family has planned for him and the life he quietly dreams of choosing for himself.

I used to think that one day I would write a beautiful story about love—something with two people finding each other, overcoming every obstacle and finally building a life together.

But life rarely follows the stories we imagine.

Love came into my life, but it left behind more questions than answers. And now, as I sit down to write, I am carrying so many emotions that I do not even know where one ends and another begins. So if my words feel scattered, please forgive me.

I have never been confused about one thing: I am gay.

For years, I tried to understand whether I could somehow change that part of myself. I tried to imagine a different future. A wife. Children. A respectable household. The kind of life my family would proudly talk about.

But every time I imagined myself living that life, I felt as though I was watching someone else's story.

I am approaching thirty, and with every passing year the questions have become louder.

“When are you getting married?”

“Why are you refusing?”

“Do you have someone?”

“What is wrong with you?”

Sometimes I smile and change the subject.

Sometimes I pretend that I have not heard.

And sometimes, after everyone has gone to sleep, I lie awake wondering how long I can continue pretending.

I have spent much of my life trying to make my family happy. I have adjusted myself, sacrificed things I wanted and remained silent about things that were hurting me.

But there comes a point when sacrifice stops being love.

It becomes disappearance.

And I am afraid that if I agree to a marriage I do not want, I will slowly disappear from my own life.

I know what people will say.

They will say marriage will solve everything.

They will say I will eventually become attached to my wife.

They will say children will change me.

They will say I am being selfish.

Perhaps they will even call my refusal a failure as a son.

But nobody will have to wake up every morning inside that marriage except me.

Nobody will have to look into the eyes of a woman who believes she has married a man who loves her.

Nobody will have to carry the guilt of living a lie every single day.

I don't want to destroy another person's life just to make my own life look acceptable from the outside.

That is why I have finally started asking myself a different question.

Not, “How can I make everyone happy?”

But:

“How can I build a life in which I can breathe?”

The answer frightens me.

Maybe I have to leave home.

Maybe I have to become financially independent.

Maybe I have to start again somewhere nobody knows my family, my history or the expectations attached to my name.

Dhaka keeps coming to my mind.

A huge city. Millions of people. And yet, somehow, the idea of being alone there terrifies me.

What happens if I cannot find work?

Where do I sleep?

Who do I call when I am sick?

Who do I turn to when I have no money left?

What happens when the courage disappears and homesickness begins?

These questions sometimes make me want to stay exactly where I am.

But then another question comes.

What happens if I stay?

What happens if I wake up ten years from now and realize that I spent my youth trying to become someone I was never meant to be?

That thought scares me even more.

I don't expect life outside my family home to be easy.

I am not imagining some perfect future where everything suddenly becomes beautiful.

I know loneliness may follow me.

I know relationships can end.

I know friends can leave.

I know even the person I love most might not stay forever.

But at least those would be the uncertainties of a life I chose.

I would rather face the possibility of loneliness as myself than spend my entire life surrounded by people while feeling completely invisible.

So perhaps this is not really a story about finding love.

Perhaps it is a story about finding the courage to stop abandoning myself.

I don't know what will happen next.

Maybe I will leave.

Maybe I will fail.

Maybe I will have to start over more than once.

Maybe I will spend some nights wondering whether I made the wrong decision.

But I want to give myself one chance.

One chance to wake up without pretending.

One chance to build a home where I don't have to hide.

One chance to love someone without being ashamed of that love.

And if, along the way, I meet someone who says, “You don't have to be afraid anymore,” I will be grateful.

But I no longer want someone else to save me.

I want to learn how to save myself.

Because perhaps choosing yourself is not selfish.

Perhaps sometimes, after spending years living for everyone else, choosing yourself is the bravest form of survival.

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7 June 2025

The Courage to Begin Again

Character Name: Arman — a Bangladeshi gay man in his late twenties, struggling between family expectations and his desire to live honestly as himself.

I always wished that, one day, I would write in Rongin Desh with a beautiful story of a love that had finally found its happy ending. Love did come into my life, but it never became the kind of love story I had hoped for. And today, as I sit down to write, I am going through such a difficult time that even trying to put my feelings into words has left everything scattered and disorganized. Please forgive me for that.

There is no doubt that I am, from head to toe, a gay man. I say “gay” because I feel that the term “same-sex lover” sometimes tries to make something ordinary sound unnecessarily noble or poetic. Being gay does not become any less meaningful simply because we choose a different word for it.

But enough about that. Let me talk about myself.

I am approaching thirty. I could be described as a young man still full of energy and youth. I have spent much of my life sacrificing myself in different ways to bring smiles to my family's faces. Yet, in our society, when a man of my age shows a strong reluctance toward marriage, neither society nor family takes it well.

Many gay men—and especially bisexual men—eventually marry under the emotional blackmail of family and society. They convince themselves that marriage will prove that they are “real men” and that they have fulfilled their responsibilities.

But I do not want to kill myself just to satisfy other people's expectations.

I know myself. I know who I am. I want to live this life as myself.

I know this road will never be easy. It may feel like a lifelong battle. But I have nothing to prove to anyone. I believe that if I can accept this part of myself and learn to live honestly, life becomes a little easier.

I believe I could even spend my entire life alone if necessary. But I cannot put my own neck under the blade simply to maintain a smile on my family's faces.

Perhaps the most painful truth is that this kind of life can be incredibly lonely. In our society, a physically strong, successful man is expected to eventually marry, build a household and settle down. But, as I said before, I have nothing to prove.

I want to live from the inside out.

I am exhausted from constantly acting for the sake of appearances.

Some people will say that nobody can live alone. They will remind me of reality and say that, in our society, an adult man must eventually get married.

I know all of that reality.

And yet, knowing it fully, I have chosen to accept this life as my reality.

I know that on this path, nobody may stay beside me forever. Perhaps two people can spend a few months together, or a few years. And then, perhaps, there comes another hundred years of loneliness.

The pressure from my family to get married has become unbearable.

I love them, and because I love them, I cannot fight back against them in a cruel or disrespectful way. So now, helplessly, I am beginning to think that perhaps I have to leave home.

If I want to rethink my life and start again, perhaps I have to let go of some of the attachments that keep me here.

But that is where reality hits me the hardest.

Where would I even go?

If I moved to Dhaka, the first thing I would need would be a secure job. If I could become at least somewhat financially independent, I would feel as though I had already travelled halfway toward my dream.

But in such a huge city, if you do not know anyone, who will give you a job? And when there is no one you can call your own, who do you turn to when you need even a little shelter?

That fear makes me lose courage again and again.

Still, if I truly want to save myself, preserve my existence and finally give wings to my dreams, then I have to leave home as soon as possible—even if it means stabbing through the harsh realities of life and choosing uncertainty over a life that is slowly suffocating me.

And then I can only wait.

Perhaps, somewhere along this frightening and courageous journey, I will meet a friend who will stand behind me, give me a gentle push and say:

“I am here. Now climb over that wall.”

Maybe that is all I am asking for—not someone to save me, but someone who will remind me that I am capable of saving myself.

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9 May 2025

A Gay Person From North Bengal

Character Name: Sakib— 27, a Bangladeshi gay man who has spent years becoming the person everyone else expects him to be.

For most of my life, I believed that being a good son meant being willing to sacrifice anything.

My dreams.

My relationships.

My happiness.

Even my identity.

I never questioned that belief. It was simply how I had been raised.

In our family, there was a certain order to life. You studied, found a respectable job, got married, had children, bought a home and took care of your parents.

There was no space in that plan for a son who fell in love with another man.

So I learned to hide.

Not dramatically.

I became an expert at small lies.

When relatives asked whether I had a girlfriend, I laughed.

When my mother asked whether there was someone special in my life, I said, “Not yet.”

When my friends talked about marriage, I listened quietly.

And whenever someone asked me what kind of woman I wanted to marry, I described someone I knew I would never love.

Then, one winter evening, everything changed.

My older cousin called me.

“Your parents have found someone for you.”

I knew what that meant.

There was a girl.

Her family was respectable. She was educated. She came from a good background.

Apparently, everyone had already decided that she would be perfect for me.

I didn't say no immediately.

That surprised me.

Instead, I asked to see her photograph.

I don't know why.

Perhaps some part of me was hoping that if I could convince myself to like her, my life would become easier.

The photograph arrived that night.

She was smiling.

A completely innocent smile.

And suddenly I felt sick.

Not because there was anything wrong with her.

Because I realised she was about to become another victim of my silence.

I couldn't marry her.

Not because I hated marriage.

Not because I wanted to hurt my family.

But because I knew what would happen.

She would spend years wondering why her husband never looked at her the way other husbands looked at their wives.

She would wonder why affection felt like an obligation.

She would blame herself.

And I would spend the rest of my life pretending.

For the first time, I understood that my silence wasn't protecting anyone.

It was only postponing the damage.

That night, I opened my phone and looked through an old conversation.

His name was Sami.

We had met almost three years earlier.

We were never officially together.

At least, that's what I told myself.

We had met for coffee.

Then dinner.

Then long walks.

Then late-night conversations that lasted until sunrise.

He knew things about me that I had never told anyone.

He knew when I was pretending to be happy.

He knew when I was frightened.

Once, when I told him I was afraid that my family would eventually discover the truth, he said:

“You don't have to decide everything today.”

I didn't understand how important those words would become.

Because now I had to decide.

The next morning, my mother called.

“Are you happy?”

I froze.

It was such a simple question.

But I couldn't answer.

She continued talking about the wedding, the families, the arrangements and the future.

I listened until she finished.

Then I said something I had never said before.

“I can't do this.”

There was silence.

“What do you mean?”

“I can't marry her.”

My mother's voice changed.

“Why?”

I wanted to tell her everything.

I wanted to say, “Because I'm gay.”

I wanted to say, “Because I've been afraid my entire life.”

I wanted to say, “Because I don't know how to become the son you imagined.”

But fear won.

So I simply said:

“Because it wouldn't be fair to her.”

The conversation ended badly.

For the next few weeks, my family treated me like I had committed some unforgivable crime.

Relatives called.

Some tried to persuade me.

Some insulted me.

Some told me that I would regret destroying my future.

One person told me:

“You will understand when you are older. Happiness comes after responsibility.”

I almost believed him.

Almost.

Then Sami called.

We hadn't spoken properly for months.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I laughed.

It was the kind of laugh people use when they are trying not to cry.

“No.”

He didn't give me advice.

He didn't tell me to leave my family.

He didn't promise that we would be together forever.

He simply said:

“Then stop pretending you're okay.”

That sentence stayed with me.

A month later, I packed one suitcase.

I didn't know where I was going.

I had very little money.

I didn't have a perfect plan.

I didn't know whether my family would forgive me.

I didn't know whether Sami would still be part of my life.

But I knew one thing.

I couldn't keep living a life designed by other people.

I left.

The first few months were nothing like the freedom I had imagined.

Freedom was expensive.

There were bills.

Lonely evenings.

Cheap rooms.

Unanswered messages.

Days when I questioned everything.

Sometimes I sat on the edge of my bed and wondered whether I had made the biggest mistake of my life.

But there were also small moments.

The first morning I woke up without anyone asking when I was getting married.

The first time I bought something simply because I liked it.

The first time I walked through a crowded street holding a man's hand without pretending he was just a friend.

The first time I looked in the mirror and didn't feel like I was looking at a stranger.

Those moments were small.

But they were mine.

Sami eventually became part of my life again.

But not in the way I had imagined.

We tried.

We loved each other.

We hurt each other.

And eventually, we realised that love alone wasn't enough to make two people ready for the same future.

So we let each other go.

For years, I had believed that choosing myself would only matter if it ended with someone choosing me.

I was wrong.

Sami wasn't my happy ending.

Neither was leaving home.

Neither was becoming independent.

The real ending was much quieter.

It was the morning I received a message from my mother.

She didn't apologise.

She didn't suddenly understand everything.

She simply wrote:

“Are you eating properly?”

I stared at those four words for a long time.

Then I replied:

“Yes, Ma. I'm okay.”

It wasn't a perfect reconciliation.

But it was a beginning.

Maybe that is what growing up really means.

Not getting the life you imagined.

Not making everyone understand you.

Not finding someone who promises never to leave.

Sometimes it means accepting that some people may never fully understand your choices—and choosing to live honestly anyway.

I still don't know what my future will look like.

Maybe I'll fall in love again.

Maybe I won't.

Maybe one day my family will completely accept me.

Maybe they won't.

But I no longer measure my life by the approval of people who cannot live it for me.

I spent twenty-seven years believing that courage meant staying.

Now I understand something different.

Sometimes courage is walking away.

Sometimes courage is saying no.

Sometimes courage is disappointing the people you love because saying yes would mean destroying yourself.

And sometimes the road you are most afraid to take is the first road that truly belongs to you.

I don't know where mine ends.

For the first time, I'm not afraid of that.

I'm simply walking.

And this time, I'm walking as myself.

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8 April 2025

A Lesbian Woman’s Struggle in Bangladesh: Betrayal, Loneliness and the Search for a Life Built on Love

Tasmia is a 29-year-old divorced schoolteacher from Bangladesh. She is also a lesbian woman who has spent much of her life trying to understand her feelings, her identity and what she truly wants from love and relationships.

From childhood, Tasmia experienced a special kind of attraction and emotional connection towards girls. At the time, however, she did not have the words or understanding to explain those feelings. She simply knew that the way she felt towards women was different.

Growing up in Bangladesh, Tasmia learned that there were many things she could not openly discuss. Sexuality was not something that could easily be talked about with family, friends, teachers or wider society. As a girl, she was expected to grow up, marry a man, become a wife and build a conventional family. There was very little space for her to question those expectations or ask herself what she genuinely wanted from life.

Eventually, Tasmia married a man. The marriage ended in divorce because her husband repeatedly became involved in extramarital relationships. The experience deeply hurt her. After being betrayed and emotionally hurt by someone she had trusted, she developed a strong resentment and distrust towards men.

However, her attraction towards women did not begin because of her divorce. Those feelings had existed since childhood. The divorce and her husband's betrayal simply helped her understand more clearly what she did and did not want from a relationship.

Tasmia does not consider herself bisexual. She has never felt comfortable with the idea of maintaining relationships with both men and women or being involved with multiple people. For her, love has always meant one person, emotional intimacy, trust, honesty and a deep connection.

Physical intimacy has never been the most important part of a relationship for Tasmia. What matters much more to her is having someone with whom she can share her thoughts, fears, dreams and vulnerabilities. She wants a relationship in which two people can trust each other completely and feel emotionally safe together.

Tasmia is a straightforward person. Honesty, trust and sacrifice are extremely important values in her life. She cannot tolerate lies. When she loves someone, she wants to be completely open with that person. She wants to share happiness and sadness with them and stand beside them during difficult times.

Despite everything she has experienced, she continues to believe that something better may still be waiting for her.

How She Met Her

Tasmia met a woman through a page. At first, they simply spoke on the phone. Gradually, their conversations became more frequent and personal. They began sharing their thoughts, experiences and feelings. There was care, affection and emotional closeness between them.

The woman was unmarried. Before meeting Tasmia, she had already been involved in three or four lesbian relationships and had previous physical experiences.

Learning about the woman's past was difficult for Tasmia. It made her feel uncomfortable and insecure, particularly because this was her first serious relationship with a woman. Nevertheless, she had already begun to develop strong feelings for her, so she tried to accept her past.

From the beginning, Tasmia had doubts. The woman was energetic and sometimes appeared self-centred. She lived far away from Tasmia, and Tasmia noticed that she seemed to have a tendency to end relationships. Tasmia wondered whether someone like her and someone like Tasmia could really build a lasting relationship.

Despite those doubts, the woman gradually became deeply important to her.

The woman was also extremely interested in Tasmia. She would call her 20 or 22 times a day, ask whether she had eaten, check on her and constantly want to know where she was and how she was doing.

Eventually, Tasmia fell completely in love with her.

Because Tasmia takes relationships very seriously, she made three things clear before they officially entered into a relationship.

First, if they entered into a relationship, she wanted it to be for life.

Second, neither of them would marry anyone else.

Third, they would eventually leave Bangladesh and build their future abroad.

The woman agreed to all three conditions.

Tasmia believed that perhaps the woman's previous relationships had failed because she had never before met someone who genuinely loved and cared for her. She thought that having Tasmia in her life might help her change.

Unfortunately, she was wrong.

Living Together

After approximately two months, they decided to live together.

They rented a home in Mirpur. At that time, Tasmia had a job and her father also had an income, so they were able to manage the rent and household expenses.

For the first three or four months, their life together appeared happy.

They cooked together, talked, spent time with each other and imagined their future. Tasmia believed that she had finally found someone with whom she could build the life she had always wanted.

Gradually, however, things began to change.

It became harder for the woman to hide certain aspects of her behaviour.

Tasmia was trusting, but she was not naïve.

Sometimes the woman communicated with her former partners. At other times, she would suddenly become rude to Tasmia without any clear reason. There were moments when her behaviour completely confused Tasmia. Sometimes she would even tell Tasmia to leave the house or go somewhere else.

Tasmia did not immediately accuse her of anything. She did not want to become suspicious without evidence.

But inside her, a growing feeling of discomfort began to develop.

Tasmia gave her everything she could.

She gave her love.

She gave her care.

She provided financial support.

She tried to understand her.

She tried to protect their relationship.

But she did not feel that she was receiving the same level of commitment in return.

Sometimes, at night, the woman would turn her face away from Tasmia and go to sleep without saying anything. Her behaviour gradually began to destroy Tasmia emotionally.

Tasmia would wonder what she had done wrong.

She would ask herself:

"What is missing in me?"

"Why am I not enough for her?"

She rarely showed the woman how deeply she was hurting. Sometimes she became angry, but most of the time she kept her pain inside.

The Nepal Trip

During this period, Tasmia eventually left her job.

She had some savings, and those savings were used to support their life together.

After approximately six or seven months of being together, Tasmia received an opportunity to travel to Nepal.

She decided to take her partner with her.

Tasmia arranged her partner's visa and paid for many of the expenses.

They spent around ten days in Nepal. They travelled, went sightseeing, went shopping and spent time together.

Tasmia hoped the trip would strengthen their relationship.

She wanted them to create beautiful memories together. She hoped that perhaps the problems between them would disappear if they could get away from everything and spend peaceful time together.

For a while, Tasmia believed that their relationship might be becoming stronger again.

But after they returned from Nepal, everything changed.

Her partner told her that she wanted to go to her father's house.

She took some clothes and gifts and left.

Tasmia trusted her. She had no reason at that moment to believe that she was lying.

The woman remained away for approximately seven days.

Then Tasmia discovered the truth.

Her partner had not gone to her father's house.

Instead, she had spent two days at the home of one of her former partners.

The Day Her Heart Broke

Tasmia cannot properly describe what she felt when she discovered the truth.

It felt as though someone had ripped her heart out of her chest.

The person she had considered the most important person in her life had betrayed her.

She kept asking herself:

"What was wrong with me?"

"What did I fail to give her?"

"Why wasn't my love enough?"

Tasmia had given her so much of herself.

She had trusted her.

She had supported her financially.

She had changed her life for her.

She had even imagined leaving Bangladesh with her and building a future together.

Yet the woman had secretly gone to her former partner.

What made the situation even more painful was that Tasmia did not discover the truth from her partner herself.

The former partner called Tasmia and told her everything.

The woman had apparently believed that Tasmia would never find out.

When Tasmia heard the truth, she broke down and cried.

She felt as though she had been betrayed once again in her life.

She had already experienced betrayal in her marriage.

Now, the person she had chosen to love after that painful experience had also betrayed her.

The experience made her question whether she could ever trust anyone again.

She Forgave Her Because She Loved Her

Tasmia told her partner to leave.

The woman cried.

She apologised.

She begged Tasmia to forgive her.

She even held Tasmia's feet and pleaded with her not to end the relationship.

Tasmia was deeply hurt.

She was angry.

She felt humiliated.

But she loved her.

So she forgave her—or at least, she tried to.

Yet forgiveness did not make the wound disappear.

Tasmia could forgive what had happened, but she could not erase the memory.

Something inside her had changed permanently.

The trust she had once given completely had been broken.

For another six months or so, she continued the relationship.

During this period, approximately 500,000–600,000 Bangladeshi taka of Tasmia's savings disappeared.

She became financially exhausted.

She had left her job and spent much of her savings supporting their life together.

Eventually, she was almost completely financially dependent on the circumstances around her and had very little money left.

She realised that she needed to think about her own future.

She began considering employment again.

When She Left

Eventually, her partner found an opportunity to leave, and she did.

Tasmia did not stop her.

The woman said that she had family responsibilities and needed to look after her mother.

They had once planned their future together.

They had talked about studying again.

They had talked about going abroad.

They had imagined starting a new life somewhere where they could live more freely.

But those dreams gradually collapsed.

The woman moved away.

Even after leaving, she again began communicating with her former partner.

Later, she apologised again.

Over time, she changed somewhat. She still contacts Tasmia and sometimes calls her.

But Tasmia's heart has never completely healed.

The relationship may have changed, but the memories have not.

The betrayal remains inside her.

The Struggle of Being a Lesbian Woman in Bangladesh

Tasmia's story is not simply about one failed relationship.

It is also about what it means to be a lesbian woman in Bangladesh.

As a woman growing up in a conservative society, she already faced expectations surrounding marriage, family and gender roles.

As a lesbian woman, those expectations became even more difficult.

There are very few safe spaces where women like Tasmia can openly discuss love, relationships and sexuality without fear of judgement.

Many lesbian women have to hide who they are.

Some are pressured into heterosexual marriages.

Some cannot tell their parents the truth.

Some live double lives.

Some are forced to choose between their own identity and their family's expectations.

Even finding another woman who genuinely wants a committed relationship can be difficult because people may be afraid of being exposed.

Trust becomes extremely important.

When two women meet secretly, there may already be fear surrounding the relationship: fear of family, fear of society, fear of being discovered, fear of losing employment, fear of social rejection and fear of violence or harassment.

For someone like Tasmia, who has already experienced betrayal, these fears become even heavier.

She does not want a relationship based on secrecy, manipulation, financial dependence or temporary needs.

She wants something genuine.

What She Wants Now

Today, Tasmia genuinely wants to move away from this relationship.

Her heart is no longer the same.

Even though her former partner still calls her, Tasmia feels that she needs to protect herself.

She has spent too much time trying to save a relationship that repeatedly hurt her.

She sacrificed her job, her savings, her emotional peace and a significant part of herself.

Now she wants to rebuild her life.

She wants someone who is loyal.

Someone who is not greedy.

Someone who values honesty.

Someone who respects trust.

Someone who understands emotional intimacy.

Someone who does not treat love as something temporary or conditional.

Someone who will not stay with her simply because she provides financial support or makes life easier for her.

Tasmia wants a woman who understands that a relationship is not only about physical intimacy.

For her, love means emotional safety.

It means being able to tell someone the truth without fear.

It means knowing that when life becomes difficult, the person beside her will not immediately abandon her.

It means responsibility.

It means respect.

It means loyalty.

It means choosing each other again and again.

Tasmia knows that nobody is perfect.

She knows that everyone has a past.

She is not looking for someone without mistakes.

She is looking for someone who takes responsibility for their mistakes and does not intentionally deceive the person they claim to love.

Tasmia has never intentionally tried to hurt or betray someone she loved.

All she ever wanted was someone who would understand her.

Someone who would see her not simply as a woman, a divorced woman or a lesbian woman living in Bangladesh, but as a human being who also deserves love, dignity, security and happiness.

She has spent years trying to understand who she is.

She has experienced marriage, betrayal, heartbreak, love, financial loss and loneliness.

But she does not want those experiences to define the rest of her life.

She still wants to believe in love.

She still wants to believe that there is someone who will value honesty as much as she does.

Someone who will understand that trust is not something to be taken for granted.

Someone who will see emotional connection as something precious.

Someone who will stay not because of necessity, money or convenience, but because she genuinely loves Tasmia.

Perhaps her previous relationship was not the ending of her story.

Perhaps it was simply a painful chapter that taught her what she should never accept again.

And perhaps, somewhere ahead, there is a better life waiting for her—a life where she can finally love someone without constantly being afraid of betrayal.

Tasmia does not need a perfect woman.

She only needs an honest one.

She wants a love where trust really means trust, where commitment really means commitment, and where love means choosing to stand beside each other—not only when life is easy, but especially when life becomes difficult.

That is the kind of life and love she is still hoping to find.

Learn more

3 March 2025

Behind Closed Doors: A Woman’s Journey from a Broken Marriage to Finding Her Own Identity

Nadia is a 30-year-old divorced schoolteacher from Bangladesh. For years, she lived according to expectations that were placed upon her by family, society and the idea of what a woman’s life was supposed to look like.

She was expected to marry a man, build a family and accept the life chosen for her.

But inside, Nadia carried feelings she struggled to understand.

Since childhood, she had felt an emotional attraction towards women. She did not know how to describe it, and she had never been given a safe environment in which she could explore those feelings. She simply knew that her connection with certain girls felt different from an ordinary friendship.

As she grew older, she learned to keep those feelings hidden.

In Bangladesh, talking openly about same-sex relationships can be extremely difficult, particularly for women. Family expectations, social judgement and the pressure to marry can make it almost impossible for someone like Nadia to openly acknowledge who she is.

Eventually, she entered a heterosexual marriage.

She hoped that perhaps marriage would make life simpler. Instead, the relationship became another source of pain.

Her husband repeatedly became involved with other women. His infidelity destroyed the trust between them, and eventually the marriage ended in divorce.

The divorce left Nadia emotionally exhausted.

For a period, she found herself deeply distrustful of men. But her feelings towards women were not something created by the failed marriage. They had existed long before it.

The painful experience simply forced Nadia to think more honestly about the kind of relationship she actually wanted.

She realised that she wanted emotional closeness more than anything else.

She wanted honesty.

She wanted loyalty.

She wanted one person with whom she could feel completely safe.

She did not want relationships based only on physical attraction or convenience. She wanted companionship, understanding and the feeling that two people were genuinely building their lives together.

The Woman Who Changed Everything

Some time later, Nadia met another woman through an online page.

At first, their relationship was nothing more than conversations.

They spoke over the phone.

Then they started talking every day.

Their conversations gradually became longer and more personal. They discussed their lives, their fears, their hopes and the things they could not easily tell other people.

For Nadia, the connection was unusual.

She felt understood.

The woman was single and had experienced several relationships with women before meeting Nadia. She had already experienced relationships that had ended badly.

Nadia knew about her past.

It made her uncomfortable at first.

She wondered whether someone with so many previous relationships could truly commit to one person.

But Nadia was already emotionally attached.

Rather than judging her partner solely because of her past, she decided to give the relationship a chance.

Before making the relationship official, however, Nadia explained what commitment meant to her.

She did not want something temporary.

She wanted a relationship that could eventually become a permanent partnership.

She did not want either of them to marry someone else simply because society expected it.

And, one day, she hoped they could leave Bangladesh and create a life somewhere where they would have greater freedom to live honestly.

Her partner agreed.

For Nadia, those promises meant everything.

She believed she had finally found someone who might understand the life she wanted.

Building a Home Together

After a couple of months, they decided to live together.

They rented a place in Mirpur.

For a while, life seemed almost exactly as Nadia had imagined.

They cooked together.

They talked late into the night.

They went shopping.

They made plans.

They discussed education, travel and the possibility of eventually living abroad.

Nadia had a job and some savings, which helped them manage their expenses.

She was willing to sacrifice for the relationship because she believed she was investing in their shared future.

But slowly, cracks began to appear.

Her partner's behaviour became unpredictable.

Sometimes she was affectionate and caring.

At other times, she became distant or irritable without explanation.

She remained in contact with women from her past relationships.

Nadia tried not to become controlling.

She did not want to constantly question her partner.

She wanted to trust her.

But trust became increasingly difficult.

There were moments when Nadia was asked to leave the house or give her partner space without understanding what she had done wrong.

She began feeling as though she was constantly trying to repair something she had not broken.

At night, she would lie awake wondering whether the relationship meant as much to her partner as it did to her.

She rarely expressed the full extent of her pain.

Instead, she kept most of it inside.

When Love Became a Sacrifice

Nadia continued giving everything she could to the relationship.

She offered emotional support.

She helped financially.

She tried to understand her partner's difficulties.

She overlooked things that made her uncomfortable because she was afraid of losing the woman she loved.

Eventually, Nadia left her job.

Her savings became the main source of support for their life together.

Over the following months, a significant portion of her savings—around five to six lakh taka—was spent.

At the time, Nadia did not see the money as a loss.

She believed she was spending it on the life they were building together.

She thought that if they were going to have a future, sacrifices were necessary.

But gradually, she began to realise that she was making far more sacrifices than her partner.

A Journey That Was Supposed to Bring Them Closer

Several months into their relationship, Nadia had an opportunity to travel to Nepal.

Instead of travelling alone, she decided to take her partner with her.

She arranged the necessary visa and covered many of the expenses.

For around ten days, they travelled together.

They visited different places, went shopping, explored the country and created memories that Nadia believed would remain special forever.

Away from their normal environment, the relationship seemed peaceful again.

Nadia allowed herself to hope.

Perhaps the difficulties they had experienced were temporary.

Perhaps travelling together would give them a fresh beginning.

Perhaps they could return home and rebuild their relationship.

But that hope did not last.

After returning to Bangladesh, her partner told Nadia that she needed to stay at her father's house for a few days.

She packed some clothes and gifts and left.

Nadia believed her.

She waited.

One day passed.

Then another.

Eventually, nearly a week had gone by.

Then Nadia learned something she had never expected.

Her partner had not spent those days at her father's house.

Instead, she had spent part of that time with a former partner.

The Truth She Was Never Supposed to Know

Nadia did not discover the truth because her partner voluntarily confessed.

She learned it when the former partner contacted her and told her what had happened.

The revelation devastated her.

She could barely process it.

The woman she had trusted completely had deliberately hidden the truth from her.

For Nadia, the betrayal was about much more than where her partner had stayed.

It destroyed the sense of security she had built around the relationship.

She began asking herself questions she could not answer.

Was she not good enough?

Had she failed somehow?

Why had everything she sacrificed still not been enough?

She cried.

She felt humiliated.

She felt foolish for trusting so completely.

And, most painfully, she felt that the betrayal had confirmed one of her deepest fears—that trusting another person could ultimately leave her broken.

Forgiveness Did Not Restore Trust

Nadia confronted her partner and told her to leave.

Her partner cried and apologised.

She begged Nadia not to end the relationship.

Eventually, Nadia forgave her.

Not because the betrayal had stopped hurting, but because she still loved her.

She hoped that forgiveness could give them another chance.

For several more months, they remained together.

But forgiveness and trust were not the same thing.

Nadia could choose not to punish her partner forever for what had happened.

She could choose to continue the relationship.

But she could not simply erase the memory.

Something fundamental had changed.

The woman who had once made Nadia feel safe had also become the person who made her question everything.

Losing More Than Money

During the remaining months of the relationship, Nadia continued spending her savings.

By the time things finally began to fall apart, she had lost roughly five to six lakh taka.

But the financial loss was only one part of what she had sacrificed.

She had also given up employment.

She had invested her emotional energy.

She had changed her plans.

She had imagined a future around another person.

And she had placed enormous trust in someone who ultimately could not give her the security she needed.

Eventually, her partner decided that she needed to leave because of family responsibilities, particularly to care for her mother.

Nadia did not prevent her from leaving.

The two women had once spoken about studying, travelling and eventually creating a life outside Bangladesh.

Those plans slowly disappeared.

The relationship that had once seemed like the beginning of a new life became another painful chapter in Nadia's story.

What the Relationship Taught Her

Even after they separated, communication did not completely stop.

Her former partner contacted her from time to time.

Sometimes they spoke by phone.

There were further apologies.

Nadia noticed that her former partner had changed in some ways.

But Nadia herself had changed too.

She no longer looked at the relationship in the same way.

The experience had taught her that love alone cannot sustain a relationship.

Love needs trust.

It needs honesty.

It needs responsibility.

It needs two people who are willing to make sacrifices for one another rather than one person continually sacrificing for the other.

A Life Lived in Hiding

Nadia's experience cannot be separated from the society in which she grew up.

Being a lesbian woman in Bangladesh can mean carrying a secret that affects almost every part of life.

For many women, there is pressure to marry men regardless of their own feelings.

There may be no safe opportunity to tell parents the truth.

There may be fear of being rejected by relatives.

There may be concerns about employment, reputation and personal safety.

Even finding a partner can be complicated.

A relationship between two women may have to remain hidden.

Two people may not be able to openly introduce each other as partners.

They may have to invent explanations for why they live together or why they spend so much time with each other.

That secrecy can make trust both more important and more difficult.

Nadia wanted something different.

She wanted a relationship where she did not constantly have to wonder whether the other person was staying because of love, emotional dependence, financial support or convenience.

Starting Again

Today, Nadia is trying to rebuild herself.

She no longer wants to spend her life trying to convince someone to value her.

She does not want to chase someone who repeatedly makes her feel unwanted.

She does not want to measure her worth by whether another person chooses to stay.

She wants to become financially independent again.

She wants to rebuild her career.

Most importantly, she wants to regain the emotional peace she lost.

She still believes that love exists.

But her understanding of love has changed.

She no longer believes that loving someone means accepting everything they do.

She has learned that boundaries are also part of love.

So is self-respect.

So is honesty.

So is knowing when to walk away.

What She Hopes to Find

Nadia is not searching for someone perfect.

She knows that everyone has made mistakes.

Everyone has a history.

Everyone carries wounds from the past.

What she wants is someone who is honest about those things.

She wants a woman who understands commitment.

Someone who will not manipulate her emotions.

Someone who will not take advantage of her generosity.

Someone who will not stay simply because Nadia can provide financial support.

Someone who values emotional intimacy as much as physical attraction.

For Nadia, a meaningful relationship means being able to sit beside someone after a difficult day and know that she is safe.

It means being able to talk about fears without being judged.

It means knowing that disagreements do not automatically mean abandonment.

It means having someone who chooses honesty even when the truth is uncomfortable.

And it means choosing each other freely—not because society demands it, not because money requires it, and not because there is nowhere else to go.

A New Chapter

Nadia has experienced a marriage that failed, a relationship that broke her trust, financial loss and periods of profound loneliness.

But she does not want to spend the rest of her life defined by those experiences.

Her past has taught her what she cannot accept anymore.

It has taught her the importance of protecting herself.

It has taught her that love should not require the loss of one's identity.

And perhaps most importantly, it has taught her that being alone can sometimes be healthier than remaining in a relationship where she does not feel respected.

She still hopes that one day she will meet someone who sees her for who she really is.

Not simply as a divorced woman.

Not simply as a lesbian woman.

Not as someone who can provide financial security.

But as a human being deserving of affection, dignity, honesty and peace.

Nadia's story is not over.

The relationship that once felt like her entire future is now part of her past.

The betrayal remains a painful memory, but it no longer has to determine what happens next.

For the first time in many years, she is trying to build a future around herself rather than around someone else.

She does not know exactly where that future will take her.

But she knows what she wants.

A life where she can be honest.

A life where she can love without fear.

A life where trust is mutual.

And, above all, a life where she never again has to sacrifice her entire self just to convince someone to stay.

Learn more

5 February 2025

Between Expectations and Freedom: A Woman’s Search for Love, Trust and Herself

Maya is a 27-year-old divorced nurse from Bangladesh. For most of her life, she tried to fit herself into a life that had already been designed for her.

Like many women around her, she was expected to follow a familiar path: grow up, marry a man, build a family and fulfil the responsibilities that society considered appropriate.

But Maya carried a part of herself that she rarely spoke about.

From an early age, she noticed that her feelings towards certain girls were different from ordinary friendship. She felt emotionally drawn to women and sometimes imagined a closeness that she could not explain.

At that age, she had no language for those feelings.

There was no safe person she could talk to.

So she learned to hide them.

As she grew older, hiding became part of her everyday life.

In Bangladesh, openly discussing same-sex relationships can be extremely difficult, particularly for women. Family expectations, social pressure, fear of judgement and the expectation to marry can leave women with very little room to explore their identity honestly.

Eventually, Maya entered a heterosexual marriage.

She hoped that perhaps marriage would bring stability and allow her to live the life everyone expected of her.

Instead, the marriage became another painful experience.

Her husband repeatedly became involved with other women. The repeated infidelity gradually destroyed the trust between them.

Eventually, the marriage ended.

For Maya, divorce was not simply the end of a relationship. It forced her to confront questions she had avoided for years.

What kind of life did she actually want?

What did love mean to her?

And why had she spent so much of her life trying to become the person other people expected her to be?

For some time, Maya felt deeply hurt and distrustful of men.

But she also understood something important.

Her attraction towards women had not appeared because her marriage failed.

Those feelings had been there since childhood.

The failed marriage had simply made it impossible for her to continue ignoring them.

Finding Someone Who Understood

After her divorce, Maya eventually met a woman through an online social-media page.

At first, there was nothing dramatic about their relationship.

They simply talked.

One conversation became another.

Then they began speaking almost every day.

Their conversations gradually became more personal. They talked about their childhoods, their relationships, their dreams and the difficulties they had experienced.

Maya began feeling comfortable in a way she had rarely experienced before.

She felt listened to.

She felt understood.

The woman she met had already been involved in several relationships with women. Some of those relationships had ended painfully.

Maya knew about her history.

At first, she was uncertain.

She wondered whether someone who had experienced several relationships would be ready to commit to one person.

But Maya also knew that a person's past did not automatically determine their future.

She decided to give the relationship a chance.

Before becoming serious, however, Maya made her expectations clear.

She wanted commitment.

She did not want a relationship that would disappear when circumstances became difficult.

She wanted two people who could build a future together.

She did not want either woman to eventually marry a man simply because their families demanded it.

She also dreamed of one day leaving Bangladesh and living somewhere where they could have greater freedom to be themselves.

Her partner told her that she wanted the same things.

Maya believed her.

For the first time, she began imagining a future that belonged to her.

A Shared Life

A few months later, the two women decided to live together.

They rented a home in Dhaka.

For a while, Maya felt that her life had finally begun to make sense.

They prepared meals together.

They spent evenings talking.

They went shopping and travelled locally.

They discussed education and their careers.

They talked about countries they wanted to visit and imagined what it might be like to live abroad together.

Maya had employment and some savings.

She was willing to contribute financially because she believed they were building a life together.

She did not see her contribution as a burden.

To her, it was part of being partners.

But gradually, the relationship began to change.

Her partner became unpredictable.

Some days she was loving and affectionate.

On other days, she became distant, angry or withdrawn.

She continued communicating with women from her previous relationships.

Maya tried to remain calm.

She did not want to become possessive.

She did not want to monitor her partner's phone or constantly ask questions.

She wanted their relationship to be based on trust.

But trust became increasingly difficult.

There were occasions when her partner asked her to leave the home for a while or told her that she needed space.

Maya often did not understand what she had done wrong.

She began feeling as though she was constantly trying to save a relationship that only she seemed determined to protect.

At night, she would think about the future and wonder whether her partner loved her with the same intensity.

She rarely said everything she was feeling.

Instead, she kept much of her pain to herself.

When Giving Became Losing

Maya continued trying.

She supported her partner emotionally.

She contributed financially.

She tried to understand her partner's problems.

Whenever something happened that hurt her, she often chose forgiveness because she was afraid that confrontation might end the relationship.

Eventually, Maya left her job.

Her savings became an important source of financial support.

Over time, she spent approximately five to six lakh taka on their shared life.

At that point, Maya did not think she was losing money.

She thought she was investing in a future.

She believed that relationships required sacrifice.

If they were serious about eventually building a life together, she felt that temporary financial difficulties were something they could overcome.

But slowly, Maya began to notice an uncomfortable imbalance.

She was sacrificing her employment.

She was using her savings.

She was changing her plans.

She was repeatedly putting her partner's needs ahead of her own.

And she was beginning to wonder what her partner was willing to sacrifice for her.

The Trip That Renewed Her Hope

Several months into the relationship, Maya had the opportunity to travel to Nepal.

Rather than going alone, she decided to take her partner with her.

She arranged the visa and paid many of the expenses.

They spent approximately ten days travelling together.

They visited different places, went shopping, explored new surroundings and spent time away from the pressures of everyday life.

For Maya, the trip felt like a second beginning.

They seemed happy again.

The arguments and tension appeared to disappear.

She allowed herself to believe that perhaps their problems had only been temporary.

Perhaps travelling together had reminded them why they had fallen in love.

Perhaps they could return to Bangladesh and start again.

But what happened after they returned changed everything.

The Week of Silence

After coming home, Maya's partner told her that she needed to spend several days at her father's house.

Maya accepted the explanation.

She helped her partner prepare her belongings and watched her leave.

She expected her to return after a few days.

One day passed.

Then another.

Maya waited.

Almost a week went by.

Then she discovered that the explanation she had been given was not true.

Her partner had not spent those days at her father's house.

Instead, she had spent some of the time with a former partner.

The information did not come directly from her partner.

It came from the former partner herself.

For Maya, the revelation was devastating.

It was not simply the fact that her partner had been with someone from her past.

It was the deliberate deception.

Maya had trusted her.

She had believed what she was told.

She had even allowed herself to imagine that their relationship was becoming stronger again.

Suddenly, everything she had believed about their relationship seemed uncertain.

She began questioning herself.

Was she not enough?

Had she done something wrong?

Had all her sacrifices meant nothing?

Why had she given so much to someone who could still hide something so important from her?

The questions became overwhelming.

She cried.

She felt betrayed and humiliated.

Most of all, she felt foolish for having trusted someone so completely.

Choosing Forgiveness

Maya eventually confronted her partner.

She was angry and heartbroken.

She told her to leave.

Her partner cried and apologised.

She asked Maya not to end their relationship.

Maya was still in love.

Despite everything that had happened, she could not immediately let go.

Eventually, she decided to forgive her.

Forgiving someone, however, did not mean forgetting.

The relationship continued for several more months.

From the outside, things may have appeared normal again.

But inside Maya, something had changed.

She could decide not to hold the betrayal against her partner forever.

She could choose to give the relationship another opportunity.

But she could not force herself to trust in exactly the same way.

The person who had once represented safety had become the person who made her question that safety.

The Cost of Staying

Maya continued supporting the relationship for months.

More of her savings disappeared.

By the end, she estimated that she had spent around five to six lakh taka.

But the financial loss was not what hurt most.

She had also left her job.

She had interrupted her career.

She had invested months of emotional energy.

She had changed her plans for the future.

She had imagined another person beside her in almost every part of her life.

Eventually, her partner decided that she needed to return to her family because of responsibilities at home, particularly the need to care for her mother.

Maya did not try to stop her.

She understood that family responsibilities could be serious.

But the future they had once imagined together gradually disappeared.

The plans to study.

The plans to travel.

The dreams of eventually living abroad.

The idea of building a life together.

One by one, they became memories.

Understanding What Love Really Requires

Even after the relationship ended, the two women did not completely disappear from each other's lives.

Her former partner occasionally contacted Maya.

Sometimes they spoke by telephone.

There were apologies.

Maya also noticed that her former partner had changed in certain ways.

But Maya had changed too.

She now understood that love by itself is not enough.

A relationship needs trust.

It needs honesty.

It needs accountability.

It needs respect.

And, perhaps most importantly, both people must be willing to contribute.

One person cannot continuously sacrifice everything while the other simply accepts those sacrifices.

Maya had once believed that loving someone meant tolerating almost anything.

She no longer believed that.

She began to understand that boundaries are not a lack of love.

Sometimes boundaries are how a person protects their ability to love without losing themselves.

Living Behind a Secret

Maya's story is also shaped by the society in which she lives.

For a lesbian woman in Bangladesh, a relationship with another woman may have to exist largely in private.

There can be pressure to marry a man.

There can be fear of telling parents.

There can be concerns about relatives discovering the relationship.

There can be worries about employment, reputation and personal safety.

Even simple things that heterosexual couples take for granted may become complicated.

Two women may not be able to introduce each other openly as partners.

They may need to describe each other as friends.

They may have to hide where they live.

They may have to avoid showing affection in public.

And because the relationship has to remain hidden, finding someone trustworthy can become even more important.

For Maya, this secrecy made emotional security particularly valuable.

She did not want another relationship where she was constantly questioning whether someone genuinely loved her or was simply staying because of emotional dependence, financial support or convenience.

Learning to Put Herself First

Today, Maya is trying to rebuild her life.

She wants to work again.

She wants to regain financial independence.

She wants to rediscover the person she was before she became so consumed by a relationship.

She no longer wants to spend her energy convincing another person to appreciate her.

She does not want to chase someone who repeatedly makes her feel unwanted.

And she does not want her value to depend on whether someone chooses to stay with her.

The experience has changed the way she understands love.

She still believes in love.

But she now believes that healthy love must include self-respect.

She knows that forgiveness should not require accepting repeated hurt.

She knows that generosity should not become self-destruction.

And she knows that being alone can sometimes be healthier than remaining with someone who does not make you feel valued.

The Kind of Woman She Wants

Maya is not searching for perfection.

She knows that everyone has a history.

Everyone makes mistakes.

Everyone carries emotional wounds.

What matters to her now is honesty.

She wants a woman who understands commitment.

Someone who communicates instead of disappearing.

Someone who does not manipulate her emotions.

Someone who appreciates her generosity without exploiting it.

Someone who does not stay because Maya can provide financial support.

Someone who values emotional intimacy rather than treating a relationship as something temporary.

For Maya, real love is not simply about physical attraction.

It is about being able to sit beside someone after a difficult day and feel safe.

It is being able to talk about fears without worrying that the conversation will be used against you.

It is knowing that an argument does not automatically mean abandonment.

It is choosing honesty even when honesty is uncomfortable.

And it is choosing each other freely.

Not because family demands it.

Not because society expects it.

Not because one person depends financially on the other.

But because both people genuinely want to build a life together.

A Future of Her Own

Maya has experienced a marriage that ended painfully.

She has experienced betrayal.

She has lost money.

She has sacrificed employment.

She has experienced loneliness.

But she does not want those experiences to define the rest of her life.

Her past has taught her what she can no longer accept.

It has taught her to protect her boundaries.

It has taught her to value independence.

And it has taught her that love should never require someone to completely disappear inside another person.

She hopes that one day she will meet someone who sees her as more than her past.

Not merely as a divorced woman.

Not merely as a lesbian woman.

Not as someone who can provide financial security.

But simply as Maya—a person who deserves love, respect, honesty, dignity and peace.

Her story is not finished.

The relationship that once represented her entire future is now part of her past.

The betrayal still exists in her memories, but it no longer has to control her future.

For the first time, Maya is learning to build a life around herself.

She does not know exactly where that life will take her.

But she knows what she wants.

She wants freedom to be honest about who she is.

She wants a relationship built on mutual trust.

She wants love without manipulation or fear.

She wants independence without guilt.

And above all, she wants a life in which she never again has to sacrifice her entire identity simply to persuade someone to stay.

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6 January 2025

Beyond the Struggle: Arif’s Journey from Hiding His Identity to Finding Self-Love and Purpose

Arif (a pseudonym) is a gay man from Bangladesh. He first began to realise that he was different from other boys when he was around 14 years old.

It was during puberty that Arif started noticing feelings he could not understand. While most of the boys in his class were beginning to develop an interest in girls, Arif found himself experiencing something completely different. Instead of feeling attracted to girls, he began developing emotional and romantic attraction towards boys.

At that age, Arif did not know that homosexuality existed. He had never heard the words “gay” or “homosexual” in a way that would help him understand his own feelings. He simply knew that something inside him was different.

Deep down, he felt attracted to boys.

He would sometimes develop crushes on older boys. He would notice them, admire them and feel a strong emotional connection towards them, even though he could not explain why he felt that way.

But Arif quickly realised that these feelings were something he could not share openly.

He never allowed his classmates or friends to understand what was happening inside him. Instead, he learned how to hide his true feelings and pretend to be straight.

In front of his friends, he behaved as though he was attracted to girls. He sometimes acted as if he was interested in girls because that was what everyone around him expected.

The reality, however, was very different.

His attraction towards girls was almost nonexistent.

For Arif, pretending to be heterosexual became a survival mechanism. He felt that if people discovered the truth about him, he could face rejection, ridicule, discrimination or even lose important relationships.

So he learned to perform a role.

He had one identity that society could see and another identity that he kept hidden deep inside himself.

For years, this became part of his everyday life.

Growing up in a society where heterosexual relationships are generally treated as the only acceptable form of romantic life, Arif felt that people like him had to be extremely careful. A simple conversation about relationships could make him uncomfortable. Questions about marriage could make him anxious. Even discussions about attraction could remind him that he was hiding an important part of himself.

Looking back, he feels that people from sexual minorities are often forced to become actors in their own lives.

They learn when to speak, when to remain silent and when to pretend.

They learn how to smile when they are uncomfortable and how to answer questions without revealing too much.

For Arif, this constant performance became exhausting.

As the years passed, however, his life changed in many ways. He grew older, continued his education, completed his honours degree and master's degree, and eventually established himself professionally. He also secured a government job.

From the outside, his life appeared successful.

He had education. He had a career. He had achieved goals that many people work hard to accomplish.

But achievements alone could not erase the emotional struggles he had experienced.

Arif says that being gay has often made life feel complicated. The difficulty, in his view, does not simply come from being attracted to men. Much of the struggle comes from living in a society where homosexuality can be misunderstood, judged or rejected.

He has experienced the loneliness that can come from knowing that he cannot always speak openly about his feelings.

He has also struggled with questions about love and relationships.

Like anyone else, Arif has wanted affection, companionship and someone with whom he could share his life. He has experienced the intensity of romantic feelings and understands how powerful love can be.

But he also became increasingly uncertain about whether relationships could remain stable.

He wondered whether a partner would stay with him in the long term. He worried about family pressure and social expectations. He questioned whether someone who loved him might eventually decide to marry a woman because of societal or family expectations.

These fears sometimes made him question whether searching for a lifelong partner was worth the emotional risk.

At one point in his life, Arif became deeply frustrated and unhappy.

Even after getting a job, he found that his emotional struggles did not disappear immediately. Professional success could not automatically solve the questions he had been carrying inside for years.

There were periods when he felt that his future was uncertain and that life had very little to offer him.

But slowly, something changed.

Instead of waiting for another person to make his life meaningful, Arif began learning how to value himself.

He discovered the idea of self-love.

He started accepting himself as a person whose worth did not depend on whether society approved of his sexuality.

He began to understand that being gay was only one part of who he was.

He was also a son, a friend, an educated professional, a worker and, most importantly, a human being with dreams, responsibilities and the ability to contribute to society.

This realisation gradually changed his outlook on life.

Arif also began to understand that romantic love is not the only source of happiness.

Love, affection and companionship can make life beautiful, but they are not necessarily the entire purpose of life.

He learned that a person can build a meaningful life through many different things—education, career, friendship, personal growth, helping others, creativity, community and service.

He also learned something that once seemed difficult to accept:

Being alone does not necessarily mean being lonely.

There was a time when Arif feared loneliness. He thought that without a partner, something important would always be missing from his life.

Today, he sees solitude differently.

He can spend time by himself without feeling that his life is incomplete. He can enjoy his own company, think about his future and appreciate the freedom that comes with being comfortable in his own presence.

For him, learning to enjoy solitude has become a form of independence.

His priorities have also gradually changed.

Rather than focusing entirely on finding a romantic partner, Arif has started thinking about how he can use his own life to help other people.

Every month, he tries to use part of his salary to support people who are struggling or living in difficult circumstances.

For him, helping someone who needs support provides a different kind of satisfaction.

It reminds him that his life can have meaning beyond his own personal struggles.

He now dreams of becoming a full-time social worker or community activist in the future. He wants to stand beside people who are neglected, marginalised or forgotten by society.

He wants to become a friend to people who have very few people willing to listen to them.

He has already started taking small steps towards that goal.

Arif believes that sometimes the greatest purpose in life is not simply to achieve personal success, but to use that success to make someone else's life a little easier.

His journey has therefore changed dramatically.

The story began with a 14-year-old boy who did not understand why he felt different from everyone around him.

That boy was afraid.

He did not have the vocabulary to explain his feelings. He did not know whether anyone would understand him. So he hid.

He pretended.

He learned to live according to expectations that were not necessarily his own.

Years later, Arif is still aware of the challenges that come with being a gay man in a society where acceptance is not guaranteed. He does not pretend that those challenges have disappeared.

But he no longer believes that his sexuality has to determine the value of his entire life.

He has stopped expecting romantic love to solve every problem.

He has stopped believing that being single automatically means being unsuccessful.

And, most importantly, he has started choosing himself.

Perhaps one day he will find a partner who genuinely understands him and chooses to stay. Perhaps he will remain single. Perhaps his future will look completely different from what he imagines today.

He no longer needs to have all the answers.

What matters to him now is building a life that feels meaningful.

A life based on self-respect rather than shame.

A life based on purpose rather than fear.

A life where he can help others instead of constantly worrying about whether others will accept him.

His journey has taught him that survival is not the same as living.

For years, he survived by hiding a part of himself.

Now, he wants to live by discovering who he truly is beyond the expectations of society.

The frightened teenager who once had to pretend to be straight has grown into a man who is gradually learning to accept himself.

And perhaps the greatest achievement of his life is not his education, his career or his professional success.

It is the fact that he has learned to love himself.

For Arif, real life is no longer about desperately searching for someone who will complete him. It is about becoming complete within himself—and using whatever life he has to bring kindness, dignity and hope to people who need it.

That, he believes, is a life worth living.

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16 december 2024

Beyond the Silence: Imran’s Journey to Becoming Himself

Imran (a pseudonym) is a gay man from Bangladesh who spent many years believing that the safest way to live was to keep an important part of himself hidden.

For a long time, Imran did not have the language to describe what he was feeling.

He simply knew that he seemed to experience relationships differently from the people around him.

During his teenage years, his friends began talking openly about girls they liked. They joked about romance, discussed marriage and imagined what their future families might look like.

Imran participated in those conversations when necessary, but internally he felt disconnected from them.

His own feelings were directed towards men.

At first, he tried to ignore them.

He thought perhaps they were temporary feelings that would disappear with age. He avoided thinking too deeply about his attraction because acknowledging it meant confronting questions he was not ready to answer.

Eventually, however, pretending became impossible.

Imran realised that this was not a phase.

He was gay.

Instead of feeling free after understanding himself, he became frightened.

He knew that homosexuality was not something he could easily discuss with his family or wider community. He had grown up surrounded by expectations about masculinity, marriage and family responsibility.

The future seemed already written for him.

He was expected to marry a woman.

He was expected to have children.

He was expected to become financially successful and fulfil his responsibilities towards his family.

Imran could not see how his real identity could fit into that picture.

So he chose silence.

He became extremely cautious about his private life.

He avoided sharing personal information. He kept certain friendships hidden. He became careful with his phone and social media. Even innocent questions sometimes made him nervous because he was afraid that a small mistake could reveal something he had spent years protecting.

There were times when he wondered whether living honestly was worth the consequences.

There were also times when he wished he could simply wake up one morning and become the person everyone expected him to be.

But he could not change the way he felt.

And the more he tried to suppress himself, the more emotionally exhausted he became.

Imran started experiencing a strange contradiction.

His life appeared to be moving forward, but internally he felt stuck.

He continued his education and worked hard to establish himself professionally. He believed that if he became successful enough, perhaps he would eventually feel satisfied.

He set goals.

He worked towards them.

He celebrated his achievements.

Yet whenever the excitement disappeared, the same emptiness returned.

He began asking himself difficult questions.

What was the point of building a successful life if he could not live it honestly?

What would happen if he reached every professional goal but remained afraid to be himself?

Could a person be successful while constantly hiding?

These questions changed the way he looked at his future.

For the first time, Imran understood that he did not simply want success.

He wanted a life that belonged to him.

Still, accepting that idea was not easy.

There were years of fear behind him.

There were family expectations he could not simply erase.

There were social attitudes that made him cautious.

And there was always the possibility that people he trusted might react differently once they knew the truth.

Because of this, Imran began taking small steps rather than making dramatic changes.

He started learning more about himself.

He became interested in psychology, human behaviour and the experiences of people who lived differently from social expectations.

He began reading stories of people who had survived difficult circumstances and built meaningful lives.

Those stories gave him something he had rarely felt before.

Hope.

He realised that there was no single definition of a successful life.

Some people found happiness through marriage and children.

Others found fulfilment through careers, friendships, creativity, community work or personal freedom.

There was no reason his life had to follow somebody else's timetable.

Another important change came through friendship.

Imran began building relationships with people who appreciated him for his character rather than the image he presented.

With those people, he could talk about his ambitions, frustrations and fears.

He did not always tell them everything, but he no longer felt completely alone.

Gradually, he discovered the importance of having people around him who did not demand perfection.

This taught him something about relationships.

Real connection was not about performing the role other people expected.

It was about being able to exist without constantly defending yourself.

As Imran became more confident, he also began thinking about how his own experiences could be useful to others.

He remembered the younger version of himself — confused, frightened and desperately searching for reassurance.

He wondered how different his teenage years might have been if somebody had simply told him that he was not alone.

That thought stayed with him.

He began helping people around him whenever he could.

Sometimes it was practical assistance.

Sometimes it was advice.

Sometimes it was simply listening.

He also became willing to contribute financially when someone he knew was experiencing genuine hardship.

He did not do these things because he wanted recognition.

In fact, he preferred that nobody noticed.

He simply understood how valuable even a small amount of kindness could be when someone was going through a difficult period.

Through helping others, Imran discovered an unexpected form of healing.

For years, he had focused on everything he had lost because of fear.

Now he began noticing what his experiences had given him.

They had made him observant.

They had taught him patience.

They had made him sensitive to other people's struggles.

They had taught him not to judge people too quickly.

Most importantly, they had made him understand the importance of being heard.

His past had not disappeared.

But it had acquired a different meaning.

Imran also changed the way he thought about love.

Previously, he had imagined that finding the right man would rescue him from loneliness.

Now he saw relationships differently.

A partner could share his life, but a partner could not be responsible for his entire happiness.

He wanted love, but he did not want desperation.

He wanted companionship, but he did not want dependence.

He wanted a relationship where two people could choose each other freely rather than remain together because of fear.

That realisation allowed him to stop treating being single as a personal failure.

He began enjoying parts of life that he had previously postponed.

He explored new interests.

He strengthened friendships.

He worked towards professional goals.

He spent time learning.

He became more involved in helping people around him.

He allowed himself to dream without immediately asking whether those dreams would be acceptable to everyone else.

Slowly, his relationship with solitude changed.

Being alone no longer automatically meant being lonely.

Sometimes being alone gave him the opportunity to think.

Sometimes it gave him peace.

Sometimes it allowed him to make decisions without outside pressure.

Imran began to appreciate his own company.

That independence became one of the most important achievements of his life.

He still hopes to experience a loving relationship in the future.

But he no longer believes that somebody else must arrive before his life can truly begin.

His life has already begun.

And he wants to live it.

Today, Imran hopes to build a future where his work has a positive impact on other people.

He is particularly interested in supporting individuals who feel excluded, isolated or unable to speak openly about their struggles.

He knows what it is like to feel invisible.

He knows what it is like to smile in public while carrying private fear.

And he knows how powerful a little understanding can be.

His goal is therefore not simply to become successful.

He wants to become useful.

He wants his presence to mean something to the people he encounters.

He wants to be remembered as someone who helped rather than judged.

Someone who listened rather than dismissed.

Someone who offered hope when another person had very little.

Looking back at his younger years, Imran no longer feels ashamed of the teenager who was afraid.

That teenager was doing what he believed was necessary to survive.

He was protecting himself with the tools he had.

But Imran knows he cannot spend the rest of his life hiding behind those same walls.

The walls that once protected him had eventually started imprisoning him.

Breaking them down did not happen overnight.

It happened through hundreds of small decisions.

Choosing self-respect.

Choosing genuine friendships.

Choosing personal growth.

Choosing kindness.

Choosing independence.

Choosing to imagine a future beyond fear.

Imran still does not have every answer.

He does not know exactly where his career will take him.

He does not know whether his future will include marriage or a long-term partner.

He does not know how every person in his life will respond to his identity.

But he has stopped believing that uncertainty means he should stop living.

He has learned that life is not a test in which everyone must follow the same instructions.

People are allowed to take different paths.

People are allowed to discover themselves slowly.

People are allowed to change their priorities.

And people are allowed to want a life that looks different from the one others imagined for them.

For years, Imran thought freedom meant reaching a point where nobody would judge him.

Now he understands that he cannot control everyone's opinions.

What he can control is whether he allows those opinions to determine his value.

His greatest achievement has therefore not been a qualification, a job or financial independence.

It has been something quieter.

He has learned to look at himself without shame.

He has learned that being gay does not make him incomplete.

He has learned that being single does not make him unsuccessful.

He has learned that asking for acceptance from others should never require abandoning his own identity.

And he has learned that his difficult experiences can become a source of compassion rather than bitterness.

Imran's story is still being written.

But for the first time, he is the one holding the pen.

He is no longer trying to live a life designed entirely by other people's expectations.

He is building a life based on honesty, purpose, independence and hope.

And for someone who spent years afraid of being seen, that may be the greatest form of freedom of all.

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10 November 2024

When He Stopped Running: Rafi’s Journey Towards Acceptance, Independence and Purpose

Rafi is a gay man from Bangladesh whose understanding of himself developed slowly, through years of confusion, silence and eventually courage.

As a child, Rafi never thought much about the expectations surrounding him. Like most children, he simply wanted to study, make friends and enjoy ordinary moments with the people around him.

It was during his teenage years that things began to feel different.

While his friends started talking about girls and imagining their future relationships, Rafi noticed that his attention was drawn elsewhere. He developed strong emotional connections with certain boys and found himself thinking about them in ways he could not easily explain.

At first, he rejected the possibility that these feelings meant anything significant.

He thought perhaps he was simply admiring his friends. Maybe he was unusually close to them. Maybe the feelings would disappear as he became older.

They did not.

Instead, they became clearer.

Rafi eventually understood that he was attracted to men.

That realisation should have been an important step in understanding himself, but for Rafi it initially felt like the beginning of a long period of fear.

He knew the kind of life people expected him to live.

One day, he was supposed to marry a woman. He was supposed to have children, establish a household and become the kind of man his family could proudly talk about.

There seemed to be very little room for another possibility.

So Rafi learned to hide.

He became skilled at changing the subject when people asked personal questions. He avoided conversations about attraction and relationships. When relatives casually asked about marriage, he gave vague answers.

Nobody around him necessarily realised how much effort went into appearing ordinary.

Behind the calm exterior, Rafi was constantly monitoring himself.

What could he say?

Who could he trust?

Would somebody discover his secret?

Would his family reject him?

Would his friendships change?

These questions followed him for years.

Eventually, hiding became exhausting.

Rafi began to understand that secrecy was not simply about keeping information private. It had begun to shape the way he lived his entire life.

He sometimes felt as though he was watching his own life from a distance.

He could laugh with friends, attend family gatherings, study, work and make plans for the future, yet still feel that something important was missing.

Rather than confronting those feelings, he threw himself into education and work.

He became determined to build a stable future for himself.

Studying gave him something concrete to concentrate on. When his personal life felt uncertain, academic goals provided direction.

Later, when he began working, financial independence gave him another sense of control.

For the first time, Rafi could make certain decisions without depending completely on other people.

From the outside, his life appeared to be progressing well.

But success did not automatically make the loneliness disappear.

He discovered that independence and happiness were not the same thing.

He could earn money and still feel lonely.

He could achieve professional goals and still question his future.

He could receive praise from others and still struggle to accept himself.

For a period, Rafi became convinced that finding a partner would solve everything.

He imagined meeting a man who would understand him completely — someone with whom he could finally stop pretending.

The idea was comforting.

But it also created another fear.

What if the relationship ended?

What if his partner eventually wanted a conventional life?

What if family pressure became stronger than love?

What if he became emotionally dependent on another person for his happiness?

Gradually, Rafi realised that he was asking another human being to solve a problem that had existed inside him for years.

He needed to learn how to stand on his own.

That realisation changed his priorities.

Instead of constantly asking when he would find love, he began asking what kind of person he wanted to become.

He started investing more time in himself.

He explored subjects that interested him. He became more aware of social issues and the experiences of people who lived on the margins of society. He formed friendships with people who valued honesty and individuality.

Most importantly, he began allowing himself to imagine a future that did not depend on following a traditional script.

A major turning point came when Rafi began helping other people.

At first, it was nothing extraordinary.

Someone needed advice.

Someone was going through a difficult period.

Someone simply wanted another person to listen.

Rafi recognised something in those situations.

He knew what it felt like to carry something painful without having anyone to talk to.

So he listened.

Sometimes he offered practical help. Sometimes he contributed financially when he was able. Sometimes all he could do was reassure someone that their situation did not make them a failure.

But he discovered that even small acts of support could have meaning.

Helping others also changed the way he viewed his own past.

The years he had spent feeling isolated had given him something valuable: empathy.

He understood why people sometimes remained silent.

He understood the fear of being judged.

He understood how difficult it could be to ask for help.

And he understood how powerful it could be when another person simply said, “I understand.”

Rafi gradually became interested in community and social-support work.

He began thinking less about what society expected him to become and more about what contribution he could make.

He realised that purpose did not necessarily require wealth, fame or extraordinary achievements.

Purpose could be found in everyday actions.

Supporting someone who was struggling.

Sharing an opportunity.

Giving a small amount of financial assistance.

Listening without judgement.

Encouraging somebody who had lost confidence.

Being present when someone felt completely alone.

These experiences gave Rafi something he had spent years searching for.

A sense of meaning.

At the same time, his relationship with his own identity began to change.

For years, he had thought of being gay primarily as the source of his problems.

Now he began seeing it differently.

Being gay was one part of him.

It did not determine his intelligence.

It did not determine his ambitions.

It did not determine his ability to care for others.

It did not determine his professional future.

And it certainly did not determine his worth.

Rafi began to understand that he was a complete person rather than a single identity.

He was a friend.

A family member.

A professional.

A learner.

A person with dreams.

A person capable of helping others.

And he was also gay.

None of those parts cancelled out the others.

Another important change came in the way Rafi thought about relationships.

He no longer believed that being single meant that something was wrong with him.

He stopped comparing his life with people who were getting married, buying homes or starting families.

Their lives were not necessarily better.

They were simply different.

Rafi decided that if love came into his life, he wanted it to be based on trust, honesty and mutual respect.

He did not want to enter a relationship simply because he was frightened of being alone.

Nor did he want to make life-changing decisions simply to satisfy social expectations.

For the first time, being alone did not automatically frighten him.

He discovered that solitude could be peaceful.

He could spend time by himself and still feel connected to the world.

He could make plans based on his own ambitions.

He could learn something new simply because he enjoyed it.

He could build friendships without pretending to be someone else.

He could think about the future without forcing himself to have every answer.

This did not mean that all his fears disappeared.

They did not.

There are still moments when Rafi worries about acceptance, family, relationships and what the future may bring.

But the difference is that fear no longer controls every decision.

He has learned that courage does not mean being completely free of fear.

Sometimes courage means being afraid and continuing anyway.

Today, Rafi wants to use more of his time and experience to support people who feel excluded or misunderstood.

He hopes to become involved more deeply in community development and social support.

His ambition is not simply to achieve a successful career.

He wants his life to have a positive effect on other people.

He wants to be the person he once needed — someone who listens, respects differences and reminds others that their circumstances do not determine their value.

Looking back, Rafi sometimes wishes he could speak to his younger self.

He would tell that frightened teenager that the future will not always feel as frightening as it does now.

He would tell him that confusion does not mean weakness.

He would tell him that being different does not mean being broken.

And most importantly, he would tell him not to spend his entire life trying to become acceptable to people who may never understand him.

Rafi's greatest transformation was not becoming fearless.

It was learning that fear did not deserve to make all his decisions.

He no longer measures his life by whether he has a partner, whether everyone approves of him or whether his journey resembles somebody else's.

Instead, he measures it by the person he is becoming.

Someone more compassionate.

More independent.

More honest with himself.

More willing to help others.

His life is still evolving, and he does not pretend to know exactly what the future holds.

But that uncertainty no longer feels like a threat.

It feels like possibility.

Rafi once believed freedom meant being accepted by everyone around him.

Now he understands something much more important.

Freedom begins when you stop abandoning yourself simply because other people might not understand you.

And for Rafi, that is where his new life truly began.

Learn more

5 October 2024

The Life I Chose: Sami’s Journey from Fear to Freedom

Sami is a gay man from Bangladesh whose journey towards accepting himself began with a feeling he could not explain.

As a teenager, Sami noticed that his emotions did not seem to follow the same pattern as those of the boys around him. His classmates talked about girls, celebrity crushes and future relationships, while Sami quietly found himself becoming emotionally attached to boys.

At first, he convinced himself that it was nothing more than admiration.

He told himself that perhaps he simply wanted to be friends with certain boys or that his feelings were temporary.

But as he grew older, he began to understand that what he was experiencing was much deeper.

He was attracted to men.

The realisation brought no immediate sense of relief. Instead, it created fear.

Sami had grown up with a clear idea of what adulthood was supposed to look like. A man was expected to marry a woman, have children and provide for his family. Anything outside that familiar path was difficult to discuss.

Sami therefore decided that silence was safer than honesty.

He became careful about what he said and who he trusted.

When friends discussed relationships, he listened more than he spoke. When relatives asked whether he had a girlfriend, he avoided giving a direct answer. When conversations turned towards marriage, he learned to smile and move on.

Over time, hiding became almost automatic.

Yet maintaining a secret life came at an emotional cost.

Sami often felt that he was living two lives at once.

The first was the person everyone knew: a hardworking, responsible young man trying to build a successful future.

The second was the person he kept private: someone who wanted to love another man, experience emotional intimacy and eventually have a relationship based on honesty.

The distance between those two versions of himself became increasingly difficult to carry.

Instead of discussing his feelings, Sami concentrated on his studies.

Education became his escape.

Whenever he felt confused or lonely, he focused on assignments, exams and career plans. Academic success gave him confidence and helped him prove to himself that he could achieve something despite the difficulties he carried privately.

After completing his studies, Sami began working and gradually became financially independent.

People around him congratulated him.

His career was moving forward, and his life appeared stable.

But privately, he still felt incomplete.

He began to realise that professional success could not answer every personal question.

A good job could provide security, but it could not automatically remove loneliness.

Money could make life easier, but it could not replace emotional connection.

And achievements could make other people proud without necessarily making him happy.

For a while, Sami became obsessed with the idea that he needed to find a partner.

He believed that if he could meet the right man, perhaps everything would finally make sense.

He spent time thinking about what a future relationship might look like.

Then reality would return.

He worried about secrecy. He worried about family reactions. He worried about whether a future partner would eventually choose a conventional marriage because of pressure from relatives.

The possibility of losing someone he loved frightened him.

Eventually, Sami reached a difficult conclusion: he could not build his entire sense of happiness around the possibility of another person staying in his life forever.

That was the beginning of a different chapter.

Instead of asking when someone would come into his life, Sami began asking what he could do with the life he already had.

He started spending more time developing himself.

He read more. He became interested in personal development and social issues. He strengthened friendships with people who made him feel respected. He began thinking about how his own experiences could help him understand people who were struggling.

One experience particularly changed his outlook.

Sami met someone who was going through a difficult period and simply needed somebody to listen.

There was no dramatic solution.

Sami could not fix the person's problems.

But he stayed, listened and offered whatever support he could.

Later, he realised how meaningful that simple act had been.

For years, he had wanted someone to understand him.

Now he was discovering that he could become that person for someone else.

This changed the way he viewed his own struggles.

His experiences were no longer only something painful that had happened to him.

They could also teach him empathy.

They could help him understand people who felt isolated.

They could motivate him to support others who were afraid to speak.

Sami gradually became interested in community work and social support. He began contributing whenever he could, including offering financial help to people facing difficulties.

He did not consider himself wealthy.

But he believed that even a small contribution could matter when someone was struggling.

The more he helped others, the more he understood that purpose does not always come from extraordinary achievements.

Sometimes it comes from ordinary acts of kindness.

A conversation.

A small donation.

Helping someone find an opportunity.

Standing beside a person when everyone else has walked away.

These things began giving Sami a sense of fulfilment.

His understanding of himself also changed.

He stopped thinking of his sexuality as the entire definition of who he was.

He was gay, but he was also a son, a friend, a professional, a learner and someone with ambitions for the future.

His sexuality was part of his identity, but it was not the limit of his identity.

This distinction became incredibly important to him.

Sami also stopped viewing marriage as a measure of success.

He watched people around him rush into relationships because society told them that adulthood required marriage.

He realised that he did not want to make major decisions simply to satisfy other people's expectations.

If he eventually found someone with whom he could build a healthy and honest relationship, he would welcome it.

But he no longer wanted to desperately search for somebody simply because he was afraid of being alone.

He began enjoying his independence.

He could spend an evening alone without automatically feeling lonely.

He could make decisions about his career without considering how they might affect a future partner.

He could travel, learn new things, develop friendships and pursue his ambitions simply because those things mattered to him.

For Sami, solitude gradually became something different from loneliness.

It became space.

Space to think.

Space to grow.

Space to understand himself.

Space to imagine a future that was not dictated by fear.

Today, Sami hopes to dedicate more of his time to helping others.

He dreams of eventually working in social development or community support, particularly with people who feel invisible or excluded.

He wants to create the kind of support that he once wished existed for himself.

Someone who listens without judgement.

Someone who does not immediately tell another person how they should live.

Someone who reminds people that difficult circumstances do not make them worthless.

Sami knows his journey is not finished.

There are still moments when he worries about the future.

There are still questions about family, relationships and acceptance.

But he no longer sees uncertainty as evidence that his life has failed.

He has learned that a meaningful life does not need to look exactly like everyone else's.

For years, he believed that his biggest problem was being different.

Now he thinks his biggest challenge was believing that being different made him less deserving of happiness.

The teenager who once hid his feelings now understands something he could not have imagined back then:

He does not need to earn the right to respect himself.

He does not need a relationship to prove that he is lovable.

He does not need society's approval to give his life meaning.

And he does not need to know exactly where his future is going.

He simply needs the courage to keep moving forward.

Sami's journey has taught him that self-acceptance is not about pretending that life is easy.

It is about refusing to let fear make every decision.

It is about accepting that some people may never understand you while still choosing not to abandon yourself.

It is about finding purpose even when life does not follow the plan you once imagined.

His greatest hope now is not simply to become successful.

It is to become useful.

To be someone who can make another person's difficult day slightly easier.

To turn his own experiences into empathy rather than bitterness.

And to build a life that is defined not by the things he was once afraid to say, but by the person he chooses to become.

For Sami, freedom did not begin when everyone around him accepted him.

It began when he finally stopped believing that he needed everyone's permission to accept himself.

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15 September 2024

From Silence to Strength: Rayan’s Journey of Self-Acceptance and Purpose

Rayan is a gay man from Bangladesh whose understanding of himself developed slowly over many years. His journey was not simply about discovering his sexuality; it was about learning how to live with an identity that he had spent much of his life keeping hidden.

Rayan first began questioning his feelings during his teenage years. While his friends were becoming interested in girls and talking openly about future relationships, he noticed that his own emotions were developing in a different direction.

He found himself drawn towards certain boys.

At first, he dismissed those feelings as admiration or friendship. He assumed that perhaps he simply looked up to them or wanted to be close to them. He did not have the confidence or knowledge to ask himself whether those feelings might mean something more.

As he grew older, however, the feelings became harder to ignore.

Rayan gradually realised that the emotions he experienced towards boys were not the same as ordinary friendship. There was affection, excitement and an emotional connection that he did not experience towards girls.

But understanding himself did not make it easier to accept himself.

He grew up surrounded by expectations about what a man's life should look like. He was expected to study, find a respectable career, marry a woman and eventually build a conventional family.

There seemed to be no obvious place in those expectations for someone like him.

So Rayan became very good at keeping secrets.

He learned how to change the subject when conversations became too personal. When friends talked about girls, he sometimes joined the conversation even when he had no genuine interest. When relatives asked about marriage, he learned to give vague answers.

Nobody knew how much effort went into maintaining that appearance.

Behind his ordinary conversations was a constant awareness that one wrong sentence, one misunderstood message or one accidental disclosure could expose something he had worked hard to protect.

For a long time, Rayan believed that hiding was the safest option.

He concentrated on education and building a career. Studying gave him something he could control. His professional ambitions gave him a sense of direction. Whenever he felt confused about his personal life, he threw himself into work and tried to focus on becoming successful.

Eventually, he achieved several of the goals he had set for himself.

People around him saw a disciplined and ambitious man who was progressing in life.

But Rayan knew there was another story behind that success.

There were nights when he felt emotionally isolated despite being surrounded by people. He could speak to colleagues, friends and relatives about ordinary matters, but there were parts of his life he could not discuss honestly.

The loneliness was not necessarily about having nobody around him.

It was about feeling that very few people knew the real person behind the public version of himself.

As he entered adulthood, Rayan began thinking more seriously about relationships.

He wanted the same things many people want: someone trustworthy, emotional intimacy, companionship and a person with whom he could share both ordinary and difficult moments.

Yet relationships also frightened him.

He worried about whether a relationship between two men could survive the pressures of family, society and expectations. He wondered whether a future partner would eventually feel pressured to live a conventional life.

Sometimes he thought it would be easier not to become emotionally attached to anyone at all.

There were periods when Rayan became convinced that something was wrong with his life because he had not found the kind of relationship he imagined growing up.

He compared himself with friends who were getting married, buying homes and starting families.

He began asking himself whether he was falling behind.

Eventually, however, he reached a turning point.

Instead of asking, "Why can't my life look like everyone else's?" he began asking a different question:

"What kind of life would actually make me happy?"

That question changed his perspective.

Rayan realised that he had spent years measuring his happiness against other people's expectations.

He had assumed that a successful life had to follow a particular sequence: education, career, marriage and family.

But perhaps there was more than one way to build a meaningful life.

He began exploring interests outside work. He became more involved in his community and started paying greater attention to people experiencing poverty, isolation and social exclusion.

He discovered that helping others gave him a sense of fulfilment that professional achievements alone had never provided.

Even small acts mattered to him.

Helping someone financially when they were struggling, listening to someone who had nobody else to talk to, or simply making another person feel respected could change his entire mood.

Slowly, Rayan began to see his own experiences differently.

The years he had spent feeling isolated had taught him something about people who are also forced to hide parts of themselves.

He understood what it meant to feel unheard.

He understood what it meant to worry about being judged.

And he began wondering whether his own experiences could eventually help him support others.

That idea gradually became one of his biggest ambitions.

Rayan now hopes to build a future in community work. He wants to support people who feel excluded or forgotten and hopes that one day he can work full-time in social support or community development.

He does not want his life to be defined only by the difficulties he has experienced.

He wants those difficulties to become part of something constructive.

His understanding of loneliness has also changed.

Previously, Rayan believed being single meant that something was missing from his life. Now he sees independence differently.

He can enjoy spending time alone. He can make plans without waiting for someone else. He can invest in friendships, work, learning and community activities.

He still wants love.

He has not stopped believing in relationships.

But he no longer believes that another person must arrive before his own life can begin.

That has given him a sense of freedom.

Rayan also tries to share part of what he earns with people who are struggling. He believes financial success becomes more meaningful when it can be used to make someone else's circumstances slightly easier.

For him, generosity is not about being recognised.

It is about remembering how difficult life can feel when someone believes they have nobody to turn to.

His future remains uncertain.

He does not know whether he will eventually build a long-term relationship, whether he will remain single for many years, or whether his professional ambitions will take him somewhere completely unexpected.

For the first time, however, uncertainty does not frighten him as much as it once did.

He has learned that not having every answer does not mean having no future.

Looking back, Rayan sometimes thinks about the teenager he once was—the boy who could not understand why his feelings were different, who was frightened of being discovered and who believed that hiding was the only way to survive.

He wishes he could go back and tell that younger version of himself something simple:

"You are not worthless because you are different."

"You do not have to live your entire life according to someone else's definition of happiness."

"And one day, you will understand yourself better."

Rayan knows that being openly gay can still bring challenges in Bangladesh. He knows that social acceptance cannot be taken for granted and that many people continue to struggle privately with their identities.

But he no longer wants fear to be the central story of his life.

His story is no longer only about hiding.

It is about rebuilding.

It is about learning to respect himself, developing meaningful relationships with people around him, finding purpose in helping others and accepting that his life does not have to follow a predetermined path.

He has come to understand that self-acceptance is not a single moment.

It is a process.

Some days are easier than others. Some fears return. Some questions remain unanswered.

But each time he chooses not to hate himself, each time he helps another person and each time he allows himself to imagine a future beyond fear, he moves a little further forward.

Rayan's greatest achievement may therefore have nothing to do with his education, career or material success.

It is the quiet transformation that happened inside him.

He went from wondering whether he could ever live honestly with himself to believing that his life can have value, meaning and purpose.

He no longer wants to spend his entire future proving that he can fit into somebody else's expectations.

He wants to build a life of his own.

A life where dignity matters more than appearances.

A life where kindness matters more than approval.

A life where being different does not prevent him from contributing something valuable to the world.

And above all, a life where he no longer needs another person to tell him that he is worthy of love.

He is slowly learning to tell himself that.

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9 August 2024

Beyond the Struggle: Arif’s Journey from Hiding His Identity to Finding Self-Love and Purpose

Arif is a gay man from Bangladesh. He first began to realise that he was different from other boys when he was around 14 years old.