To See and Be Seen

by Jacqueline Bawtree (Australia)

Making a local connection Bangladesh

We moved slowly through the early Spring humidity of northern Bangladesh, crossing the dusty apron in front of the wooden school rooms with corrugated iron roofs. Coming from every direction, small groups of people picked their way along the raised pathways running through the patchwork of bright green rice paddies to join the gathering crowd. At a wooden table staff were registering guests for their appointment at the mobile clinic. Men in neutral coloured lungis and women in bright saris with children hanging off them milled around waiting for their slip of paper. We entered a dark room where the ophthalmologist sat at a small table next to one of two small windows that allowed a minimum of light into the room. A row of people waited on a wooden bench for their appointments. Supported by his wife and a wooden cane, a man with glassy eyes moved over to the consultation chair. He needed a referral for a cataract operation. As they stepped away a man sat down with his small son. The doctor shone a small torch in each of the little boys’ eyes, gently lifting the lid a little higher. The boy recoiled into the chest of his father and squinted in objection. A woman swathed in a pink sari leant forward at the small table next, as the handsome doctor looked into her eyes. The door through which we had entered now had people lining each side peering in, with faces pressed up against the bars of the window beside it. Patiently they waited for help to improve their ability to see. We emerged back out into the daylight. An elderly woman cloaked in faded black rather than a bright sari, peered at me from the gap in her niqab: attire rarely seen in the moderate Muslim nation, but becoming more common with male workers returning from the Saudi Kingdom with additional religiosity. Grey curls peeked from the sides of her head covering. Her eyes sparkled in greeting. I held up my camera to ask if I could take a photo. She nodded gently and immediately moved to straighten her worn clothing. A smile shone from her weary eyes as I clicked the shutter. She was happy to be seen. With long dark wavy locks and a thick grey beard tinged with orange at the bottom, a man sitting a little further down the bench, straightened up as if to get my attention as I took her photo, but at that moment a group of children seeing the camera raced over and jostled in front of me demanding “Selfie? Selfie?”, really meaning “Photo? Photo?” Once I had satisfied their desire to be captured by my lens, they ran off to continue playing. Unlike my nieces and nephews back home they didn’t ask to see the back of the camera. They were glad enough to have been seen. The writer and the interpreter were speaking with some women. I joined them to capture portraits to accompany their stories. As I approached, a younger woman also wearing the black niqab smiled at me with her eyes. I returned the silent greeting with warmth. As the woman who had been interviewed shyly allowed me to take her photo, I could see the young woman behind her niqab, her eyes never leaving me. As I dropped my camera, I realized she had raised the fabric covering her face on top of her head. A determined jawline broke into a soft smile that lit up her eyes with dignity as they met mine. She wanted to be seen. Our interpreter nodded to indicate someone over my shoulder. A six-month-old baby girl swathed in blue and yellow reached out to me from her Grandmothers arms. I raised my hands and met the grandmother’s eyes with the question, ‘Is it okay?’ she nodded with a laugh and allowed the little one to lean from her arms, into mine. Perched on my hip, resting her little feet on one of my camera’s she began to play with the strap of another. Perhaps one day it would be her eyes that would see the stories of her community and share them with the world.