Aasha Mehreen Amin

The damning indictment had been announced a long time before we were ready to hear it. Now, we can no longer look away from that awful, cringe-worthy truth. We, the grownups, the apparent decision makers of their fate, have failed our children.

The terror attack on July 1, 2016 hurt Bangladesh in a way no other incident has—it left us bare and wounded, stripping away our confidence, our image as a peaceful, hospitable nation in the eyes of the world.

It is hardly a new phenomenon to see how governments, especially in South Asia, claiming to be democratic to suit their convenience, become anything but that when it comes to dissenting views. Curbing press freedom, in particular, will always become the target for governments that have succumbed to insecurities of their own creation. Corruption of leaders or their cronies seems to be the topmost reason for state paranoia of the media which is seen as a thorn in the flesh rather than an essential component of democratic maturity.

A first time visitor to Dhaka on April 14 will be delighted by the undeniable festive mood that this city is adorned with. Most striking

A tribute to artist and freedom fighter Ferdousi Priyabhashini on a day we celebrate women could not be more befitting except for the fact that it should have been a tribute to a living legend not a eulogy for a hero who is no more. She passed away on March 6. When one looks at the life of this incredibly brave and beautiful woman one cannot help but feel that we as a nation have failed miserably to pay our dues to this freedom fighter.

It's hard to tell how old Minara Begum is - she could pass off as a 19-year-old although she is probably in her mid twenties. If you ask she will give you an embarassed smile revealing the dimples on her pretty face as she remarks - 'I can't tell - maybe 16 or 17'. She lost her parents as a child and was brought up by relatives. Her brother married her off to a rickshaw puller who goes to work when he feels like it - the rest of the time he just stays at home. Meena of course does not have such luxury - she must work as a house maid every single day - except when she or one of the children is sick. She has two little children, rent to pay for a small shack in a slum and for daily groceries she has to buy on her way home.

The tragedy of Asma Jahangir's sudden passing away at only 66 years of age, on February 11, is that she has left the world at a time when it needed her most.

As you enter Balukhali refugee camp for the first time all you will notice is the amount of dust that clouds your vision, settling on your hair, clothes, seeping into your shoes and even finding its way into your mouth.

The pictures on the front page of practically every major newspaper on Wednesday, January 17, conjure an ugly image of Bangladesh's political scene.

It makes one wonder why married couples must declare their unquestionable adoration for each other on Facebook. Do they not see each other every single day of their lives?

We live in parallel worlds—one in which everything seems to happen in a single moment and another in which nothing seems to happen at any moment.

The best thing about the building I come to work to six days a week is that it has reasonably clean (as in dry), separate toilets for women in each floor. It is a luxury that few women in this city can claim. I say “luxury” for what is a basic necessity because in Dhaka city (forget the rest of Bangladesh) having access to a reasonably useable toilet for women is a rarity. Sometimes it is a miracle.

Cameras have always had a strange effect on people. While there is a group of people who are called camera shy, who will shun any attempts of anyone trying to photograph them, who will grimace uncomfortably when the camera...

I don't know about you but when I read about traffic law enforcers stopping VIP cars going on the wrong side of the road and giving them tickets, for some reason I feel like jumping with joy. Forgive me for being gleeful at another individual's inconvenience.

Yet there it is—an inescapable, undesirable truth. And it goes far beyond the silly jibes of how you didn't get your mother's buttery complexion or the delicate hints by the parlour assistant that a “fair polish” is in order to “brighten” your dark, dull skin.

There is nothing dark in Zeheen's room. Nothing that reflects the heavy weight of grief that engulfs those he has left behind.

Tuesday's verdict by a special court in Dhaka, which sentenced Nawrin Jahan Nodi to life imprisonment for torturing an 11-year-old domestic help, Aduri, and dumping her into a dustbin assuming she was dead, should give us immense satisfaction.

The real Fayza Apa was the most soft-hearted person in the world. She was frustratingly generous and kindhearted. Frustrating, because there was no way you could dissuade her from buying gifts for you – and she bought gifts for practically everyone she knew and even for those she didn't.

This is a city where even the most important people fall victim of the Rip Van Winkle syndrome. They lie in the blissful sleep of negligence and apathy while their city's vitality, strength and resilience are washed away in the dirty waters.

News stories of two young women accusing the son of a well known jewellery store and one of his friends, of raping them at a hotel in Banani after a birthday party, are doing the rounds, evoking all sorts of reactions among the public.