Henry Abbott

Dear Bowdoin,

This past weekend, I sat through the Super Bowl with a group of friends. I was watching a sport I have no connection with and have very limited understanding of. Yet, when I watch the ICC Champions Trophy later this month, I’ll be doing so alone in my room. At Bowdoin, I have to pretend like I know whether Shake Shack has better burgers than Five Guys (without having tried either), because there’s nobody to talk about whether Ibrahim’s has better fuchka than VIP in Dhaka.

The experiences of international students at Bowdoin are quite unique given that we constitute only about ten percent of the student body, with even fewer on financial aid. Being a minority means that we have to make adjustments and build a path to find out which part of the College we fit into and exactly how we “belong at Bowdoin.”

I must admit that it is a difficult task to understand who we—the international students—are and to create a welcoming space for us. Coming into Bowdoin, I had never spent evenings in a museum, appreciating artwork with a drink in my hand while dressed up in nice clothes. Spaces like that have always felt a little weird. However, I grew up listening to stories about revolution in school and at home, about how my people have overthrown Western colonizers and military dictators. This institution knows close to nothing of the world I grew up in. Being the only Bowdoin student in the past four years who was born and raised in Bangladesh, I aligned my expectations from the school accordingly.

I understand why I was constantly reminded through emails and conversations that there would be extra counseling hours, mindfulness sessions and time to go and speak to the deans after the results of the U.S. election in November. I also knew that none of the administrators would reach out to me when thousands of people (mostly children and students of my age) were killed last year in the anti-government revolution that took place in Bangladesh. No dean or staff member asked whether my friends and family were doing okay, if they were able to go get groceries and essential medication during the curfew or whether anyone I knew had been killed. Honestly, even if they did, I would probably have no answer for them as I lost communication with my folks back home due to a government-enforced internet blackout.

If you asked me about the protests and how they impacted me, I would tell you why I feel the way I do in the face of injustice. You’d know that my own parents and grandparents had lived through a genocide in 1971. You’d know that my father’s family had to leave their home in the city and move between different villages to avoid run-ins with the Pakistani military. You’d know that my uncle was killed in his school by army officials, who shot him using guns that were illegally supplied by Nixon and Kissinger.

I feel as though I owe it to my family and the millions of Bangladeshis who were massacred in 1971 to act against atrocities. If the genocide survivors that I know describe a current event as a genocide, I must listen. I find myself belonging at Bowdoin when I see my peers protest for justice. After all, I have seen my people overthrow multiple authoritarian regimes with the use of civil disobedience.

It deeply upsets me to see these students be vilified, threatened and suspended. What is even more concerning is when your administrators choose not to mention the cause behind the protests. Making the choice not to mention the Palestinian people or even the Israeli state in schoolwide emails makes me wonder if brown and Black people around the world continue to remain invisible to your eyes—the same way the millions that were killed in 1971, including my uncle, remain invisible to you.

Best wishes,

Token BIPOC International Student

Zunain Husain is a member of the Class of 2025.