The anatomy of a suicide note
A recent news from Rajshahi brought tears to our eyes. A family of four died to avoid the trap of debt and pain of hunger. It was a case of filicide where the father confessed to the killing of the other three members of his family. Such deaths are not uncommon in a country that is in denial about the significant segment of its population living in extreme poverty. The policy of reducing poverty to zero is a horse that exists in the book of the authorities but not in the stable of practice, as a Bangla proverb puts it. The transformation of four individuals to four zeros, therefore, is a case study that needs close scrutiny. I will attempt a close reading of the short note, written by a father who had just killed his children and wife.
The opening declaration sets the fatal decision as inevitable, "Tonight, the four of us will leave this world. We will never see each other again. Khoda hafiz." Then the author positions himself and takes responsibility for his action, "I am Minarul, and what I write below is entirely my own." He excludes the possibility of any external blame by stating, "I put it down because tonight, the four of us will die. No one is to be held responsible for our deaths. I write this letter because the police will otherwise accuse someone falsely and extort money."
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel. Minarul knew how, in a country like ours, narratives can be twisted and how law enforcement agencies can use someone else's misery as an opportunity to make money. He then provides a chronological account of the killings. The calm and composed voice reflects a kind of emotional numbing that produces a flattened affect. The sequential description of killings suggests that he had already killed three members of his family before killing himself. The atrocity is justified as an act of necessity.
In the next part, he leaves some instructions about his last rite, "The elder son of our father, along with his family, must not come to see our bodies or attend our funerals. Our father must not spend any money on the shrouds that will cover our bodies… From, Minarul. Assalam Alaikum."
By not naming the relationship that he has with his brother, it suggests that he felt betrayed by him and his family. The social exclusion of banning his father and elder brother from the funerals asserts some control over his action even after his death. The closings, which include religious courtesies, create an impression of a ritualistic farewell.
The suicide note reads like a testament and shows careful cognitive planning rather than any impulsivity. He names himself three times in the course of the note, which indicates that he is fixated on his authorial identity and mindful about misattribution. The attempt at clarity by the authors is common in suicide notes. But what is uncommon is the blunt repetition and directness of verbs. He asserts responsibility for his sequential homicide by repeatedly stating, "I killed... ." This suggests possible dissociative detachment or a forensic awareness of how the events will be reconstructed. The language is direct and not conditional. Minarul presents his action with certainty and finality. He maintains control over language by using imperatives to assert himself one last time. The statements that his elder brother "must not come" and that his father "must not pay for shrouds" hint at a displacement of anger. We can understand that there are unresolved conflicts within the family. While Minarul has absolved society, he does not extend the same reprieve to his immediate family members.
From a psychological point of view, the repeated emphasis on death as predetermined signifies helplessness conditioned by hunger, debt, and social stigma, which zeroes in on a sense of no escape. When Minarul killed his loved ones, he expressed concern about the police potentially taking advantage of the situation. The result is a deep-seated paranoia and mistrust against institutions that we all share as his fellow citizens. Now that this act of suicide is linked to debt, we can also highlight the systemic neglect and the lack of social support that leads individuals to self-annihilation.
One report suggests the daughter, Mithila, was only two years old. She craved fish. Her grandmother brought a dish of fish and found the door closed from inside. When neighbours broke in, they found the bodies of the victims along with the note.
The filicide is paternalistic in tone, as Minarul behaved like a provider who turned into an executioner. He could have simply died by suicide himself. But instead of abandoning his family members to uncertainty, he decided to kill his dependents, too, to release them from suffering. This behaviour exemplifies a twisted interpretation of "care," which aligns with the concept of altruistic filicide.
Minarul attempted to conform to social decorum and dignity by using religious courtesies like "Khoda hafiz" and "Assalam alaikum." The irony lies in the fact that he violated one of the major religious injunctions: suicide. The religious courtesy is a psychological relief that cloaks despair and seeks spiritual solace.
There are quite a few markers that make this note seem genuine. They include personal identifiers, explicit sequencing, emotional leakage (distrust, bitterness), and distrust for authority (i.e. police). In the note, Minarul emerges as a perpetrator experiencing acute psychological distress characterised by fatalism, a desire for control, and feelings of resentment. There are also overlapping themes that are common to suicide notes: explanatory or instructional, fatalistic or resigned, and accusatory or indirect. For instance, Minarul owns up to his action and clarifies responsibility (e.g. "No one is to be blamed"). He provides practical instructions (e.g. "Our father must not pay for the shrouds"). It is fatalistic when he writes, "Four of us will leave the world tonight." He has already resigned and given up hope. And the indirect anger directed at his elder brother and the police exemplifies the third type of suicide note.
I teach numerous realistic texts from various cultures that address hunger as a driving force for death. Manik Bandopadhyay, Emile Zola, Victor Hugo, Toni Morrison, and John Steinbeck are a few such names. In class, we glorify death and pain and critically appreciate their aesthetic dimensions. The explanatory-instructional-fatalistic typology shaped by hunger, debt, and systemic distrust is a matter of linguistic investigation that my students undertake for their grades. We write essays on how deprivation corrodes familial bonds and can present death as mercy. There are times when we need to question why one turned the other three into zeroes. Minarul killed because he cared. But who killed Minarul? Is he a villain or a victim?
Dr Shamsad Mortuza is professor of English at Dhaka University.
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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