Is reducing women's worlds our fix for their lack of safety?
Somewhere between Dhanmondi and Mohammadpur, a young woman fought for her dignity on a moving bus with nothing but her sandal. The bus helper was harassing her while the other passengers sat frozen in silence. She did not have a weapon or backup. She had her sandal, her voice, and her refusal to be silent. The video went viral, of course. We Bangladeshis love a bit of drama, as long as it is happening to someone else.
But here is the part that keeps gnawing at me: the women on that bus, the ones who stayed quiet, watched, and did not move. Because while the man's act was criminal, the silence of the women was cultural. Conditioned. Generational. The kind of silence handed down like heirloom jewellery, wrapped in fear and polished with caution. And that silence is exactly what is being weaponised now, not just on buses but in politics. Take a political party's latest offering to womanhood: five-hour work shifts for mothers. A new policy to "honour" women by reminding them their primary job is motherhood, not survival. How kind. How thoughtful. Nothing says empowerment like shorter shifts and longer sermons on modesty.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel. They insist they are not forcing women to adhere to a particular dress code. They are simply pointing out how "ninety percent of the girls [in Dhaka's industrial areas] go out dressed modestly." Translation: We did not make the rule; we are just applauding the obedience. And when they say women will "choose what to wear", they really mean "choose whatever we approve of". All this talk of protecting women's "honour" is starting to sound less like policy and more like public relations. Because when you reduce women's working hours, lecture them on decency, and talk endlessly about how fragile their "honour" is, you are not protecting them. You are isolating them. You are shrinking their world until the safest place left is silence.
When that girl on the bus screamed, no one stood by her. Not one woman said "stop". Not one voice joined hers. Maybe they were afraid. Maybe they thought, "better her than me". But here is the truth: today it is her, tomorrow it is you. The war on women does not need an army. It thrives on apathy. We keep saying "not all men", but let us start saying "not enough women". Not enough women are standing up, speaking up, linking arms, or even offering a hand when another is humiliated. Not enough of us are refusing to stay quiet when patriarchy gets a microphone and we get a curfew.
When political parties start deciding when we can work, what we can wear, and when it is appropriate to exist, women must stand by women. Loudly. Uncomfortably. Publicly. Because the only antidote to a society that silences women is a sisterhood that shouts back. This constant obsession with regulating women's behaviour has become the perfect distraction from everything else going wrong in the country. The economy is gasping for air, inflation is eating through people's savings, public transport is a daily battleground, and justice is something you only see on posters. But somehow, the biggest topic of national debate has become whether women are being "modest enough".
It is almost clever. If you keep women busy defending their clothing, they will not have the time or energy to demand fair wages, safe roads, or functioning courts. If you tell them they must work less to protect their dignity, you also quietly cut them out of leadership and opportunity. And if you preach "modesty" as a virtue, you ensure that every time a woman is harassed, someone will ask, "What was she wearing?" instead of "Why was he not stopped?" This is how control is disguised as protection. They will not build safer buses or train transport workers on harassment prevention, but they will tell you to dress modestly before boarding a bus.
The truth is, women's honour has never been under threat because of what women wear. It is under threat because of what men get away with. It is under threat because when women raise their voices, other women are too scared to echo them. Bangladeshi women have marched for independence, fought dictatorships, and built industries. But now, as politics becomes more regressive and public spaces more hostile, women seem to be shrinking again—not because we lack courage, but because we have been trained to face danger alone.
That girl on the bus should not have had to fight alone. She should have been surrounded by a chorus of women saying "enough". Women in this country owe that to one another. Because no policy, no prayer, and no paternal sermon will save us from a culture that tells us our safety depends on silence. The next time a woman raises her shoe, her voice, or her truth, do not just film her. Stand beside her. Because silence is not safety. Silence is surrender. And in a country where women are told to work less, talk less, and wear more, standing by one another is not rebellion. It is survival.
Barrister Noshin Nawal is a columnist for The Daily Star. She can be reached at [email protected].
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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