Sanjida Khatun is no longer with us. She has left behind a life filled with relentless dedication and remarkable achievements. Over the past 55 years of Bangladesh's history, and even before that—from the 1952 Language Movement to the struggle for autonomy and the nine-month-long Liberation War—she was one of those rare individuals who repeatedly guided the nation through cultural and ideological challenges.

As an artist, organiser, and cultural activist, she enriched Bangalee cultural life by founding organisations like the Jatiya Rabindra Sangeet Sammilan Parishad, organising the Tagore centenary celebration in Dhaka despite immense obstacles, establishing Chhayanaut, one of Bangladesh's leading cultural institutions, and introducing Pahela Baishakh celebrations under the banyan tree at Ramna. She dedicated her life to strengthening Bengali identity, and her passing leaves a question lingering in our minds—has the departure of this steadfast cultural guardian marked the end of an era?

Sanjida Khatun's journey began with the Language Movement. At that time, she was a student at the University of Dhaka. Recalling those days in an interview, she said: "On February 21, after class, I went home. In the evening, I heard gunshots. Later, in the evening edition of the Azad newspaper, I read that a women's meeting would be held on February 22 in an alley near Kamrunnesa School in Tikatuli. My mother was always concerned about my safety. When she heard I was going, she decided to accompany me. On the way, soldiers stomped their feet in an attempt to intimidate us. My mother would start running in fear, but we kept moving forward. At that meeting, I delivered my first public speech. I said, 'February 21 has given me my language.' Many female leaders were present there, but fearing bloodshed, none were willing to preside over the meeting. Ironically, the same mother who was so afraid to take me there ended up presiding over the event."

The 1960s was a time of dual struggles for Bengalis—one was against the oppression of the Pakistani regime, a fight waged on the streets. The other was a cultural battle against state-imposed restrictions. The Pakistani government systematically attempted to erase Rabindra Sangeet from public life, but Sanjida Khatun was among those who resisted this cultural suppression. In an interview with the editor of Prothom Alo, she said: "We realised that Bengali culture itself was under threat. The Pakistanis wanted to turn us into Pakistani Muslims, refusing to acknowledge our Bengali identity. Understanding this, we introduced Nazrul Geeti, Rabindra Sangeet, various instrumental music forms, and classical ragas in our schools. After independence, we expanded into folk music and gono sangeet (mass songs)."

Singing Rabindra Sangeet at that time was not easy. The government closely monitored performers, imposing restrictions on what could be sung. As a government school teacher, Sanjida Khatun faced these challenges firsthand. She once wrote: "At an event, I sang a Rabindra Sangeet, but to ensure my voice wouldn't be recognised, I stuffed a handkerchief inside my mouth and stood at the very back of the choir."

She deeply understood that cultural struggles were never apolitical. However, despite interacting with political leaders, she never affiliated herself with any political party. Perhaps that is why her cultural movement retained its purity and dignity, achieving an unmatched legacy. Maybe that is also why, from 1967 onwards, the Pahela Baishakh celebrations at Ramna Batamul continued uninterrupted, becoming a cornerstone of Bengali culture—except during the Liberation War in 1971.

Birth is personal, and so is death. But what a majestic farewell she had. She left this world singing Rabindra Sangeet, just as she had lived by it. Her final departure was accompanied by music, a poetic ending to a life devoted to song. Could there have been a more fitting farewell for such a soul? Yet, seeing some of the derogatory remarks on social media, it became clear—our cultural battle is far from over.

Individual freedom extends as far as one's dreams propel them—so long as it does not harm others. There should be no intrusion upon personal freedoms. Some may pass away chanting religious hymns, others singing songs. Some may close their eyes to the sound of musical instruments. A stage performer may say, "O Lord, may my last breath be on this stage." A musician may wish for their final moment to be spent singing. For some, religion is life itself, while for others, the stage is their faith, and music is their divinity. How does that harm anyone?

Yet, I also found hope in a friend's post on social media, where she praised her son's education at Nalanda School, a Chhayanaut institution. She takes pride in raising her child with an inclusive and free-thinking mindset. But this also makes me wonder—why don't we have more schools like Nalanda?

Amidst all of this, one thing remains clear – Sanjida Khatun's farewell—departing with song, embraced by infinite love—feels like a fairytale. It's as if an exceptionally gifted screenwriter had written an unforgettable script for her final moments.

Rabindranath Tagore's lyrics come to mind:

"Dekho aloy aloy akash,
Dekho akash taray bhora,
Dekho jawar pother pashe,
Chhute hawa pagol para."

Mohammed Norul Alam Raju, is a researcher and development activist, currently residing in Belgium, pursuing higher studies in Development Policy and Management. The writer can be contacted at [email protected].

Views expressed in this article are the author's own. 

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