Print | Distant country, close people: “In the pages of memory, a young Algerian protester’s five-day acquaintance, a lifelong memory-“

প্রিন্ট এর তারিখঃ সেপ্টেম্বর ১৭, ২০২৬, ৬:১২ পি.এম || প্রকাশের তারিখঃ জুন ৩০, ২০২৬, ৯:১০ এ.এম

Distant country, close people: “In the pages of memory, a young Algerian protester’s five-day acquaintance, a lifelong memory-“

– Md. Kamal Uddin : 2001. A chapter in life, which even today, when remembered, an invisible light burns somewhere in the heart. There are some acquaintances in human life, which are immortalized not by the length of time, but by the depth of feelings. One such acquaintance happened with a young writer and freelance journalist from Algeria, Africa. Without mentioning her real name, I remember her by a literary name—Nadia Benyahia. Young representatives, writers, journalists, researchers and social activists from different countries of the world came together at the World Youth Conference. The languages were different, the cultures were different, but our dream was the same—to build a world without discrimination, humane and peaceful. We first met at an international workshop. The topics of discussion were crime journalism, women trafficking, human rights, the role of youth and the responsibility of the media in changing society. From the first day, I noticed that Nadia was listening to everyone's speeches very attentively. When she gave her speech, the entire hall fell silent. She was saying—the pen of a journalist can never bow to injustice. Hiding the truth does not change society, but rather makes injustice stronger.

Her words were strong, yet touching. As a representative of Bangladesh, I highlighted various aspects of unemployment, poverty, youth potential, women's empowerment and development. After my presentation based on facts and data was over, Nadia came forward and said, "I was impressed by the way you spoke about your country's problems in a factual manner. The greatest strength of a speaker is truth." This sentence still rings in my ears today. For the next five days, we sat side by side in the same workshop. Sometimes group discussions, sometimes seminars, sometimes cultural programs—unknowingly, a sincere friendship developed. Nadia was the daughter of a very ordinary family. Her childhood was spent in struggle. She said that the people of her community had been victims of discrimination and neglect for many years. That reality made her a protester. She believed that a writer's first duty was to stand by the people. A large part of our discussion was about women trafficking. Although the experiences of South Asia and North Africa were different, the root of the problem was the same—poverty, discrimination and corruption. I highlighted the reality of the border areas of Bangladesh. She shared the experience of Algeria. We both realized that the language of injustice is the same in all countries of the world, and the language of protest is also the same. At the end of the day's workshop, we would visit various historical and cultural places. Sometimes ancient architecture, sometimes museums, sometimes long chats in the open courtyard. He wanted to know about the history of Bangladesh, the Liberation War, the language movement, the heritage of Chittagong, the Karnaphuli River, the mountains, the sea—everything. I would say that even though Bangladesh is small, its history is very big. He would listen with fascination. One evening, while walking, he said, “I want to go to Bangladesh one day. I want to see your country with my own eyes.” At that moment, it seemed as if the distance between the two continents had come down to a few steps. Nadia was a writer and also a freelance journalist. She used to say that she was ready to go to any corner of the world to collect a news story. For her, journalism was not a job, but a social responsibility. Our discussions were sometimes about literature, sometimes politics, sometimes history, sometimes human rights. At the end of the closing ceremony of the conference on the last afternoon of the fifth day, she handed me a small box.

Inside was a beautiful pen and a wristwatch. He smiled and said, “A pen is the greatest power in the hands of a writer. And the watch will remind you—time waits for no one.” I was speechless.

A gift is never valued in its monetary value; it is valued in its love, respect, and sincerity. There was a strange sadness in his eyes at the moment of farewell. I also felt that we had known each other for only five days, yet it felt like I was saying goodbye to someone I had known for many years. He said, “Wherever I live, I will not stop writing. I will write against injustice. I will love people.”

I also promised— “I will write for the truth from Bangladesh as well.” That day, I understood that there are country borders on the world map, but truth, literature, humanity and friendship have no borders. Time is amazing. Years change on the pages of the calendar, season after season comes, people are bound by new identities; but some memories are never defeated by time. The five days of that World Youth Conference in 2001 are such a bright chapter in my life, every moment of which is still unfading in the depths of my heart. Our friendship deepened in the last two days of the conference. Although we were representatives from different countries of the world, we both became two people with the same thoughts. Just as there was logic at the discussion table, there was talk of literature, life, dreams and responsibility towards people in the leisure chat. Nadia said that she grew up in a simple family where there was no abundance of money, but there was no lack of self-respect. Her parents taught her—not to compromise with injustice. Books were her greatest friend since childhood. In the pages of that book, he recognized freedom, justice, and human rights. He said that the history of Algeria is not only a history of freedom; it is also a history of sacrifice, struggle, discrimination, and self-respect. Discrimination at various levels of society, political instability, and human suffering became the main themes of his writing. Therefore, he did not just write stories, but also wrote stories of people's tears, deprivation, and dreams.

I told him about the Liberation War of Bangladesh, the language movement, the struggle for independence and the struggle for life of the common people. He listened with deep attention. Then he slowly said – “The history of our country may be different, but the language of human tears is the same.” This one sentence is like the greatest definition of humanity. During the conference, we visited a few historical places. We discussed with our hands on the wall of history – civilization is not built only on brick and stone architecture; it is built on the foundation of human conscience, culture and memory. One day, standing in an old museum, he said,

"A writer's greatest responsibility is to keep history alive. People forget, but writing never forgets."

I listened with fascination. It seemed more like a philosopher than a journalist. The topic of our long chat was freelance journalism. He said he wanted to travel to different countries of the world to gather news. If the story of an oppressed person can be brought to the world, then that is the meaning of a journalist's life.

I said that the power of journalism is not to bow down to power; it is to present the truth to the people.

Perhaps it was this similarity of our thoughts that strengthened our friendship. One afternoon, while sitting in the garden of the conference venue, he suddenly said, "I have read about Bangladesh in my head, but hearing it from your lips makes me feel more at home in the country. One day, I will definitely go to Bangladesh. I want to see the mountains of Chittagong, the sea, the Karnaphuli River—everything." I smiled and said,

“When you come to Bangladesh, you are not a guest, you will be your own person.” He smiled softly. There was sincerity, trust, and a strange, pure beauty in that smile. The evening before we left, he handed me a beautiful pen and a watch. He said, “This pen will remind you to write the truth. And this watch will remind you—every moment of life is precious.” I was silent for a while. Because the gift was not just an object; it was a symbol of respect and good wishes from one comrade to another. I also had a small gift—a souvenir of Bangladesh. He took it in his hand and said, “I will keep it not just as a gift, but as a memory of Bangladesh.” On the last day of the conference, when everyone was saying goodbye to their respective countries, a kind of silent sadness descended on the atmosphere. While shaking hands, he said, “The world is small. Maybe we will meet again at an international conference. If not, our writing will carry our identity.” I replied, “People sometimes get lost, but beautiful memories never get lost.” Then we went our separate ways. In the following years, I learned that she was working as a freelance journalist in different countries. Sometimes human rights, sometimes women’s oppression, sometimes the lives of refugees, sometimes movements for social change—her constant writings are about these. I too have been moving forward in the world of journalism, research, television presenting, and writing in Bangladesh. Today, after all these years, when I turn the pages of my old diary or remember the memories of that conference, I realize—not all relationships in life are based on long-term time. Even though some relationships last only a few days, their depth becomes equal to a lifetime. Those five days of acquaintance with Nadia taught me—a true writer has no geographical borders, a true journalist has no ethnic division, and a humane person has only one identity—he is a human being. Even today, I remember that gift pen. I remember the ticking sound of that wristwatch, as if a voice from within time said—"Write the truth, stand by the people, because time does not stop; but the words written for truth and humanity survive beyond time." More than two decades have passed. The world has changed, people have changed, technology has changed. But those five days of 2001, filled with friendship, literature, journalism, humanity, and dreams, still shine like bright stars in the sky of my memory. Maybe we will never meet again. Maybe in some corner of the world, he is still writing people's stories. And I believe, sitting in Bangladesh—those who take up the pen for truth, courage, and humanity never truly move away from each other. Their bond lives on in memory, respect, and the pages of history.