KC Writes

 1 August 2025 "There is not a moment to lose!" These were my words on January 20, 2025, during a seminar on unlocking export potential hosted by the EPB. I made the case in no uncertain terms that the trade landscape under Trump 2.0 would be a new opportunity for Bangladesh 2.0. Just a few years ago, the first Trump tariff war against China became the defining trade story of a generation. While many watched from the sidelines, we in Bangladesh felt the ripple effects, seeing our potential gains siphoned off by competitors like Vietnam. The promise of a supply chain realignment, of a new "factory to the world," seemed to pass us by. Now, with a new wave of U.S. tariffs coming into force today, August 1, 2025, we find ourselves standing at a similar, yet more precarious, crossroads. The stakes are higher, but so is the potential. The question is no longer "what if?" but "what now?" This is not a moment for complacency. The tariffs imposed on our g...

31 July 2025 It takes a special kind of national dysfunction to station fighter jets in the middle of a megacity—and call it “strategic deterrence.” But that’s exactly what Bangladesh has done. The tragic crash on July 21, 2025, when a training jet plunged into Milestone School in Uttara, killing over 30 children and maiming dozens more, wasn't a mere accident. It was the end result of years of arrogant doctrine, institutional laziness, and a military strategy that confuses noise for capability. We are not defending the skies over Dhaka. We are endangering them. Kurmitola’s Illusion of Safety Let’s get one thing out of the way: yes, Kurmitola Air Base (aka Bir Uttam AK Khandaker base) has its own military runway, separate from Hazrat Shahjalal International Airport. This fact is often cited as a justification for its location, an attempt to soothe concerns about safety. But the mere presence of a dedicated runway does not make it safe. Because Dhaka’s airspace is shared. Fighter je...

27 July 2025  The tragedy at Milestone didn’t just burn through lives; it incinerated the last vestiges of our collective denial. Let’s be honest. We didn’t need this calamity to tell us something was wrong. We already knew. We’ve known for years. We watched our systems rot in real time—watched corruption morph from scandal to spectacle, then fade into background noise. We didn’t just witness the decay of our institutions—we adapted to it. We got used to the lies, the bribes, the quiet backroom deals while real people paid the price outside them. This grim acceptance persisted—even as the Monsoon Revolution promised a new dawn of accountability. And then came the tragedy. Milestone wasn’t just a tragedy—it was a mirror. One that forced us to look at ourselves and ask:  When did this all become normal?  When did preventable death become just another news item? When did greed get a permanent seat at the policymaking table? When did we stop being outraged? We didn’t lose our...

 25 July 2025 সাম্প্রতিক সময়ে আমার মামাতো বোন এক ট্র্যাজেডিতে মারা গেছে।কিন্তু আসল ট্র্যাজেডি হলো—বাংলাদেশে এমন আত্মত্যাগের জন্য কোনো সম্মাননা নেই।  মাহেরিন শুধু আমার পরিচিত একটি নাম ছিল না—সে ছিল আমার পরিবার। আমার মামাতো বোন। আমার মায়ের ভাইয়ের মেয়ে। ভাগ্য আমাদের দুই মহাদেশে (আমি আমেরিকায়, সে বাংলাদেশে) টেনে নিয়ে গেলেও সম্প্রতি আমাদের দেখা হওয়ার সুযোগ হয়েছিল ।  ২০২৪ সালের রাজনৈতিক পরিবর্তনের পর, আমি ঢাকায় আরও বেশি সময় কাটাতে শুরু করি। দেশ যেন ডাকছিল, আর আমি একটা ছোট্ট ভূমিকা নিতে পেরে তৃপ্ত ছিলাম । আরও বেশি করে ফিরতে শুরু করলে, মাহেরিন আর আমি—যেভাবে অনেক মামাতো-ফুফাতো ভাইবোন করে—আবার নিজেদের নতুন করে খুঁজে পেলাম। শুরুটা হয়েছিল মেসেজ, তারপর ফোন। তারপর একদিন সে তার উত্তরার বাসায় আমাদের পুরো পরিবারকে দাওয়াত কর। উত্তর আমেরিকা থেকে আমাদের দুই খালা এসেছিলেন। আমাদের বাবা-মা কেউ বেঁচে নেই, তাই মাহেরিন উপলব্ধি করেছিল—এটা সেই মুহূর্ত, যখন সবাইকে একসাথে করে কিছু শূন্যস্থান পূরণ করা যায়। আমি এখনো মনে করতে পারি, তার অ্যাপার্টমেন্টে ঢোকার মুহূর্তেই ঘরের মশলার গন্ধে মনটা থ...

23 July 2025 My cousin died in a tragedy. But the real tragedy is that Bangladesh has no name for women like her. Maherin wasn’t just a name I knew—she was family. My cousin. The daughter of my mother’s brother. Though life had stretched us across continents—me in the U.S., she in Bangladesh—we were growing close again. Since the political shift of 2024, I’d been spending more time in Dhaka. The nation was calling calling, and I finally found a small part to play. And as I returned more frequently, Maherin and I—like cousins often do—began to rediscover each other. It started with messages, then calls. Then came the day she invited the family to her home in Uttara. Our two aunts from North America were visiting, and with both our parents gone, Maherin saw the moment for what it was: a chance to gather what was left of us and stitch something whole again. I remember walking into her apartment and being hit by the smell of spices and home—the kind of scent that can stop time. For a few h...