Who decides who belongs?

In the film Aynabaji (2016), there is a moment when the protagonist disguises himself to blend in with different walks of life. Yet, he remains an outsider, never fully accepted in any world. This resonates deeply with the experiences of the Garo community in Bangladesh, especially those navigating life in Dhaka. For them, blending in is not about adopting a new identity for thrills or survival—it is about erasing parts of themselves to avoid being mocked, questioned, or excluded.

As a nation that fought for its identity and inclusivity during its birth, why have we allowed the same othering to seep into our society? The Garo community's experiences in Dhaka tell a painful story of how far we still have to go.

The Garo, like many indigenous communities, bring a vibrant cultural richness to our nation's identity. But how often do we pause to acknowledge or celebrate this uniqueness? A common sentiment was echoed when I spoke to a few young men and women from the Garo community for a fellowship project. Their everyday lives are shaped by one simple fact: they do not look, sound, or act like what most people consider a 'regular' Bangladeshi.

One young man said, "People take a look at me and immediately know I'm different. They laugh, calling me ching-chang-chung." It is a joke to them, but to him, it is another reminder that he does not belong, even though he is a Bangladeshi and has as much claim to this country as anyone else.

This is not just about playground teasing or passing hurtful comments. It is about how deeply these supposedly small acts of exclusion can cut, and how entrenched these biases are in the way we think and behave. Over time, these microaggressions pile up into something heavier—something systemic. Garo youth in Dhaka struggle to find jobs, not because they are not qualified, but because they do not fit the mould.

One young woman, rejected for a news presenter post, shared that she was told, "It's your accent and the way you look." She worked hard to perfect her Bangla, but it did not matter. For some, no matter how much they adapt, they will always be treated as outsiders, even in their own country.

And what about their language? For many of us, Bangla feels as natural as breathing. But for Garo youth, it is their second or even third language. They have had to master it—flawlessly—to navigate Dhaka. In the process, many lose parts of their own language.

"Sometimes I forget words in my mother tongue," one Garo youth said. "It's not just words. It's who we are." Imagine the weight of that: needing to erase pieces of your identity just to survive in a city that will not meet you halfway.

Even something as simple as clothing becomes a battleground. Traditional Garo attire, once worn with pride, has become a source of anxiety.

"If I wear my traditional clothes, people stare," shared a young woman. "They whisper, 'Why does she look so unsophisticated?'" She did not want to draw attention, so she stopped wearing them. She blends in. And in blending in, another piece of her culture slips away.

This quiet erasure is not limited to clothing. The Garo's rich matrilineal traditions—where women are the decision-makers and property is passed through their hands—are also fading. Urban life, paired with the influence of Christian missionaries, has introduced patriarchal norms that were once foreign to their community. More and more Garo families are now adopting the nuclear family model.

A young Garo man shared, "Boys don't want to move into their wives' homes anymore. They want their wives to move in with them." What does that mean for a community that once celebrated women as its backbone?

And then there is the quiet pull to fit in—a pull often invisible to those who do not feel it, yet heavy for those who do. For Garo youth, living and working in spaces dominated by Bangali culture means constantly navigating an unspoken expectation to adapt. They adopt new habits, new languages, and new ways of being, often at the expense of their own.

"It's not that we want to let go of our traditions," one youth shared, "but sometimes, it feels like the only way to belong." This is the hardest part of assimilation—it is not loud or forced, but quiet and persistent, shaping choices in subtle ways. Over time, pieces of their identity start slipping away.

This burden of forced assimilation is not just on the Garo. It should also be on the Bangalis. When we mock someone's accent or their clothing, when we make assumptions based on how they look, we are contributing to the same exclusion we once fought against. Bangladesh was built on the idea of equality—on the promise that every citizen belongs. But are we living up to that promise?

Inclusivity is not just about diversity for diversity's sake. It is about creating a space where everyone feels valued. Schools can play a role in this, teaching children about the histories and cultures of indigenous communities like the Garo. Media can help too, by showcasing their stories—not as 'exotic' or 'different,' but as part of the Bangladeshi psyche. And as individuals, we need to check our biases.

We also need policies that go beyond words—language preservation programmes, anti-discrimination laws, and opportunities for indigenous voices to be heard. Because inclusivity is not about asking indigenous communities to adapt to Bangali culture. It is about adapting existing systems to include and celebrate them.

Recent events have only underscored how urgent this is. Just days ago, a peaceful protest by indigenous youth against the erasure of the word 'indigenous' from textbooks was met with violence in Dhaka. Armed attackers chanted slogans declaring Bangali supremacy as they injured over 20 protesters, including women and journalists. The attack, targeting those simply seeking recognition, is a painful reminder of how exclusion is embedded in our societal fabric.

That line from Aynabaji—where the protagonist's many disguises still fail to earn him belonging—comes to mind again. The Garo and other communities are constantly forced to reshape themselves to fit into a system that resists seeing them. But it does not have to be this way.

We have the power to build a Bangladesh where everyone feels at home. The question is: Will we?

Tahasin Tasnim Mohce is a Research Associate at the BRAC Institute of Governance and Development (BIGD). 

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.