Learning to walk against the wind

I did not grow up wanting to be a "rebel". I wanted to be safe. Predictable. Secure. But somewhere between newsroom deadlines, unpaid invoices, late-night writing sessions, the early outlines of my crime-thriller novel series, and the fragile first steps of building my own independent media platform, I realised something quietly unsettling:

I had learned how to walk against the wind.

And that lesson did not come from any newsroom or institution.

It came from Begum Rokeya.

I return to her not as a historical icon framed in textbooks or posters, but as a living force — someone whose choices mirror the kind of risks I take today. When I choose to write without permission, to question power without favour, to imagine a media house beyond institutional control, instead of inheriting comfort, her shadow follows me quietly.

Not as nostalgia.

As instruction.

She chose defiance when silence was easier

Rokeya was born into privilege but raised within restriction. Education for girls was not a right — it was a rebellion. And yet, she learned in secret. Bangla and English became cracks in the wall built to confine her, while her command over other languages later expanded her intellectual world even further.

What strikes me is not only what she achieved, but how deliberately she chose difficulty. She could have lived an unremarkable life of comfort. Instead, she chose friction, resistance, and lifelong pushback.

That choice feels achingly familiar.

Because independence — true independence — does not come wrapped in stability. It arrives with doubt, backlash, loneliness, and financial uncertainty. Every time I step outside institutional safety to write freely, to shape my own media vision, to insist on creative autonomy, I feel the same tension she must have felt: the cost of not fitting inside what is already designed.

Rokeya teaches me that ease is not always progress. Sometimes discomfort is the only honest compass.

Writing is not decoration — it is disruption

Rokeya did not write to be liked. She wrote to disturb.

In "Sultana's Dream", she flipped gender roles without apology. Men were inside houses. Women ruled the world with science, reason, and innovation. It was fantasy — yes — but it was also provocation. A question disguised as fiction: What if power were reimagined?

That is exactly why I began writing a fiction novel series alongside journalism. Because some truths do not survive inside headlines. They need a metaphor. They need a shadow. They need a story.

Rokeya legitimised that instinct long before it became fashionable to call it "speculative resistance". She proves that imagination itself can be political. That stories can slip past censorship disguised as dreams.

Every time I build a fictional world rooted in injustice, conspiracy, survival, and power, I am continuing her method — saying what cannot always be said directly.

She didn't wait for permission to build

Most people remember Rokeya as a writer. Fewer speak about her as an institution-builder.

She did not wait to be endorsed by society, government, or religious authority. She built the school anyway. Even when resources were scarce. Even when the opposition was loud. Even when families resisted sending their daughters to class.

That is the part of her legacy that haunts me most.

Because I am standing at a similar threshold now — between writing for others and building something of my own. Media today is no longer just content; it is infrastructure. It shapes public memory. It decides whose stories survive.

Rokeya teaches me that waiting to be "ready" is often another word for delaying impact. She reminds me that imperfect beginnings are still beginnings.

And that building — especially for those who come after you — is worth the uncertainty.

Feminism without slogans

Rokeya did not shout slogans. She did not need campaigns. Her feminism was embedded in daily courage — in opening school doors, in publishing essays that angered conservatives, in imagining futures where women were not apologetic for intelligence.

What inspires me most is that her feminism was not performative. It was structural. Practical. Risk-heavy.

Today, when conversations around women's empowerment sometimes feel reduced to hashtags and stages, Rokeya reminds me that feminism is still about architecture — who controls knowledge, money, institutions, and narrative.

As a woman navigating independent journalism, fiction writing, and media-building all at once, I encounter power daily. Editorial power. Financial power. Gatekeeping power. Her legacy sharpens my refusal to beg access. It pushes me to design my own doors.

The loneliness of those who go first

What we often forget about pioneers is how lonely they are while walking ahead.

Rokeya lost her husband early. She faced strong social resistance. She died relatively young, at 52. Much of the wider impact of what she built would only become fully visible after her lifetime.

This, too, resonates with me.

Independence is not just freedom — it is isolation. When you refuse to blend into safe systems, you lose the comfort of collective cover. You become visible in your difference. And visibility attracts pressure.

Rokeya teaches me that loneliness is not proof of failure — it is often proof of being early.

And that being early is expensive.

Journalism, fiction, and the courage to cross borders

Rokeya never limited herself to one genre. She wrote essays, satire, stories, and social critique. She understood that truth needs multiple vehicles.

I see my own life unfolding the same way — journalism feeding fiction, fiction feeding journalism, both pushing toward something larger than either could achieve alone.

Newsrooms teach urgency. Fiction teaches patience. Independence demands both.

Rokeya did not choose between activism and art. She braided them. That braid is what I try to carry forward — refusing to shrink into a single label.

What she gives me on difficult days

On days when:

The pitch is rejected,

The payment is delayed,

The story feels too heavy,

The future feels uncertain,

I remember that Rokeya built a school when education for girls was considered rebellion.

And suddenly my obstacles feel smaller.

Not insignificant — but survivable.

She teaches me that fear is not a signal to retreat. It is often confirmation that I am touching something real.

Inspiration is not admiration — it is inheritance

I do not admire Rokeya from a distance. I inherit her contradictions.

Her vulnerability.

Her resistance.

Her exhaustion.

Her defiance.

She did not live a mythic life. She lived a difficult one. And that is precisely why she remains relevant. Because she teaches me that making space — through schools, stories, journalism, or independent media — is always costly.

But it is also always necessary.

Why she still walks with me

I do not carry Rokeya as nostalgia. I carry her as a responsibility.

Every time I choose honesty over comfort.

Every time I choose independence over convenience.

Every time I choose to build rather than wait.

Every time I let fiction say what the news cannot.

She is there — not as history, but as an echo.

She reminds me that resistance is not always loud. Sometimes it is simply the stubborn refusal to disappear.

And that is how Begum Rokeya still inspires me — not as a statue of the past, but as a quiet, persistent force shaping who I am becoming.

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