A person’s education and career path are often, to a large extent, determined at birth. It is only natural that the academic journey of a child born in Thakurgaon, Bangladesh would differ vastly from one born in New Jersey, USA. Even without going that far, the contrast is striking within Bangladesh itself—a child growing up in a remote village of Rangpur and a child raised in a luxurious home in Dhaka’s Uttara, part of the so-called ‘elite class,’ will inevitably face very different realities in every aspect of life.
To call it a “difference” would be an understatement. It is nothing less than inequality.
A child whose shelves are lined with national awards, who dazzles everyone with exceptional talents, and who represents the country on international stages, is often compared to another child who may not even know such opportunities exist. Is the only difference between them talent?
Is it merely talent that separates a child trained at prestigious art schools since age three, using advanced tools and guidance, from another who only has a pen and paper to sketch on? Can an ordinary child ever compete with one who trains under skilled maestros in music?
Of course, there are exceptions. But those who break through such barriers are extraordinarily gifted—individuals with exceptional aptitude. Behind every smiling, victorious child from the elite class, there are countless talented souls lost in the shadows, deserving at least a mention in the statistics.
But let me leave the statistics aside for now and share some personal experiences:
1. A Glimpse of Opportunity
I was in class ten when I happened to visit the sub-district office one day and saw a circular for the National Children’s Award Competition. Students up to class ten could participate—this was my one and only chance. I had no prior experience, not even a clear idea of what to expect, but I didn’t give up.
Most categories were off-limits due to religious and cultural restrictions—recitation, Qirat, Ghazal, instrumental music, dance, and sports were not options for me. What remained was General Knowledge. The topic was “Know Bangabandhu, Know Bangladesh.”
I immersed myself in books on Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and the political history of Bangladesh, determined not to waste this rare opportunity. I was so well-prepared that I could have answered even about Sheikh Mujib’s great-grandfather!
The competition was held in two phases—once for the 2022 session and again for 2023. I missed the first one due to delays in getting the necessary approvals. For the second, I relentlessly contacted my teachers until I finally received the authorization right before the event began.
But when I saw the question paper, my heart sank. Only three questions related to what I had studied. My hands trembled with frustration and anxiety. And during the prize announcement—third place… not me. Second place… not me. First place… again, not me.
It wasn’t unexpected, but it hurt. Still, by some miracle, I won first and third place in two other categories—impromptu speech and storytelling—even without prior preparation. That saved my confidence for the time being.
At the district level, I discovered that some of my competitors had already won national awards. I felt so intimidated that I had nausea and wanted to go home. Somehow, I placed third. I wasn’t heartbroken—I had no expectations left by then.
I realized then, as others recited poetry and flipped through thick Bengali dictionaries, that this wasn’t something you could excel at overnight. It required years of consistent effort.
To make matters worse, the general knowledge questions at the district level were precisely from the topics I had prepared for—Bangabandhu and political history. Out of 30 questions, I knew 29. Apparently, in their sub-district, those were the questions too. For a moment, I felt like screaming: “Nothing is greater than fate!”
While children in remote areas like me barely hear about such events, those in cities train for years and have easy access to resources. For them, this is just routine.
2. Always Too Late
I frequently search for circulars on co-curricular activities, because I’ve learned that to go far, you must start early. Without preparation, you might reach the sub-district level by luck, but the district level is a wall.
Unfortunately, I rarely find relevant information. I once watched a podcast about the winners of the National Creative Talent Hunt. One of them, Mahin Muntasim, tried for six years before finally winning.
I felt a pang of sadness. What about those of us who didn’t even know about such competitions during those six years?
3. The Missed “Banglabid” Dream
“Banglabid” is perhaps the largest Bengali language competition in South Asia. I learned about it only at the end of class ten—the last eligible grade. I missed my chance to participate.
Even if I had participated, I doubt I’d have done well without at least a year or two of preparation. Still, I never miss an episode of Banglabid. At night, I often fall asleep imagining myself as the winner. And again, I say, so be it.
Please don’t think I’m claiming to be exceptionally skilled in these fields. The reality is quite the opposite. So why am I sharing all this?
Like Promoth Chowdhury once said: “Why must a song always be sung in perfect pitch? Why must poetry always convey profound emotions? And who decided that one must win just because they participate?”
Just showing up, seeing, learning—these matter too. At the very least, I can always say: “I gave it my all.” Sometimes, repeated failures teach us more than easy wins.
In every field, except for those born with extraordinary talent, training is essential. So is time. And to have time, we need early access to information. Why don’t such circulars reach rural schools the way they do elite urban ones? Where does the chain break?
Did the announcements not reach us? Or were they not shared with us? I don’t know. But someday, as every responsibility is accounted for, maybe these too will be examined. Perhaps some points will be added to someone’s record for each act of negligence.
Until then, I continue to dream. I still imagine myself one day being recognized as the best student at the national level. I’ve never been a scout or a girl guide, and I haven’t won any national prizes yet. But does it matter?
I still dream. And dreaming has no restrictions.
Written by: Fariha Farhana Nuha
translated by: Teenagers
