From Bangladesh to Brooklyn: Mapping the Narratives of Immigrant Women

Behind every seam, every thread, and every label marked “Made in Bangladesh” lies a story of labor, migration, and resilience. In America, that story continues not only through work, but through the friendships and communities immigrant women build to survive the quiet isolation of a new life.

***

Showun was born and raised in Dhaka, Bangladesh. From a young age, she was observant, thoughtful, and curious. She grew up surrounded by family, including siblings and extended relatives, in a tightly-knit community that eventually would follow her to America. 

Her tall stature made her an easy target of the beautiful saris and sets that had begun making their way through Bengali fashion. Familiarity with the fashion and textile industry is not uncommon for Bangladeshi women. Community was often grounded in shared labor, especially among women. What began as communities that made woven blankets, batik-style dresses, and pure cotton saris quickly changed into a 47 billion dollar industry. 

Bangladesh is a country widely known for its garment factories and textile industry. The demand for ready-made garments (RMG) is known globally as a vital source of imports. Today, Bangladesh is responsible for 81.16% of the ready-made garment products produced globally.^¹ Don’t believe these numbers? Just take a look at the tag of your latest H&M trousers, the silver top you just purchased from Zara, or the basic white tee for your capsule closet that you snagged at Uniqlo. Whether we’d like to admit it or not, this tiny coastal nation is responsible for our fashion. 

Made up of a female employee population of 80%, the RMG sector was initially seen as a tool for social mobility for lower-class and working-class families.^¹ Soon, these jobs became seen as necessary, not voluntary. They became the best available option for many women, despite the low wages and dangerous conditions. The average monthly income for these women is around $113 USD. For comparison, the cost of living a month in Bangladesh is rougly $460 USD. To add on to this, the employees face inhumane conditions, including but not limited to: 1) lack of clean drinking water, 2) fire and flood hazards, 3) abusive management (verbal and physical), 4) unpaid overtime, and in the most extreme cases, 5) sexual harassment. Despite this, women continue to seek out factory work, often as a last resort. 

Decades after Showun had left Bangladesh, tragedy struck close to home. A family relative of hers died in a shopping plaza collapse. The haunting stories of bodies being identified by loved ones, buried under pounds of cement and steel. Entire households have been left anchorless, and owners and companies offer little in reparations. 

The story was devastatingly common in Bangladesh, where unsafe buildings and a lack of regulations continue to mark the garment industry.^¹ The collapse that killed her relative mirrored the 2013 Rana Plaza disaster, when a garment factory in Dhaka, Bangladesh, collapsed, killing 1,134 people and injuring over 2,500 more. These factories, sometimes known as 'sweatshops,' are known to offer cheap, affordable labor. Since fast fashion thrives through offshoring to developing countries, companies do not have to worry about Western labor standards and the safety of their workers. Most popular brands and retailers are known to systematically pressure foreign suppliers by cheapening buying prices, which reduces profits and forces factories to cut labor costs. Though the global outrage over Rana Plaza sparked reforms on paper, de facto, little changed for most garment workers. 

Perhaps Showun escaped a similar fate when she, like many new immigrant families, arrived in the United States seeking a better life. The promise of the American Dream is an alluring idea, one that Showun and her husband sought earnestly. 

***

In 2022, nearly 41% of immigrants who came to the U.S. did so to join the workforce.^¹ Since at least 2006, work opportunities have consistently ranked as one of the most common reasons people immigrate to the U.S. legally. For Showun, the situation was even more urgent; she was pregnant. She relied on her husband’s steady job to provide for their growing family, while her in-laws supported her by helping care for her newborn daughter.

But the promise of work doesn’t always overshadow the isolation many first-generation immigrants feel. For the Bangladeshi immigrants who arrived in the late 70s, this isolation was so incredibly prominent that they vowed to never feel that way. One of the earliest examples of such efforts was Bengali Harlem—a vibrant, multiracial community in early 20th-century New York City, where Bengali Muslim immigrants, primarily seamen and peddlers, settled in Harlem and married African American and Puerto Rican women. Together, they created a unique cultural blend of South Asian, Black, and Latino traditions.^¹ 

Now, in the 21st century, Bengali immigrants have carved out havens in other boroughs, reshaping neighborhoods such as Jackson Heights and Jamaica in Queens, and Kensington in Brooklyn. In Kensington, a popular intersection was renamed Little Bangladesh, due to the efforts of Bangladeshi Americans like Councilwoman Shahana Hanif, who has dedicated their career as a public servant to representing the people who are responsible for who she is today.^¹ District 39 continues to be one of the most represented neighborhoods in Brooklyn. 

***

Showun finds herself nestled deep in Brooklyn, minutes away from Kensington. Yet the friendships she made were not directly through her community but through her day-to-day life. 

Showun hails from a large family, so the chaos and bustle of a full house is one she is all too familiar with. In her Brooklyn household now, it resembles the traditional multifamily, cross-generational home you’d find in Bangladesh. 

Showun has also made friendships with women in the community. Showun herself laments how “friend here is family now.” Meeting the Bangladeshi women at parent drop-off/pick-up changed the trajectory of her life. As teachers call for students, Showun watches as other mothers quietly translate for each other, her own friends exchanging important information about assignments, attendance, and parent-teacher conference nights. Her story echoes that of countless Bangladeshi immigrants striving to build a sense of home in unfamiliar places by seeking out community in daily routine, at the singular halal meat store, by the bus stop in late December, and in the audience of school plays. 

Despite these connections, Showun finds herself torn—drawn to the comfort of shared language and food, but wary of the closeness that comes with tight-knit communities. “Sometimes it's good to see people from our culture and talk to them and our things—in our culture—the food we eat, the things we need, if we didn’t live here, we wouldn’t be able to find them somewhere else,” she admits. "It's not like feeling good that there's too much people. But every person is different. It's not great to see everyone all the time. It's like that. It's like mixed feelings.” Despite these conflicting feelings, Showun finds solace in her close friends, women who have been with her for the past decade. 

In Showun’s story, her reliance on her close-knit community of friends who have become like family in the U.S. mirrors the survival strategies many immigrants adopt in an unfamiliar and sometimes isolating society. In fact, numerous studies have found that higher levels of loneliness exist in Western cultures (such as America) that promote individualism. In order to combat these feelings, Showun and the other women in this narrative openly share their lives with one another. Showun asserts, “If anything happens—bad things—sometimes we cannot share with our family members because family members will get worried. But you can share with a friend. Because they will give us a good solution or something else.” 

Whether it's back home, hunched over a thread and needle under a tin roof and clay floors, or here in America under dim kitchen lights, women have time and time again founds way to make a home. The bonds forged by Bangladeshi Americans mirror a broader experience shared by many first-generation immigrants across the U.S. Newcomers often find themselves longing for the deep-rooted sense of community they left behind—where neighbors felt like extended family and lives were lived openly, not tucked behind closed doors. In contrast, the Western emphasis on privacy can feel cold and distant, leaving many yearning for the warmth of casual visits, shared meals, and unspoken understanding.^¹ Because first-generation immigrants are more likely to seek that active connection, they experience “less depression, less anxiety, and greater positive well-being.”^¹ 

Showun would agree, and maybe we could all benefit from following Showun’s wisdom: “Everything bad or good, everything we share with our friends.” These informal friendships, which turned into found families, are what support immigrant communities. It's not just the women who bond either; it's their husbands who find work together, children who attend school together, and elderly family members who spend their twilight years in the presence of others who remember the memories of yesterday. 

For a nation that was founded only in 1971, the people of this land can trace their roots back to emperors, feudal lords, revolutionaries, and so many more. Bangladeshi immigrants may not have much of a choice when it comes to leaving. Showun herself knows this story all too well. But it is important to understand why people continue to leave. Crumbling infrastructure, corrupt government, and limited opportunities are the largest reasons why Bangladeshi people continue to move to America. This brain drain of economic and social input damages the country even further. But with little to support themselves and limited mobility, Bengali people choose the path guaranteed some success. 

In the end, Showun’s story is one of continuation. Like so many immigrants, she carries with her the memory of loss, the burden of sacrifice, and the hope of building something better. The journey may be isolating, but what drives it, love for family, the pursuit of opportunity, and the search for safety, is what connects her to so many others who’ve made the same choice.

A woman can cross an ocean and still be confined by expectations that follow her from home. Is motherhood a choice, a duty, or a language that immigrant women are forced to learn in silence?

***

Born in Chandpur, Bangladesh, Aziza’s life is a testament to being a woman. Living in Brooklyn, her story highlights the challenges of gender roles and the desire to return to a familiar and increasingly distant Bangladesh.

When Aziza moved to Brooklyn in 2005, the transition was jarring. She vividly remembers the date: September 30, and the wave of emotions that followed. “It was new. Everything is for me new. New adventure. New culture. I don't know. I'm really scared—I’m so much cry, it’s like one and a half month,” she recalls. The most heartbreaking part of this memory was how deeply she missed her parents. While she carried the weight of being a wife and mother, raising children without the familiar support system she’d known in Bangladesh was overwhelming. She describes the birth of her first child, a son, as a particularly disorienting moment: “I doesn't know anything. I don't speak well to English.” This feeling is one that immigrant women know all too well. 

Three children and 20 years later, Aziza understands and speaks English with much more ease. She welcomed the role of being a mother, and this is evident to anyone who speaks to her. During the interview, the sounds of her young daughter echoes in the background, a touching reminder that the job of a mother truly never ends. Her daughter’s presence brings warmth to Aziza’s words and reinforces the constant, unrelenting nature of maternal labor. It’s a quiet but powerful reminder to value the women who give so much of themselves to their children every day.

Simultaneously, Aziza reflects on the road not taken. She misses working—the independence it brought, the sense of self it offered. Her words are telling: “I worked a long time. I'm happy that I'm working. I'm happy now that I’m home… I feel good when I'm working. I working. I feel good.” Within these statements lies a familiar contradiction—one that resonates deeply with women worldwide: the tug-of-war between pursuing a career and finding fulfillment in motherhood. It seems even the most capable of women struggle with finding the best way to balance and separate these two responsibilities. 

Aziza’s days are full, overflowing with the daily hubbub of children, housework, and new experiences. To each, she meets with strength and stride. “Now is I take a time with my family, you know, I take care I have three of children, husband, I cooking, cleaning, shopping.” Her life was shaped by a cultural expectation that has crossed oceans. 

While her husband now supports the family financially, she is responsible for maintaining the homefront. This includes cooking daily meals, washing and cleaning, upkeep of the house, remaining present in her children's lives, and preserving family relationships. Her life echoes the generational and cultural practices that countless Bangladeshi immigrant women have lived—the expectations around work, family, and sacrifice.

Though she fulfills these roles with love, she is also clear about the toll they take—the unseen labor of nurturing, maintaining, and sacrificing. Motherhood, it appears, is a full-time job—unpaid. She doesn’t sugarcoat it: “...woman is not easy. It outside working and come to home, take care family is not easy. It’s not easy.” There’s no need to elaborate; the longing in her voice says enough. But there is something else there too: understanding. 

***

There is a conflict between old-world women and the new-age girls. The idea of a nuclear family is frowned upon. Bengali culture is seen as restrictive; Islam is an unwelcome intrusion into progressive lives. There is this urgency to abandon these old-world ideas on the other side of the ocean. 

Aziza is seen as a martyr. This strips her of autonomy and choice. Being a mother and a homemaker is seen as powerless and limiting to a woman. The idea of gender roles is seen as archaic. Disagree and get called anti-feminist. 

Aziza’s experience as an immigrant woman navigating traditional gender roles resonates deeply with Ayesha Chaudhry’s reflections in “The Colour of God.” Chaudhry critiques the false division often drawn between “Western” and “Muslim” women, one that pits them against each other rather than uniting them in shared struggle. She writes, “Rather than seeing women’s lives as universally devalued differently everywhere – patriarchy is complex, sophisticated and pervasive – this script pitted ‘Muslim’ women against ‘Western’ women, casting Muslim women as particularly disadvantaged, as suffering a qualitatively different kind of oppression.”^¹ This narrative ignores the more uncomfortable truth: patriarchy exists everywhere. It simply wears different clothes. 

In Bangladesh, Bengali women who dare to step outside the home, into a classroom or office, or into business face intense discrimination. In America, Bengali women who dare to choose anything but a path of strict independence or anti-traditionalism face the wrath of self-proclaimed progressives. Either way, it's a losing game. Ultimately, women fail to protect women, all because of a disagreement over what a woman is. 

For Aziza, her identity as a mother and wife is not a sign of submission but of strength. She embraces these roles with love, grace, and intelligence. And yet, women like her—immigrant, devout, family-oriented—are often judged by their own daughters, by second- and third-generation Bangladeshi American women who may have adopted Western frameworks of what empowerment is. There’s a tendency to look down on these mothers, to misunderstand their sacrifices as weakness rather than a different expression of choice.

This analysis does not dismiss the many women who did not have a choice in this matter. Instead, it is to respect the fact that many women appreciate the division of roles and labor. There is respect in conquering different aspects of life for men and women when it is done in a manner that is reflective of a person’s choice. 

Chaudhry’s writing also dismantles this narrow mindset. Truly, just because one woman’s dreams look different from another’s does not decrease the value of either. To declare one way of living more liberated than the other only fuels the very system that thrives on women’s division. In fact, this mindset has a name: “choice feminism”—the belief that any choice a woman makes is inherently feminist. When applied properly, it can be incredibly helpful in understanding why women welcome and accept different lives. 

Choice feminism has its own limitations, particularly when it places too much blame on the individual woman instead of the system that perpetuates the problem. This goes back to the earlier understanding that there will always be an illusion of choice—but what options exist for a woman living in a society that thinks of her as a womb and nothing more? 

Choice feminism has also often failed to account for race, class, and religion. Minority women are often blamed for being unable to crawl out of poverty; poor women are tasked with problems rooted in neoliberal economic policy; Islam is constantly weaponized to better suit the needs of men in power. But while it is critical to question how those choices are shaped, it is equally vital to honor that many immigrant women like Aziza are products of their environment—at home and abroad. 

Western societies, for all their talk of equality, are far from free of misogyny. As Chaudhry points out: “... in North America women are valued less than men. Literally. Women are paid less than men, our labour is worth less. It allows us to turn a blind eye to the rates of intimate partner violence here, the statistics on rape and sexual assault, the lax repercussions for convicted rapists and the murderers of women.”^¹ Perhaps instead of pointing the finger at individual immigrant women who prefer to devote themselves to motherhood and the domestic sphere, we ought to look at how our own society operates first. 

The real task lies in challenging those structures, not the women navigating them. As Chaudhry wisely notes, “... as my mother likes to say, if you point your finger at someone, three of your fingers point back at you.”^¹

***

As she reflects on her life in Brooklyn, Aziza's desire to reconnect with Bangladesh grows stronger. “Right now, you know, I miss it, my country.” But it is not merely a physical return she desires. It is the return to a space where her role as a woman is understood, and where society is structured in a familiar and welcoming manner for her. As she puts it, “Sometimes I wish I had to go back because this country — I don't have any my culture.” Aziza’s awareness of the lack of connection between Bangladesh and America is a recurring pattern in the lives of many immigrants. It is why many of them carry within them a longing to return home. 

Chaudhry captures this call to return to a place that is constantly evolving as the “Dream of Return.” To Chaudhry, this dream is quite devastating as she predicts, ”But the cruel fact of immigration is that once you leave, you never really have a home. You and the place you leave behind transform, ceaselessly, infinitely, so that when – if – you encounter each other again, you are unrecognisable to one another.”^¹ Despite Aziza's strong desire to return home, “... my mind wish it, you know, I have to every year going my country,” she now faces the difficult realization that her country may not be the home she left all those years ago. 

In Bangla, the language of Bangladesh, there is no direct translation for “to miss.” There are variations of this yearning feeling, but unfortunately, none as direct as the word itself. As Aziza and her children transform their lives around Brooklyn, there is a realization that they all miss their homeland. 

To compensate for this desire, Aziza tries to preserve the rituals of Bengali culture and Islamic teachings, teaching her children about Pohela Boishakh (the Bengali New Year) and the traditions of Ramadan. On Eid, even Brooklyn looks different—henna still drying on hands, kids in new clothes, the smell of biryani traveling down the hallway. She remembers how Prospect Park is filled with Muslims gathering for the Eid prayer, and every year the crowds grow larger and larger. 

To her delight, the brief trips to Bangladesh over the years have resulted in her son's strong interest in returning. “Now he tells me every year he wants to go there,” Aziza shares, referring to her eldest. Perhaps, Aziza’s “Dream of Return” will live on through her successful attempts to inspire a love of Bangladesh within her own children. 

Despite Chaudhry’s disillusionment in stating that, “The Dream of Return dies for most immigrants well before they are buried in the foreign land that will become the closest thing to home that they will ever know,” it remains to be said what the children of immigrants will decide when it comes to appreciating their heritage.^¹

Aziza’s story echoes that of all immigrant women and is marked by the ongoing negotiation of identity, culture, and motherhood. The intersection of these forces shapes her narrative as she creates a life that is constantly shifting between two worlds: the one she left behind and the one she now inhabits. As she continues to balance the responsibilities of raising her children in a foreign land, she holds onto the hope that, one day, she will be able to return to the Bangladesh that will always be her home, even if she comes to understand that the homeland she longs for may no longer be the same.

When standing at a wedding altar, two people promise each other their eternal partnership, the lasting words “in sickness or in health.” But isn’t sisterhood the highest form of love?
***
When she begins, Mitu speaks in a voice that’s soft but certain. The face of a woman who has mastered the appearance of composure. When asked about her childhood in Dhaka, a small smile spread across her face. She described a life where she was cherished, the youngest sibling, loved freely, and protected openly. Free from the pressures that arrive with adulthood and age.

She recalls the sultry Hindi songs pouring from her room as her mother scolded her for the noise. She remembers lazy afternoons spent with her sister and hours spent with some of her closest friends. The hours spent lounging around, blushing over the latest movie star, the cutest cricketeer. When she speaks, you can almost hear the soft music playing, the sounds of girls in the background, giggling. 

That world that Mitu speaks of no longer exists. Dhaka has changed, Mitu says. More people, more heat. She describes the quality of life she had grown accustomed to. “There was less pollution, fewer cars too.”

But there haven't just been physical changes. Her sister, the one who “loved me like a mom,” is gone. Her mother, too. Mitu reflects, “I don’t really have anyone left now.” Loss is universal, not limited to Bengali women. The feeling of grief is one that travels across drawn-up borders, languages, and time. And distance only works to amplify that grief.

Mitu emphasizes, “I wish I had gotten married in Bangladesh and stayed there.” This desire is a sentiment echoed by many immigrants. Her words remind me of the protagonist from Brick Lane by Monica Ali, Nazneen, who holds onto her sister, Hasina, across borders and decades, even as their lives drift apart.^¹ “I only have one sister,” Nazneen says. Just as Nazneen cannot escape her sister’s voice, the way she spoke, the songs that the two shared, Mitu too watches the past from a distance, unable to return, unwilling to let go.

And eight thousand miles away, Mitu attempts to form connections with the Bangladeshi diaspora within Brooklyn. While most immigrants flock to places filled with familiar faces, Mitu recognizes neighborhoods like Kensington and Jackson Heights as a weak portrait of the homeland she left behind.

Coming to America, raising children, creating a new life, it’s so easy to lose oneself in the big picture. It’s easy to forget the phantom pain that comes with remembering a sister who is no longer here. It has been said that parents and partners can be replaced, but losing a sibling is like losing a limb; it simply won’t grow back. Mitu’s sister cannot be replaced.

To reconcile these missing connections, Mitu has found new systems of support: her friends. Found through their children who attend the schools, shared apartment complexes, and chance meetings at cultural events, Mitu reflects on the chosen sisterhood that was created. “I really like it a lot,” she says of the women, a quiet happiness in her voice. In Brick Lane, we witness this form of connection when Razia knocks on Nazneen’s door with medicine and care. “Sister, it’s just me, I've brought medicine for you,” she says.^¹

This is a scene that Mitu and her friends have rehearsed countless times over the years. The gentle care that comes with a single knock. Bringing sweets, sharing groceries, and lending clothes. Rooted in the communalism found in Bangladeshi villages and South Asian diasporic regions, there is a shared sense of collectivism. As the women trade practical advice, which pediatricians take Medicaid, which after-school program is valuable, and who can watch a child for an hour, friendships begin to resemble family.

***

Over the years, Mitu has grown more comfortable with these women. Their weekly, monthly, sometimes even daily gatherings, known in Bangla as adda, reflect what sociologist Nazli Kibria describes.^¹ Bangladeshi migrants often recreate kinship through community networks, forming bonds that mirror the collective social worlds they left behind. 

Kibria writes that to understand Bangladeshi immigrants abroad, one must first look at what is happening at home. The community networks Mitu has built resemble the familial and village structures that have existed in Bangladesh and the greater Bengal region for centuries. Among migrants who have experienced the loss of social capital, friends, neighbors, and extended family, there emerges a pattern of organization that produces a form of fictive kinship through proximity and shared experience.

And yet, conflict remains. Despite American attempts to reshape the values of community and family, there is often a stronger urge to return to the safety of Bangladeshi culture. Back home, it is common for multiple generations to live within a single household, and for lineage to be traced through the memory of a grandparent’s name. 

A society like America, for all its advantages, often struggles to understand this relationship. In America, your neighbor is from Russia, China, or Puerto Rico. In New York City, your neighbors might be a Hasidic Jewish man, a Greek Orthodox woman, or a bi-racial African American family. Along lines of race, ethnicity, and religion, building community with strangers can feel fragmented and uncertain.

Bengali enclaves offer a safe haven. These spaces can be entire neighborhoods, such as Jamaica, Queens, organizations like the Sandwip Society, or cultural clubs like the Bengali Student Association. Yet these havens can also create separation. They become substitutes for back home rather than exact recreations of it. But what happens when home itself changes? 

For Mitu, there is a desire to keep home constant, yet this desire can become difficult when living in a new country. Enclaves become coping mechanisms, and generational distance begins to emerge. Children seek a blend of home and Western culture, while many parents work to protect tradition. The result is friction, misunderstanding, and a widening gap within growing Bangladeshi communities.

Mitu addresses these nuances directly. When discussing her children, she explains, “I teach them to respect their elders, listen to others, to pray. To understand Muslim values and Bangladeshi culture. I tell them to speak in Bangla. To speak to their relatives.” There is comfort in protecting these values. 

She also embraces American culture. She learned English through her children and engages with the diverse cultures around her. Her neighbors come from South and East Asia, parts of Persia, and North Africa. She practices learning their histories and embracing their traditions. Mitu represents a new age of Bengali immigrants, though she is not the first. Even in the late 1980s and 1990s, Bengali immigrants in Harlem created multiethnic enclaves alongside African American and Latino communities.

There is something to be said of all of this. Despite preserving what they can, Bengali immigrants must give way to the present. When she looks back at her childhood, Mitu remembers a beautiful life; when she looks at herself today, she is creating a beautiful life.

Some journeys begin long before a plane takes off, written instead in whispered prayers. Migration was never just movement across borders, but an act of faith carried through generations of women.

***

For Sume, the move to America was more than a decision to seek out a better life for her daughter—it was the actualization of a dream that had taken root in the world long before she would come into her own.

Her mother had lived vicariously through her for decades, instilling passions for a brighter future abroad. By the time Sume had arrived in America, an infant daughter in her arms, her mother had passed away. 

Not even having reached fifty, her mom succumbed to liver cancer. It is unknown if she would have been alive had she ever reached her own dream of America to seek out proper medical treatment. The dream of escape, the promise of a better life, however, lived on through Sume. 

Losing her mother hit Sume deeply and only strengthened her connection to her father and brothers. Her family was an integral part of her life, as is the case with most collectivist family archetypes in South Asia. The premier model in South Asian households is where entire generations often live under one roof. 

While men were typically responsible for providing for the family, it was the women who maintained and nurtured these quasi-village homes, often set within large courtyard-style houses with multiple wings to accommodate multiple generations. In many Islamic understandings of family life, this nurturing role is seen as an amanah (sacred trust), carried with patience and intention rather than control.

Growing up in this environment, Sume describes how her brothers were her strongest supporters, “If I say something, if I want to do something, they just tell me, go, go ahead and just do it, or whatever you want, we will do it for you.” Perhaps this undying devotion is what fuels Sume's drive to one day return to them. 

Whatever memories of Bangladesh live within her, perhaps the most treasured is the birth of her first daughter. This was a moment when three generations of women were united in that hospital room: Sume, her mother, and her newborn baby.  

This matriarchal undercurrent is not unique to Sume only. In Galpa: Short Stories by Women from Bangladesh, two Bangladeshi professors work to faithfully translate short stories that represent a variety of issues that women from Bangladesh tackle.^¹ 

One such issue is childbirth. Sume was fortunate. Her husband came from a wealthy family. She gave birth to her daughter in a private clinic. Her baby girl, all seven pounds, would be her most cherished possession.

The comfort that Sume was provided, however, was not the reality for most pregnant women in Bangladesh. 

In the chapter titled “Relief Camp,” women, young and old, gather for the birth of a child in a UN relief camp facility set up following violent floods. Under the watch of the blue helmets of the peacekeeping forces, mothers from all walks of life delivered babies and nursed infants. Many of these women lived in cramped slums prior to their evacuation. 

Arguments over food, belongings, and space ensued, one woman going so far as to accuse another's son of stealing a towel and shouting, “God will punish you. Your tongue will fall out.”^¹ Despite these tensions, the women still manage to form a structured and supportive system that mirrors a traditional family, with each person taking on familiar female roles.

During the birth of a particularly difficult pregnancy, we witness several moments of emotional understanding as the women instinctively fall into their roles. The elderly women serve as midwives, helping to guide the birth of the child.  “Rahima Bibi has always been a light sleeper… She is sixty years old, with greying hair… In her village she often assisted at births… All the wives and mothers of the village were extremely fond of her.”^¹ The younger women gather around the expectant mother, soothing her nerves and fetching water while the young girls guard the space. “Chan Bibi emerges… ‘Go and heat some water, will you? Jaigun, hang up a sari on the side. Don’t let anyone come in.’”^¹ The women have created a system. This system has carried itself over to America. This collective care reflects what many understand as the spirit of ummah (community), where responsibility for one another becomes both social and spiritual.

Sume explains the emotion that took over her hospital room—emotions that the women in the UN Camp also felt. She recounts her mother’s reaction, “And my mom is so happy that I cannot explain.” She could not see her mother’s face, but she could hear the joy in her mother's voice as she held her first grandchild. 

Similarly, in Galpa, the story ends with the women collectively rejoicing in the birth of a child—a child with whom they share neither blood nor DNA, “‘Here sweeten your mouth with a pitha (sweet)… For the first time a child is born here. It is a happy day for all of us.’”^¹ All differences and grievances have faded away. In that moment, all that matters is the teamwork that has now created a bond that will certainly last a lifetime. 

It truly does take a village (or entire generations) of women to raise a child. These moments that women share reflect cultural inheritances. 

The practices that follow this inheritance include: the choreographed routine of childbirth, the consumption of sweets, and the recitation of the Adhan (call to prayer) in the ear of a baby, all of which reflect a model of life that continues to shape the lives of Bangladeshi women. 

Sume remembers how her own mother recited Surah Fatiha, the first chapter of the Quran, and blessed her baby girl. The prayers of mothers are believed to carry a form of barakah (divine blessing) that extends beyond the moment itself. Years later, after the birth of her second baby girl, she would recite this prayer herself, her mother long gone from this world. 

In guiding herself through motherhood, Sume embraces the inevitable merging of cultures that all immigrant families experience. She believes that Bangladeshi-American culture, while inescapable and permanent, is only strengthened by the Islamic lifestyle.

*** 

Oftentimes, there is a clash between culture and religion, which for many immigrants can become a pervasive and even destructive force. Sume takes a different approach; she values her daughters and works to teach them cultural values while also recognizing that they are shaped by the world around them, in this case, the melting pot that is New York City. “I try to teach like our culture, like the Islamic way… however, they can grow up. I cannot give them everything.” She watches her daughters at school multicultural events, moving between the different student ethnic groups, Sri Lankan, West Indian, Polish,and  Dominican. She marvels at how the cultures melt and fuse and partakes in enjoying how, for a moment, the world became one.

She adds on how her daughters embrace the new. “Now they grow up and they raised like two, three different kind of cultures. So they want to take the all culture, they want to mix up the all culture. So as much as I can, I can give it to them.” By “it” she means the teachings of Islam and the practices of the Prophet Muhammad. She is understanding of the emergence of a third identity that emerges from this confluence of religion, ethnicity, and nationality.

Sume highlights an important aspect of religious education in immigrant culture: madrasas (Islamic schools). Similar in purpose to Sunday schools in Christian communities, madrasas are Islamic schools that focus on teaching subjects like the Quran, Sharia (Islamic law), and theology. Every Sunday for more than a decade, Sume would drop her daughters off at their madrasa lessons. Shoes at the door, Qur’an recitation rising and falling, all of it a practiced ritual. 

Sume sent her daughters to an informal madrasa led by her sister-in-law, a respected woman who has helped educate generations of children in an open and accepting manner. By understanding the importance of letting her daughters forge their own lives guided by her steady hand, Sume remains actively involved in their lives, offering guidance without restriction. 

She highly values education, both secular and sacred, believing that the presence of both is necessary to build a holistic life. She believes that Bangladeshi-American culture, while inescapable and permanent, is secondary to the Islamic lifestyle. Within Islamic ethics, this form of guidance often reflects adab (conduct), the cultivation of character through example rather than force.

This is reflected in her own desire to pursue higher education, driven by her wish to be more than she currently is. “But yeah, I wants to go start to school again, to like some college degree to take it in here. But unfortunately, I–I couldn't like find any good option or good option or good opportunity that I can take…” She laments her only regret, “… if I have a like a chance or if I can't do it, I can start it again my study.” 

This dream of hers is one that many immigrant women suppress due to limited support, cultural expectations, and the challenges of balancing family responsibilities with personal ambitions. This belief echoes the long standing Islamic emphasis on ilm (knowledge), the pursuit of education as both personal growth and spiritual responsibility

Sume also underscores the importance of self-sufficiency in this world. “Whatever, however you just need to make your like your own income, make your own expense. The  you don't need to go some someone's to ask okay can I get some money to spend? So like, let's that your first and last choice to like—do it yourself something for a new future.” While her candidness is admirable, this is an option not all immigrant women are offered either.

Instead, they are at the mercy of their families, often patriarchal in nature. Despite this, Sume continues to serve as an example of a woman with a multifaceted approach to life. She manages a career, raising two daughters, and maintains an excellent friendship with the people in her life. Her story is part of a larger, time-honored system in South Asian immigrant households, where countless women work to support entire generations of families. 

Her own daughters will hold college degrees; this she is certain of. Just as her mother lived empathetically through her, Sume lives through her own daughters, praying over them in moments of uncertainty, asking that their paths remain steady and their faith unshaken. 

This tawakkul (trust) in Allah and Islam is the highest form of surrender and allows Sume to move forward in the belief that what is meant for her daughters and herself will arrive in its proper time.

After spending countless hours nurturing and honoring the stories of Showun, Aziza, Mitu, and Sume, it has become clear that no amount of interviews, archival work, or analysis can truly capture the lives of these women. Nonetheless, the glimpses and histories offered for our engagement serve as powerful portraits of how gender, class, and cultural expectation converge and conflict in everyday life for immigrants. 

Across this archive, recurring themes have emerged from the interviews and oral histories over the years. The themes are as follows: 

Immigration: Loss and Possibilities

Nuanced Structure of Motherhood

Isolation vs. Community

The Dream of Return 

Faith and Cultural Continuity 

Generational Patterns Across Gender

Living between two worlds is a difficult task for anyone, let alone young women from entirely different continents. In examining their stories through various lenses, we are able to identify recurring patterns that speak to the immigrant experience. 

This archive does not seek to offer closure or answers. We honor the ambiguity in each of these themes and the various ways in which they are presented throughout history.