The Deadly Price of an Immigrant Daughter's Freedom

Hira Anwar's murder is a stark reminder of why we can't afford to ignore intergenerational trauma and gender-based violence in our communities.

Banished to Dhaka, Bangladesh at fifteen to live with my grandmother

1999, a brutally hot June day and the last day of ninth grade. I was washing off the grime of the subway in the cold shower in our small two-bedroom apartment in Queens when a loud knock interrupted my fifteen-year-old thoughts.

"Get ready. You're going to Bangladesh tomorrow,” Papa’s voice sounded uncharatersitically stern. The front door slammed behind him.

I had no clue what was going on, but sure enough, the next day, I was on a one-way flight to Bangladesh, headed to live with my nani—my mom’s mom.

I was dumbfounded. My dad was not a disciplinarian at all. In fact, he was unconventional in terms of a South Asian Muslim father, because he really never lay down any rules—he was too much of a free spirit himself for that. And yet his instinct was still to send me back home because his sister said she had seen me walking around with a boy. My mother, who ruled our home with an iron fist, was dead-set against sending me …