Map of Misfortune explores the devolution of Bangladesh’s democracy through artworks created between 2012 and 2025. As a diasporic artist, my identity is deeply tied to my homeland, where I was taught to cherish our hard-won independence. Yet, political forces have jeopardised that freedom. Today, citizens face “identity paralysis” amid political turmoil, trapped in a cycle of historical missteps. Born in bloodshed, Bangladesh struggles for political and personal freedom. While Bengal’s history shapes the Global South, the world ignores the growing religious colonial power. We cannot let darkness consume our map and liberty; we must reclaim our history and identity.
Asma Sultana, 2025 www.asmasultana.co
Please see photos from reception below.
December sixteenth, nineteen seventy-one
December sixteenth, nineteen seventy-one—
We broke free, united as one
Monsters fled, their shadows undone
We rise, we rise, together, again
Like dust swirling on a stormy spring day
Monsoon whispers—it’s only May
Rain will fall, fierce and untamed
Washing stains of anguish, erasing pain
Monsters drowned, for they could not swim
Water is our soul; rivers pulse in our veins
Blood is no longer blood—it becomes flesh
They craved our ruin— and came for us
We screamed, that was our only weapon to fight
That’s the time we could see daylight
Carved our breasts, tore hearts in two
Drank our blood, branded us whore
Hooked us like fish, one by one—
Artists, writers, and singers are gone
Blindfolded with a Gamcha and led to the killing fields
They slaughtered our bodies, but could not ruin our souls
We do not weep anymore
Our tears turned into blood, soaked into the soil—
The soil was stained with our brothers’ blood
Underneath our fathers’ bones
Who fought for our dignity
And, for a future free from chains
Brave souls need no land to be free
July, two thousand twenty-four—
The soil has turned to barren sand
They call us whore, erase our stand
Our fathers’ graves, wiped clean, defiled
Covered by a mercury-green shroud of hate
Like a twisted tale from Arabian Nights Deluded bodies, soulless, roam—
Worshipping monsters, forsaking home Denying heroes sows seeds of terror
A map of misfortune unfolds-
All martyrs are forgotten, and the nation’s sorrow
Gardens are abandoned as wastelands grow
Monsters forget their souls, their past, their kin
Bowing to a foreign land’s false hymn Hating self, they worship the other—
A strange darkness consumes the map of misfortune...
Asma Sultana, Toronto, June 2025.
