Published : 17 October 2026
•
Updated : 17 October 2026, 01:54
S Arzooman Chowdhury
There is a quiet jolt that comes with standing at the edge of the sea. Looking out at that vast horizon, where ships blur into the line where water meets the sky, and standing before something so immeasurably immense teaches us humility. It cleanses the spirit by reminding us of our own smallness, offering a rare glimpse of what it means to simply exist without the urge to conquer. Nowhere is this vastness more striking than along the shore of Cox’s Bazar, where an endless sea meets the chaotic rush of human life.
All around, even amidst the litter and discarded plastic scattered along the sand, people are enjoying the water with abandon. Children squeal with delight, waging their futile, joyful battles against the current, while others plunge headfirst into the swell, determined to break the waves in half.
And then, your eyes settle on the women: some enveloped in burqas and niqabs, some even in sharis and others in modern attire, yet most remain anchored to the margins. They stand where the ocean grows hesitant, allowing only the gentlest foam to kiss their bare feet. They breathe in the salt air, watch the children play and call out gentle warnings to husbands and fathers wading too far into the deep. They anchor the family to the sand, but never quite allow themselves to float.
Of course, there are exceptions. You see women who throw themselves into the surf without hesitation, laughing out loud, swimming freely and not caring in the slightest about who is watching. But there are also women who care too much. Or perhaps they have been conditioned to care too much about everything except their own freedom.
Men move freely through streets, public transport, workplaces and beaches, while women must constantly calculate how much space they can safely occupy.
Because what happens when the waves soak through their clothes? When wet fabric clings to their bodies, revealing the contours that society insists must remain concealed? Suddenly, a woman enjoying the sea is no longer simply a woman enjoying the sea. She becomes someone to be watched, evaluated and whispered about. Her fleeting joy becomes an invitation for someone else's gaze, and her body becomes an excuse for someone else's commentary.
And so, even at the beach, we negotiate. How far can I go? How much of myself can I reveal? What might someone say? Who might stare? We arrive at the sea to feel free, only to carry the world's restrictions with us onto the sand.
Seeing those women standing at the water's edge brought back a memory I hadn't thought about in years, one involving one of my school science teachers. When the world was younger, and so was I, my school introduced a new rule requiring female teachers to wear sharis.
Seeing those women standing at the water's edge brought back a memory I hadn't thought about in years, one involving one of my school science teachers. When the world was younger, and so was I, my school introduced a new rule requiring female teachers to wear sharis. Our science teacher refused. The disagreement grew serious enough that she eventually decided to resign. I still remember her trying to explain her frustration to us. She travelled to school every day by rickshaw, and wearing a shari instead of a salwar kameez made stepping on and off the high frame precarious and awkward. Her legs might accidentally become exposed, she explained, giving passers-by yet another excuse to stare, comment or harass her.
"Why," she asked us, "should I have to make my life harder just because of what men might do?"
Back then, we were too young to grasp the depth of what she was telling us. We heard her words, but we couldn't feel their weight. Why must a woman organise her life around the possibility of a man's misconduct?
The answer, of course, is that we have been doing precisely that for generations.
Men stare, and we become conscious of our bodies. Men ogle, and we adjust our scarves. Men make comments, and we learn to look away. Men occupy the streets, public transport, workplaces and beaches, while we calculate how much space we can safely claim within them.
Women learn to anticipate discomfort and make themselves smaller before anyone asks them to, adjusting their clothes, voices, laughter, movements and expectations to conform to society’s restrictions.
We learn to anticipate discomfort before it happens, to make ourselves smaller before anyone asks us to. We adjust our clothes, our voices, our laughter, our movements and our expectations. We learn to leave early, cover up, stay quiet, smile politely and avoid confrontation. We become vigilant about our own safety and, often, everyone else's.
And it doesn't end outside the home.
I have watched women in my own family become the designated peacemakers whenever tempers rise. They are expected to lower their voices, swallow their anger, understand both sides and smooth things over. When conflict erupts, their task is not necessarily to ask who was wrong, but to ensure that everyone else is comfortable again. Their silence is praised as maturity, their compromise as virtue and their endurance as strength.
How often do we mistake a woman's ability to endure for her willingness to accept? How often do we celebrate her capacity to accommodate without asking how much of herself she has had to surrender in the process?
It reminds me of Indian writer Harishankar Parsai’s biting observation: "Days are always celebrated for the weak, like Women's Day, Teacher's Day, Labour Day, etc. A police chief's [thanedar] day is never celebrated."
It reminds me of Indian writer Harishankar Parsai’s biting observation: "Days are always celebrated for the weak, like Women's Day, Teacher's Day, Labour Day, etc. A police chief's [thanedar] day is never celebrated."
There is something unsettling about the distinction. Those who already wield power rarely need a designated day to remind the world that they exist. Their presence is woven into everyday life, and their authority does not depend on being periodically acknowledged. It is those at the margins who must continually be recognised, defended and reassured that they matter.
Women come to the seaside seeking freedom, only to find that society’s restrictions follow them onto the sand. Photo: AFP
And why must a woman be extraordinary to claim what should have been ordinary freedom?
Why must she be brave to wear what she wants, travel comfortably, speak her mind, disagree with her family or enter the sea? Why is her ordinary freedom so often framed as an act of rebellion?
Perhaps what troubles me most about the women standing at the edge of the sea is not that they choose not to swim. There is, after all, peace in sitting on the shore, breathing in the breeze or simply watching the tide come in. Freedom, if it means anything, must include the right to remain still. The ache comes from wondering where choice ends and conditioning begins. How many stand there out of preference, and how many are quietly adhering to a lifetime of lessons about what is proper, what is safe, what is respectable and what will keep the peace?
Before us lies an ocean so vast that it reminds us how small we are. How strange, then, that, when facing such infinity, our first instinct is still to make a woman’s world smaller.
S Arzooman Chowdhury is a researcher and practitioner in gender justice and human rights. She can be contacted at [email protected].