The American Dream of Bangladeshis

They came to America with whatever they could carry including their Bangladeshi passports, filial duties, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. The immigration pathways of Bangladeshi Americans have ranged from the simple to the perilous, but when they met in New York, many bonded over shared struggles and a strong desire to support one another. 

I first came to know this community in 2015, the year I arrived in New York from Hong Kong. I had been working on a project documenting Filipinos in New York and Cherry, a teacher I knew, turned out to be married to a Bangladeshi American accountant named Mohammed Chishti-Shipu. We all stayed connected and through the years, I witnessed their life and became part of their community. 

Like many of his compatriots, Chishti had arrived in the U.S. through the diversity immigrant visa program, aka "green card lottery," which is a pathway for individuals from countries with low rates of immigration in the United States. There are now about 208,000 Bangladeshi Americans in the United States, and 93,000 are in New York state, according to 2019 data from Pew Research Center. Today, Bangladeshi Americans are one of the fastest-growing ethnic minorities in the United States, and because of the high volume, Bangladeshis became ineligible for the diversity visa in 2012. 

In the intervening years, however, the sense of community has hardly waned. The American Bangladeshi Community Help Facebook group, which launched in early 2019, speaks to that desire for connection. Today there are more than 40,000 members. The group serves as a virtual meeting place for new arrivals and old-timers alike to find employment and housing, and even to arrange marriages. Going against deeply rooted American individualism, this sense of community has helped many navigate their new home country. 

Starting Over

At the start of 2010, Mohammed Chishti-Shipu was a successful accountant working at a reputable company in Singapore. But twice in two years he had applied for permanent residency in Singapore only to be rejected. "I feel that I got denied because of my race," Chishti told me. Unbeknownst to him, Chishti’s brother-in-law submitted an application for him for the green card lottery and he was chosen. Hoping for a better opportunity in the U.S., Chishti left Singapore and returned to Bangladesh to process his green card.

”Initially, I don't want to go to America because I don't want to restart," Chishti said. He arrived in Jackson Heights in 2010 and found lodging in a single room he shared with four people. His first employer, in New Jersey, paid him cash and suggested he work for a year without a contract. Chishti refused and left the job, saying, "I want to work legally because I came here legally." Jobless for more than two months because no one wanted an accountant without American experience, Chisthti struggled to pay his rent. "All my confidence is gone, and I can't find a job in accounting," Chishti recalled, sharing his desperation. He worked at Jamba Juice on a night shift while trying to apply to every bank he could find in New York. "I am willing to do any job at that point," Chishti said. "I cried while washing blenders because my parents worked hard to send me to a good school, and here I am, making smoothies for other people."

Like many immigrants in America forced to work odd jobs because their foreign academic credentials are unrecognized or underutilized, Chishti struggled to find an employer able to recognize the value of his experience. "I put all my certificates and graduation pictures on the wall so I don't forget that I am an accountant," Chishti recalled. He finally got a break when he started working at a hotel as an all-around person. When the accountant in the hotel resigned, Chishti applied and was hired three months later. "I found my identity again when I got the accounting job. My American dream finally started." Chisti said. But his challenges did not end when he joined management. "A lot of people did not take it easy because I was their hotel boy then I became the person who approves their budget. When you go to management roles, the race is still a factor". Chishti recalled microaggressions directed toward him as a Muslim American. "There is pressure because If I do bad, it's not just seen as my mistake but the whole brown population."

In 2020, Chishti started his own accounting practice. Twice a week, he works as an unpaid TV host, giving tax advice on TBN24, a Bangladeshi network. "I do free consulting for my people because I've heard stories of them getting cheated because of the language barrier. America is the land of opportunity. It is possible to be something or someone else. You must always be one step ahead of the locals to get more opportunities."

Fraud and Coercion

Prior to the lottery halt, the high volume of applicants gave birth to a visa industry rife with fraud and coercion. According to a United States border security report, the "visa consultants" charged hopeful applicants at every step of the process. Language barriers and red tape allowed these agents control over the application — and visa agents charged up to $20,000. Chishti, for instance, paid $10,000 to an agency that prepared his documents.

Mohammad Onu — Chishti’s initial host in America — paid $27,000 for his American Dream. He applied to the diversity lotto through an agency and got his green card in 2007. "We have to sell everything for me to come here. I started calling for a place to stay in Jackson Heights and walking miles to find jobs immediately so I could pay our loans back home." Onu worked odd jobs until he got a taxi driver's license. He worked 16 hours a day, sending everything to his family until he paid off all their loans. Only in 2013 did he make the final payment, allowing him to feel he could finally start living in the United States without burden.

"I sacrificed the golden years of my life. I have to keep supporting my family because they sacrificed so much." Though he regularly faces racism and verbal abuse, Onu continued driving his cab. "If no one curses at me in a day, I consider myself lucky." He accepts it as part of the job. "I can bring my mother here earlier, but I don't want her to see my life." Onu confessed.

In 2016, Onu married Shati, in Bangladesh, and brought both his new wife and mother to New York. Today, he drives an Uber, but does so on his own time while also investing in the stock market, and training to become a business system analyst. Outside of work, he most enjoys fishing and cultivating his garden.

"Back then, I was chasing money for my family; now I am chasing happiness," said Onu. "My American dream diverted; success is not just about money but freedom. We need money to survive, but we don't need the extra cash that puts extra pressure.”

Lost Identity

When Md Torikul Islam Mithu received his notification that he was chosen to apply for a green card through the diversity visa program, he was so nervous that he hid the envelope in his drawer. He did not tell anyone and went about his day as a public school teacher in Bangladesh. When he arrived home, he shared the news with his family and got mixed reactions. "Are you not happy in Bangladesh?” He recalled his father asking him. "I am good but not that good; let me try America," he replied. Despite his father’s doubts, Mithu resigned and moved to New York in the winter of 2010 with his wife, Shapla.Though Mithu hoped he could become a teacher in the U.S., the first job he could get was at a gift shop in Manhattan — a job that required 12 hours, six days a week, on his feet. Shapla found work at a Dunkin Donuts. "I want to go back to Bangladesh that time because it is not the life I signed up for," Mithu recalled. In 2013 he became a traffic enforcement agent — a popular job within the Bangladeshi American community. Their daughter Nova was born the same year, and the family needed his health benefits and a stable job. "I was scared because people are rude to me. They throw coffee or water and curse at me a lot, and I feel like I am going to prison every day. I told my wife I wanted to quit, but she told me to endure because of the benefits."

He continued his work until a heartbreaking experience served as the final straw. "I gave a ticket, and he was crying because he could not pay the $115, but I cannot cancel the ticket anymore. It broke my heart." Mithu finally quit and eventually found a job as a school safety agent in Queens. "I feel like I am returning to children, not to teach but to protect." It's close enough to what he did in Bangladesh.

When Mithu finally went back to visit Bangladesh in 2015, he was overjoyed until relatives started asking when he would return to the U.S. "In America, they tell people like us to go back to where we came from, but when I go back to Bangladesh and stay long, they ask me why I am still there. Where do I belong? I feel like I lost my identity." 

Meeting fellow Bangladeshis in New York through the Facebook group has been a critical lifeline for Mithu. "America gave me a lot of comforts, but it took away my happiness. With this group, I found my happiness again." Nova, now 9, has become his anchor. Though he wants to return to Bangladesh when he retires, he said: " I am staying here because of my daughter. I want her to enjoy her rights as an American." 

Special Mom

Not everyone leaves Bangladesh for economic mobility. Rubaiya Rahman was a high-profile lawyer from a prominent family before she moved to the U.S. After her youngest son was diagnosed with autism, she decided to bring her two children to stay with her in-laws in 2000, leaving behind an established career. Her husband followed a year later. "I thought if I bring [my youngest son] to America, we can cure him because I do not have any idea about disability at that time," Rahman recalled. She arrived in New York and immediately went to a pediatrician who suggested early intervention for her son — who was 15 months old at the time. "I am a special mom because I have a special child. In Bangladesh, any child's disability is taboo. Parents don't want to disclose. Society as a whole blames the mother. Our sins reflect the child, so both parents hush it out. I came to America because this is a free country," she said.

Rahman learned, however, that even in America, stigma exists. "Children are kept hidden, and the stigma causes a delay in early intervention." She worked as a paralegal in a law office and met many couples divorcing after fighting over their childrens’ special needs. That, along with her own experiences with her son, inspired Rahman to start the  Autism Society Habilitation Organization (AHSO) advocating for early intervention and creating awareness within the Bangladeshi American community to eliminate stigma for those with Intellectual or Developmental Disabilities and Autism Spectrum Disorder. "We started with six families, and now there are more than 200 members," Rahman said. The NGO provides tools and information and conducts training and rehabilitation programs for families. "I do a lot of events before COVID, and I bring my son with me. When I speak, he makes noises, pulls the microphone, or goes to another table. People ask why I can't manage my son or why he is there. I have to explain that he is autistic. That is my reality as a mother and all mothers with a child with autism."

Though Rahman was accepted for New York University’s LLM program, she decided not to attend. "I learned it in a very hard way. I want to be a full-time lawyer and practice in the high court. I had a very prominent career in Bangladesh. But when I came here with the child who is so challenged, I knew that I have to let it go." She focused her energy on her organization despite the challenges of being a woman speaking out about the autism spectrum. "The message I want to give is not well accepted here. I don't have access to all the places. Culturally, our female community is influenced by our male partners. And the male partners are the husbands, brothers, and fathers. There are places I cannot access, and if my husband talks about it, there is more impact. "

One of the families who is part of AHSO is Sharmin Shahid, whose son Fayyad has Intellectual Development Disabilities. "My son is an introvert. He is developing more because he is interested. He received different services, but he learned more during the AHSO program. It is more play-based and engages them more. They make the kids more welcome. It was the first time I also learned what my son wanted to do. I struggle every day, especially when he is not responding to me but now, he engages with me," said Shahid.

Rahman still dreams of returning to Bangladesh but knows her work is in NY. "My son. He is such a blessing, I should say. He has a disability, but he has compassion. I am mainly concerned about what will happen to him when I pass. Where will he end up? I have to figure that out."

This project is supported by The Corky Lee Fellowship. Photos from Xyza Cruz Bacani's project will be on display in New York City at 127 Walker Street from November 8 to November 22.