When you hear “red flag” or “green flag,” you probably think of bad relationships, dating disasters, and too many therapy TikToks. But what if I told you there’s a flag that’s both? A flag that is literally a red flag inside a green flag.
Welcome to Bangladesh.
Our flag isn’t just fabric: it’s a whole mindset. It’s the blood of those who fought for our language, our freedom, our right to exist. It’s resilience, hope, and the way we get back up no matter what. My flag doesn’t just represent my country — it shapes how I see my people and my heritage.
Bangladeshis are walking contradictions, and I say that with love. We are chaos and order, struggle and survival, a mess, and a miracle.
We have political drama, power cuts, and floods that turn roads into rivers. But we also have poetry in our DNA (thanks, Tagore & Nazrul), strangers who treat you like family after five minutes (Bhaiya, please? Ji, Apu!), and a food culture so spicy it could spark a diplomatic crisis. Hilsa with or without mustard? Dhaka vs. Kolkata biryani? Or, even better, hear this: Keka Ferdousi’s Noodles Shawarma! These debates have ended friendships, heated family dinners, and divided nations (okay, maybe not nations, but definitely Facebook groups). I’m not exaggerating.
And here’s the thing — no matter how many red flags you throw at Bangladeshis, we’ll flip them into green.
The Walking Red & Green Flag
Red Flag: You can piss in public, but can’t kiss in public.
Green Flag: We wrote the most romantic poetry in history — Tagore, Nazrul, Jibanananda — where one stolen glance in the rain is enough for a whole love story. Bangladeshis don’t need PDA. We have poetry and repressed emotions.
Red Flag: We fight for democracy, but somehow elections are already decided before the votes are even counted.
Green Flag: When we do protest? Oh, we make history. (Shahbagh, Holey Artisan, July Massacre — take your pick, bestie.)
Red Flag: Everyone is in a hurry, but no one is on time.
Green Flag: That’s just Bangladesh Standard Time (BST). Your wedding invite said 6 PM? That means dinner at 11pm.
Red Flag: Every government since independence has been a never-ending family drama that makes the shows on Star Plus look weak.
Green Flag: Doesn’t matter — we protest, adapt, and keep going. We don’t just love our country; we give our lives for it. We’ve been laying down our lives for Bangladesh since our independence in 1971 and we haven’t stopped since.
Red Flag: Power cuts that turn your Zoom meeting into a ghosting session.
Green Flag: No electricity? No problem. We light a candle, grab some cha, and call it a vibe. Load shedding makes dinner by candlelight a weekly ritual.
Red Flag: Floods, cyclones, and climate disasters every year.
Green Flag: The first people to show up with food, shelter, and help are ordinary Bangladeshis. Before the government, before NGOs, before international aid, we’ve already set up a relief fund.
Red Flag: Roads, bridges, and buildings that collapse when it rains too hard.
Green Flag: Our rickshaw pullers, boatmen, and street vendors still make it work, still hustle, still survive like superheroes. Dhaka traffic has been scientifically proven to be a black hole, yet CNG drivers will still find a “shortcut.”
Red Flag: Corruption at every level.
Green Flag: If memes could overthrow a government, we’d be world leaders. We made a whole stock market crash because someone stole a goat.
How My Heritage Shapes My Worldview
Being Bangladeshi has taught me that resilience isn’t just survival; it’s finding joy in the wreckage. It’s learning to laugh even when the floodwater rises to your doorstep. It’s making the best biryani even when the gas runs out and using a hand-fan to keep the flames alive. It’s turning blackouts into storytelling nights, disaster into routine, crisis into something almost normal.
I see it in the rickshaw-walas who refuse to let knee-deep water stop them from earning a day’s wage, just to fund their child’s education. I see it in the aunties who cook for an entire neighborhood during Ramadan, even when groceries cost more than their salaries. I see it in the protesters who march, drenched in rain, because their voices matter more than their comfort.
I still remember the monsoons of my childhood. My friends and I adored dancing in the rain. The first rain would smell of warm dust and the end of summer. Then the streets would fill up — not just with water, but with life. Children racing paper boats down overflowing drains; rickshaw-walas knee-deep in water, pushing their cycles like warriors; vendors rowing through alleyways, calling out ‘gorom shingara!’ like nothing had changed. The roads were rivers, but we weren’t afraid. We played. We adapted. We made it work.
These days, summers burn hotter. The floods don’t just come — they take. The streets aren’t playgrounds anymore; they’re escape routes. The water rises higher, but the boats are fewer. The vendors are gone. The laughter is quieter.
And yet—that spirit of finding light in the dark is still prevalent.
“Amar shonar Bangla, ami tomay bhalobashi
Chirodin tomar akash, tomar batash
Amar prane bajay bashi.”
“My golden Bengal, I love you.
Forever your skies, your air,
Play like a flute in my soul.”
Rabindranath Tagore wrote these lines in 1905, when Bengal was being divided by the British. This song, our national anthem, is a love letter to the land, and a promise that no matter how much they tried to break us, we would remain whole. Today, it still holds true.
Bangladesh is a walking red flag, wrapped in a green flag — born from resistance, built on sacrifice, and carried forward by people who never learned how to give up.
And isn’t that what love is?
A country is like a relationship — messy, complicated, and impossible not to love.
So… Would You Swipe Right on Bangladesh?
P.S. I drew the artwork for this piece when I was 8—a stormy day in a Bangladeshi village, imagined from memory, Baisakhi monsoon, and every Bengali child’s primary school dream: Titi’s iconic 48-box crayons.
