The engagement party I went to the other weekend, my cousin’s, has completely changed how I view the idea of “being hospitable.”
In Bangladeshi culture, we pride ourselves on hospitality, especially through food. I grew up hearing this common phrase: a guest should never leave your home with an empty stomach. I always thought this came from a place of deep care, that hosts took genuine pride in making their guests feel seen, welcome and fed.
But over the years, I started to notice something. Hospitality often looks like feeding you, then leaving you to eat alone. Sometimes the hosts don’t even sit with you. In some contexts, sure, that makes sense (where a man and women are supposed to be seggregrated). But in others, it feels hollow, like once you’re fed, their job is done. No warmth. No conversation. No connection. Just a plate of food and a performative sense of duty.
Back to the engagement party. My aunt, my cousin’s mum, was hosting. My parents were there, the people that have abused me my entire life. I had not spoken to them in almost 2 years. Enough people at the party knew I don’t have a relationship with them. So I had a plan: get inside, and immediately escape upstairs to my cousin’s room. Be present without actually being present. It was simple in theory. In reality, it was hard.
As soon as I stepped into the house, I was bombarded. “Have you eaten? Come and eat! Come and eat something!” Over and over and over again. I was clearly trying to get away, to remove myself from a situation that made me feel unsafe, and yet no one stopped to notice that. Or worse they did, and ignored it. No one asked how I was doing. No one paused to think that maybe food wasn’t my priority at that moment. I wasn’t just avoiding a meal. I was trying to survive.
The repetition of “eat, eat, eat” didn’t feel like care. It felt like noise. Noise that ignored me. If someone had just paused and seen me, really seen me, they might’ve noticed how on edge I was. Maybe they would’ve checked in first before offering food. But instead, it was a barrage. Even when I politely said “not right now,” they wouldn’t stop. My voice didn’t matter.
It wasn’t personal. I know that. But I just wanted to feel noticed. To feel safe.
Later on in the week, I had a class with my Syhleti teacher. I’m learning my mother tongue now, since my own mother never taught me. I told her what happened, and she said something that stuck with me.
Hospitality isn’t as pure as you think it is. It’s not about you. It’s about them. About doing what’s expected so they don’t look bad. It’s a duty, a tickbox exercise.
And just like that, the veil lifted. The food, the repetition, the insistence. It wasn’t love.
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