Every chapter.
A little further.

The village where my journey began

I was born and raised in a village in Bangladesh. We are six siblings, making an eight-member household together with our parents.

From the time of my grandfather down to my father, our family lived a very humble life. We had neither wealth nor social influence. From early childhood, financial hardship was an everyday reality.

I watched my father work tirelessly in other people’s agricultural fields to feed eight people, manage school expenses, and keep our home running. Meanwhile, my mother managed the household, cared for her children, and kept the family together.

Every expense had to be carefully calculated. At times, my parents had to take small loans or borrow through installment schemes, which only brought fresh worries when the repayment dates arrived. In the middle of all these hardships, the six of us grew up.

They taught us to read life

Neither of my parents had the opportunity to receive a formal education. They could not write their own names, managing only a simple pen stroke that looked like a signature.

Yet missing out on schooling does not mean lacking life’s wisdom. My parents never had textbook knowledge, but they taught us invaluable principles.

They showed us how to treat people with kindness, respect our elders, care for those younger than us, protect the bond between siblings, empathize with someone else’s suffering, and live with integrity.

My parents used to tell us: “Never become the kind of person whom people curse after you are gone.”

They taught us:

Never let rivalry grow between brothers.

Never disrespect your elders.

Never seek personal gain by ruining a relationship.

Islamic values, good character, strong family ties, and a sense of duty toward our community were always the foundation of our home.

My parents could not read, but they understood deeply that education was the most reliable vehicle to change their children’s destiny. They knew they had no property to leave behind, but they believed that if their children became educated, we could strive to change our own fortunes. Because of that conviction, they endured endless hardships to keep all six of us in school.

Hardships we understood only later

As children, we did not understand the true weight of what our parents carried. It was only as we grew older, listening to them reflect on those years, that we grasped how difficult things really were.

Even today, my mother often gets emotional speaking of those times. She recalls days when there was almost no food in the house. Sometimes she would simply boil potatoes for my older siblings, feed them, and head out to work. She would labor all day in neighboring homes, husking paddy or doing whatever work was available, returning only after sunset.

There were evenings she returned to find her children lying quietly in bed, too hungry to move. She would then take whatever small wage she earned that day to cook a meal.

My grandfather’s life was built on similar hardship. My father described him as a kind, simple man who left behind very little land. If he had wanted to, he could have sold off that small piece of land to live in relative comfort, but he chose not to. Whatever little he had, he preserved for the generations to follow.

My father often cried when remembering his father. Listening to those memories, one thought constantly lingered in my mind: if the same struggle continues from one generation to the next, who will step forward to break the pattern?

Social reality and learning from personal weaknesses

Poverty was not confined to our home. I felt our economic standing in the way people interacted with us. As a boy, I sometimes noticed indifference or neglect from others. Fitting in comfortably or being treated as an equal was not always easy.

As I matured, however, I realized that our family’s financial position was not the only factor. A significant part of the problem came from my own shortcomings.

I was quiet and struggled to articulate my thoughts clearly. Striking up conversations with new people or establishing a presence in a group did not come naturally to me. As a result, I often felt ignored during discussions.

I never had a large circle of friends either. Fortunately, at different turning points in my life, I found one or two close friends who stood by me with genuine loyalty.

This feeling of being overlooked did not vanish when I traveled abroad. Even today, I occasionally notice people speaking warmly with others while treating me with distant reservation, and some words have felt hurtful. In the past, this brought only frustration. Over time, I learned to reframe that feeling into an important question: what can I improve within myself so that I become more confident, articulate, and effective in my communication?

When family responsibilities shifted

With age, my father’s health began to fail, and he could no longer work as he once did. Gradually, the responsibility of providing for the family shifted onto my older brothers.

My two older brothers moved to Dhaka. One attempted to continue his studies while working, while the other stepped away from school entirely to earn a living. Together, they held our household together.

As long as my eldest brother lived, he carried a single goal: to change the fortunes of our family. He often said that whatever he earned, he would pour as much as possible into the education and stability of his younger siblings. He believed that merely looking after oneself was not enough; our siblings needed to reach a position from which the entire family’s reality could be elevated.

2017: A painful turning point

In 2017, an unexpected tragedy struck. That very brother, our primary earner who carried our family on his shoulders, passed away suddenly.

His passing brought our lives to a standstill. We had not only lost a loving brother; we lost the pillar our family relied on. Everything suddenly felt uncertain. How would the household run? How would we pay for school? How would we get through the days ahead? A dark cloud seemed to hang over us.

At the time, my older sister was studying in Dhaka. Seeing the crisis at home, she took on a job alongside her university studies. She balanced her classes, the living costs of a demanding city, and financial support for our home back in the village. One by one, our family members stepped up to carry the burden.

How education reshaped my perspective

I started my schooling in a general school. Over time, I developed a strong interest in religious studies. A local scholar spoke with my parents about enrolling me in a madrasah, and that began a new chapter in my education.

In the madrasah, I nurtured a clear ambition: I wanted to become an Islamic scholar, study the religion deeply, teach others, and dedicate my life to scholarship.

Yet as I grew older, I began observing society through a different lens. I saw strong religious identities, respected scholars, and diverse organizations, but I also saw deep divisions, factionalism, and friction.

The reality of my own village weighed on me. I saw moral apathy among youth, fractured community ties, lingering land disputes, fights, verbal abuse, and bitter rivalries that persisted year after year. A question began to form in my mind: would returning merely as a religious preacher be enough to heal these systemic problems?

I realized that while religious knowledge is indispensable, real social reform also requires public trust, broad education, strong communication, and practical leadership.

I needed to build myself into someone capable of earning community trust and delivering tangible solutions. If one person can be guided toward a constructive path, that individual can influence another. One becomes two, two become ten, and that is how the lasting renewal of a community begins.

A realization about our family’s quiet nature

As I grew, another pattern became apparent. Neither my father, my brothers, nor my sisters had ever stepped into leadership roles. Our family was known as peaceful, polite, and well-mannered. We avoided conflict and respected our neighbors.

However, in crucial community councils, arbitrations, or local decision-making bodies, our family held no influential voice. Whether it was the mosque committee or an important village meeting, we kept to ourselves. Perhaps that was simply our quiet nature, or perhaps it came from a lack of confidence and communication skills.

Yet one thing became clear to me: being a good person is vital, but when it comes to transforming a society, staying quietly virtuous is not always enough.

Sometimes, you have to speak up. You must reason with people, listen carefully to their needs, bring divided groups together, challenge wrongdoing with sound arguments, and take responsibility when it matters. That realization completely changed how I viewed leadership.

Leaving home for the first time

In 2018, I took my Dakhil exams, the madrasah equivalent to secondary school certificates. I had worked hard and hoped for top marks, particularly an A-plus, but the result fell short. Naturally, I felt downhearted.

Yet that disappointment forced me to re-evaluate my environment. There were around fifty-seven students in our batch, and nearly all of them chose to stay close to home. My thoughts went in another direction: if I remained in the same environment, following the same routine, how could I expect any meaningful change in my life?

I felt that the future I wanted required stepping outside my comfort zone. That realization led to my first major independent choice: I would leave home.

I decided to pursue my higher secondary studies in another part of Bangladesh, about a hundred kilometers away from my village. A close friend and I packed our bags and moved there together.

A lesson from a teacher played a major role in that decision. He used the example of our traditional village clay stoves. The clay in a home stove endures heat day after day, but over time, it becomes fragile and easily crumbles. Yet, if that same clay is shaped properly and fired inside an industrial kiln under intense heat, it turns into a strong, durable brick. It is the same earth; the only difference is the environment and the process.

My teacher explained that to build true resilience in life, one must occasionally step away from familiar comforts and the shelter of home. That thought stayed with me.

Living away from my family for the first time was difficult. In the beginning, homesickness hit hard. I missed my family deeply and shed tears in private. Yet I refused to pack my bags and go back. Gradually, I adapted to the new surroundings and focused entirely on my studies.

One class, one remark, and a new ambition

One day, an instructor who had studied for years at the Islamic University of Madinah was teaching our class. During the lecture, he mentioned that universities around the world offer full scholarships to international students.

I raised my hand and asked, “Sir, what does it take to study at those universities?”

He gave a simple reply: “You need outstanding academic results.”

It was a brief answer, but to me, it felt like an open doorway. My family could never afford to fund an overseas education out of pocket. But if there existed a path where academic dedication and merit could take me there instead of money, then I was ready to give it everything I had. From that day on, the dream of studying abroad took firm root.

Setting my sights on strong results

My past results were behind me, and I could not rewrite them. What I could control was the exam ahead. I made up my mind: I needed to excel in my Alim examinations, the equivalent of higher secondary studies.

I dedicated myself completely to my studies. After two years of consistent preparation, I completed my examinations and achieved strong results. My marks earned me a government talent scholarship in Bangladesh.

To me, this went beyond financial support. It was personal validation that with sustained effort, I could move past previous academic setbacks.

Afterward, through careful budgeting and saving, I gathered the money to obtain my first passport, knowing it was required for international university applications. Still, I did not put my regular studies on hold while waiting for an opportunity. My approach was straightforward: continue my education in Bangladesh while actively hunting for international scholarships.

Aiming for Islamic studies and facing continuous rejections

At the time, my primary focus was still higher education in Islamic studies. I wanted to enter a renowned Islamic institution, research the tradition deeply, and develop into a grounded scholar.

With that objective, I began submitting applications across Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, Egypt, Kuwait, Qatar, Turkey, and several other countries. I applied to the Islamic University of Madinah, Al Qasimia University, and various other institutions. I sat for interviews and applied three to four times to the same universities. In total, I submitted applications to more than fifteen institutions.

With every application, hope returned: maybe this is the one.

Yet the answers were the same. Submit an application, wait for months, and receive a rejection. One by one, opportunities fell through. Eventually, my spirit felt drained. I reached a point where I thought, “I will not apply anymore.”

In those low moments, the verses returned to mind: “Do not grieve; indeed Allah is with us,” and “Indeed, with hardship comes ease.” I could not see what lay ahead, but even when I tried to walk away, one question kept me awake.

The question that refused to let me stop

That question was: Who will change the trajectory of our family?

I never saw my grandfather’s daily life, but I knew of his struggles. I saw my father’s labor firsthand. I watched my mother’s quiet sacrifices. I saw my brothers’ burdens.

One of my brothers had left school early to earn, and in his life, I could see the familiar financial cycle: earn enough today to support the home for a short time, only to wake up facing the exact same struggle tomorrow.

I realized that this was not just an individual challenge; it was a generational loop. Living day to day, having little room for savings, lacking the resources to seize larger opportunities, and watching economic and social status remain in the exact same spot year after year.

I thought: if even one among our six siblings can break this loop, it will not just change that person’s life; it can rewrite the future of an entire generation. If one person can build a solid foundation financially, academically, and socially, that standing can open doors for siblings, their children, and those who come next.

My hopes were never limited to my own immediate future. I wanted this transformation to lift my parents, my brothers and sisters, our extended family, and the generations that follow.

My father carried us a little further than where my grandfather had to leave off. My older siblings advanced that line through their own personal sacrifices. I did not want the baton to drop with me. If I could take things another step forward, the next generation would not have to start from zero. They could start from the ground we worked so hard to build.

Why I chose a broader horizon

Over time, I began to think practically about my future. If I remained in Bangladesh working as a religious teacher, I would likely lead a respectable life with a steady income, supporting an immediate household comfortably.

Yet that persistent question remained: did I simply want to provide for a single household, or did I want to bring a lasting turnaround to a multi-generational cycle?

I came to understand that a profession focused only on personal sustenance was not broad enough for my long-term purpose. I needed to view education, social work, leadership, and global horizons through a much wider lens. I had to look beyond a single traditional career and work toward an opportunity with far wider reach.

My greatest blessing: family support

One of the greatest gifts in my life is my family. While our financial resources were modest, they gave me extraordinary trust and freedom whenever I had to make an important choice.

My sister once told me: “We have always valued your decisions. When you wanted to leave home to study, we supported you. When you wanted to study in the madrasah, you did. Now, if you want to study abroad, do whatever is necessary. We will stand behind you.”

My father, my brothers, and my sisters stood by me with that same quiet faith. We may not have possessed wealth, but when it came to encouragement, shared responsibility, care, and personal sacrifice, my family never let me feel alone. Whatever ground I stand on today is owed just as much to their dedication as it is to my own efforts.