Philosophy and Psychology (Translated)

# The Color of Skin, the Color of Mind People are born and remain bound to a single truth: their bodies arrive in the world bearing a particular hue. This chromatic fact, innocent enough at birth, becomes the occasion for everything that follows—judgment, longing, revulsion, desire. We do not choose the color of our skin. Yet we spend our lives either fleeing it or defending it, as though it were a verdict handed down by some unseen court. A child looks into the mirror and sees not a face, but a sentence. The world has already decided what that color means. There are those who go through life apologizing for their melanin, as though darkness itself were a moral failing. They bleach and scrub, believing that if the body could only shed its original coat, acceptance might finally arrive—that somewhere beneath that shadow lies a more deserving self. The cruelty here is absolute: it teaches a human being to wage war against the very medium through which they perceive and move through existence. And there are others who have transmuted this wound into defiance. They refuse the shame. They declare: this color is not an apology. It is an inheritance, a history, a claim upon the earth itself. There is a kind of courage in this refusal—though even courage, if it hardens into certainty, can become a new kind of prison. But the color of the skin is not the color of the mind. The mind arrives without pigment. It knows nothing of hierarchies until it is taught them. A child's consciousness is not born prejudiced; it is filled with prejudice like water is poured into a vessel. Yet because the teaching begins so early, so quietly, and so thoroughly woven into the texture of daily life—a look held too long, an opportunity withheld, a door that closes just as you approach—we mistake these lessons for natural law. We call it common sense. We call it realism. The tragedy is not merely that the world judges by color. The tragedy is that the world has taught us to judge ourselves by the same merciless metric. A person of darker skin may internalize an entire cosmology of inferiority. A person of lighter skin may inherit an unexamined throne. Neither is free. The first carries chains they did not forge; the second sits in a palace they did not build and cannot leave without guilt. What would it mean to separate these two truths—to acknowledge that the body is born in color while the soul remains colorless? It would mean understanding that prejudice is not a discovery about human difference; it is an invention, a story we tell ourselves and have learned to tell so well that we forget it is a story. It would mean recognizing that the moment we assign moral character to a shade—declaring one superior, one inferior—we have committed an act of imagination, not observation. The color of the mind cannot be read from the surface of the skin. A mind may be brilliant or dull, kind or cruel, open or closed—and none of these qualities follows from pigmentation. Yet how many lives have been diminished by the assumption that it does? How many potential artists, philosophers, lovers, and healers have been turned away at the threshold of their own becoming? There is a particular form of freedom that comes from understanding this distinction. It is not the freedom of pretending that color does not exist—that would be a different kind of blindness. Rather, it is the freedom that comes from seeing color clearly, without flinching, while simultaneously refusing to grant it the power to determine destiny. The skin will age, will mark itself with scars and time. The body will decay. But the quality of a person's mind—their capacity for wonder, for compassion, for growth—these do not fade with age or alter with climate. These are the true inheritances. These are what we pass forward. Perhaps the deepest revolution would be this: to teach children that the color of their skin is simply one fact among infinite facts about who they are. It matters neither less nor more than the color of their eyes, the shape of their hands, the timbre of their voice. It is a truth without significance, until we choose to give it significance. But we have chosen. The world has chosen. And changing that choice—unlearning centuries of stories written in the language of skin—may be the work of generations. Until then, those who bear darker skin will know the particular exhaustion of existing in a world that has decided their color is a problem. And those who bear lighter skin will carry, whether they acknowledge it or not, the strange privilege of invisibility—their color taken as the default, the unmarked, the neutral ground against which all others are measured. The only honesty available to us is this: to see both conditions clearly, to refuse complicity with either, and to work—carefully, persistently—toward a world where the color of one's skin and the color of one's mind are finally, at last, understood to be entirely different things.


There are some people who set such store by physical beauty that I am genuinely amazed when I see it. In their eyes, anyone who is not fair-skinned is ugly and dark. And darkness, in their thinking, means inferior and worthless. But let a person have fair skin and a dark heart—and in their eyes, such a one is still good, still acceptable! This coterie includes the highly educated, the educated, the semi-educated, the barely educated, and the uneducated alike. In this regard, they achieve a remarkably ugly unanimity.

In any case, my husband's family thinks exactly the same way. They are all more or less fair-skinned. And they cannot bear anyone who is dark. Because my husband chose to marry me out of affection, they accepted me, albeit with great reluctance. Since my husband's income sustains the household, his decisions carry special weight in family matters.

Last November, my son was born. He came out very dark. My mother told me that children's skin tone continues to change for the first six months after birth. But from the moment my son was born, I heard nothing but cutting remarks from my mother-in-law and sister-in-law about his complexion. "How did this child come to be born in our family?" "He looks just as dark as his mother and grandmother!" "Oh God, my brother is so handsome—why is his son so dark?" "It was a mistake to bring a dark girl into this house!" And a thousand other such things.

They said all this right in front of me. My husband, of course, never said anything about our son's complexion, but he never objected to their remarks either. He is a man without protest, one who avoids trouble. Even when he sees his mother and sister behaving wrongly, he says nothing. And on my side, he listens quietly to my grievances without ever taking a stand for or against them. He simply says: adjust yourself. His silent role only emboldens them. With doubled enthusiasm, they continue to taunt me in every way.

Now my husband's delight in the boy knows no bounds. He behaves as if he could gladly give up his very life for this child. My son's skin is no longer dark now—you could call it dusky. What is remarkable is that seeing his father's attachment to the boy, my mother-in-law and sister-in-law no longer make such comments to me. The father's joy in the child, which was not there before, is now evident.

What does this mean? A husband's support of his wife, his standing beside her, undoubtedly strengthens her position in the family. A woman whose husband does not stand by her finds it very difficult to survive in the family. No one is more alone than such a woman.

But I am thinking of something else. When my husband allowed his family to speak such nonsense about his child, he showed no resistance then. Now, about that same child, he displays such interest, such love. Is this love not counterfeit? Why was his stance not like this then? Why did he play the role of a two-faced serpent? What kind of father is he, who cannot even take a possessive stand regarding his own child?

When I was born, my mother had to hear the very same kind of remarks and taunts. In those days, my father's role was like my husband's role. I am that father's daughter! Did my mother's sighs, by divine will, somehow fall upon me? Is this the consequence of my father's deeds? Whether it is one's own father or one's husband—are all men alike in this way?

Just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes. Is being born dark-skinned a sin, then? Does anyone have a hand in their own birth? Does anyone choose their face or the color of their skin? Is physical beauty something one must labor to acquire? And yet people take such pride in things that aren’t even their own doing—what mockery is that? If one’s own father cannot grasp such simple truths, who else will understand them? What good does it do to blame the rest of the world?

The twenty-first century is upon us. When will people finally learn to truly love one another? Those who stare at skin color—does the hue of the mind, of the intellect, never register in their vision or comprehension? A beautiful person—it should have meant a person with a beautiful soul, and yet we have twisted it into meaning a person with beautiful skin! Truly, this society does not deserve the brilliance and refinement of the human mind.

In a society where even a father’s acceptance of his own child hinges on the color of their skin, it stands to reason that the minds and intellectual growth of its women will not flourish. It is only natural.

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One response to “গায়ের রং, মনের রং”

  1. হ্যা, এমনই বর্তমান সমাজ। সাদা-কালো বিরীত ভুমিকা রাখে, সব জায়গাতেই।

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