The budget of my first feature film is approximately 25 million taka. Of that amount, nearly 8 million taka has come as a grant from the Lithuanian Ministry of Culture — from a country where I am not a legal citizen; in my own words, I am effectively a Rohingya there. Yet in my own country, Bangladesh, I have still not been able to submit a single project to the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting. This is not because of a lack of ideas or preparation, but because of logistics. Even today, the burden of printing 10–12 physical copies of documents, carrying them by hand, and moving from office to office within ministries is overwhelming enough to stop the process before it begins.
According to the most recent national film grant circular issued by the Bangladesh government, applicants are still required to submit twelve printed copies of their proposals. Each copy must include the full script, production plan, and detailed lists of cast and crew. A 90-minute film requires a minimum of 90 pages of script; with the additional documentation, the proposal easily reaches 150 pages. Multiplied by twelve, the total comes to 1,800 pages of paper. One is left wondering whether we are still administratively held captive by the British.
This contrast is not simply about the economic gap between two countries; it reflects two fundamentally different ideas of the state. In one country, I work within a system where my project file itself testifies to my competence, where interviews are conducted entirely online, and where I have never once met, in person, those who evaluated my work. In the other — my own country — one must still physically carry thick paper files from ministry to ministry, as if work cannot begin until its existence is proven by weight. Even after changes in government, this culture has proven difficult to dismantle.
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In most parts of the world, cinema falls under the Ministry of Culture, as part of a larger cultural ecosystem. Across Europe, film funds, tax incentives, and co-production frameworks are administered by cultural ministries or their affiliated institutions. Cinema is treated as cultural capital — an extension of freedom of expression, collective memory, history, and plurality. In Bangladesh, cinema is placed under the Ministry of “Information”. And here, information very clearly means information control.
The country’s history makes this explicit. Cinema has long been used as a tool of propaganda — as a vehicle for disseminating the state’s narrative, not for questioning it. The absence of the word “culture” in the ministry’s name is not accidental; it is a policy statement. Cinema here is expected to deliver messages, not raise questions. The long history of censorship — under labels such as “obscenity”, “morality”, and “values”, often centred on women’s clothing — makes this mindset clear. We have yet to move beyond regulating what women wear; expecting freedom in artistic language remains a distant prospect. The same mentality operates within the grant system, where art is not treated as a civic right but as a form of controlled legitimacy.
In Lithuania, the entire film funding process — application, evaluation, contracting, and auditing — is conducted through digital platforms. Applications are assessed in two stages: first, administrative compliance; then, qualitative evaluation by an independent panel of experts. The scores awarded, final results, and grant amounts are published on a public website. This practice is not merely about transparency; it is an acknowledgement that this is public money, and that every cent will be audited — not only at the level of the producer, but also at the level of the state.
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In Bangladesh’s recent grant processes, there have been signs of reform: announcements about selection through presentations, references to international scoring standards, and similar initiatives. But while much of the world has moved to digital submission, online evaluation, and public disclosure, we remain at a stage where applicants must still submit twelve printed copies by hand. This is not just a technological delay; it is a question of mindset. We assign greater importance to the file than to the content. Administrative anxiety — “Is the file in order?” — often overshadows the director’s ideas, research, and willingness to take creative risks. As a result, many filmmakers fail at the very beginning, not because their ideas are weak, but because they are exhausted by the form-filling process.
In our society, there exists an unwritten hierarchy of prestige associated with being the “first Bangladeshi” to achieve something. And yet, returning home or even sharing such news online feels tiring. One begins to wonder how much longer one can keep talking about oneself. At times, it feels like speaking English to farmers and day labourers simply because one has learned a new language; a distance inevitably remains.
This stems from the peculiar equation between education, economy, and social status in Bangladesh. We have built a society where the value of education is almost entirely tied to certificates, government jobs, and administrative authority. Knowledge itself carries little social value unless it brings one closer to power. This is why the country that emerged from a language movement now sees its youth mobilising primarily for government jobs. Social respect, stability, and security are concentrated there.
News of rape, road accidents, declining law and order, or mob violence barely shakes us anymore. Our illiteracy has become so institutionalised that even the phrase “bringing glory to the nation” feels uncomfortable to someone like me. If loyalty to power is the nation’s core value, can creative achievement truly be described as national pride?
This is why bureaucrats, labourers, politicians, media figures, teachers, and researchers alike seek proximity to power. The shorter the distance from power, the greater the social recognition. Power is the only language that everyone here understands — and knows how to applaud. Seen from outside the country, it becomes clear that systemic change will not be easy. The minimum culture of recognition required for transformation simply does not exist. A society that cannot learn to appreciate cannot grow. Many adolescents and young adults drop out midway — not because they lack talent, but because choosing one’s own path in education or work is treated as a social transgression.
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The Lithuanian Film Centre treats its grants as public money and therefore structures the process to be competitive and transparent. My project received the highest score, and that information was published on its official website. This matters more than my personal success; it reflects a policy practice in which even a foreign applicant can clearly see the criteria by which they were evaluated. Every cent of this grant must be spent on making the film, with each line item audited. Making a film does not mean putting money into one’s own pocket; it means transforming public money into public content.
This clarity of policy is how Lithuania is gradually carving out a place in global culture — small population, small economy, but clear principles. My expectation is simple: a sustainable and transparent policy that does not revolve around relatives, neighbours, friends, or quotas, but around fairness and merit. When a policy is genuinely sound, its benefits cross borders. I, a Bangladeshi, am benefiting today from Lithuania’s transparency. If Bangladesh were to adopt such policies, perhaps one day I could stand in a foreign film institution and say, with pride, that I received funding from Bangladesh.
Until then, I leave behind a few proposals that could help transform the film landscape in Bangladesh. All government film grants should move to 100 per cent online submission and evaluation, eliminating the need for physical copies entirely. Cinema should be transferred from the Ministry of Information to the Ministry of Culture and treated as an essential part of freedom of expression. Scoring criteria, expert panels, and awarded scores should be published on public websites so that artists can clearly understand where they stand. A dedicated “Diaspora Film Fund” should be established for Bangladeshi filmmakers working abroad, enabling them to use their international experience to develop new cinematic vocabularies for telling local stories. Finally, media literacy should be made mandatory within the education system, so that young people learn to view cinema not merely as entertainment or propaganda, but as a platform for critical thinking.
A country is, at its core, a place for storytelling. When my film is complete, I hope to say once again that I have done something as a “first Bangladeshi”. But I want that story to be not only about my personal achievement, but about a country that has slowly learned that appreciation is not a luxury — it is a fundamental social infrastructure.
