The World Is My Country and I Am the Global Citizen

There are moments in life when we begin to truly understand who we are—not through labels assigned by birth, but through the choices we make, the questions we ask, the truths we embrace. For me, that self-awareness has always whispered a single truth: “I am different.” My lifestyle, my thought process, my creative expression, and the way I lead my life have never followed the straight lines of societal convention where I live in. Instead, they have always drawn arcs that reach beyond borders.

Like German philosopher Immanuel Kant and his ‘theory of moderation’, I embody temperance in all aspects of life—in speech, in eating, in movement, and in everything. I do nothing in excess. This sense of moderation is a principle I nurture in every stage and state of life. In this one life, I have only wished to be a ‘tree’ and a ‘tranquil river’. And that is precisely how I choose to live.

Above everything else, I try to drink life to the fullest—to understand how life can be made meaningful, how I can remain relevant to time itself. I harbor no envy or malice toward anyone, and I am in competition with no one. The only competition I engage in is with myself—how to continually surpass who I was yesterday. Despite countless criticisms, complaints, and shortcomings pointed out by others, I chose to place myself at the center. I do what give me joy. Because I know this truth well: apart from myself, I have ‘no one’. Therefore, at any cost, I must keep myself well. I also know this harsh truth: even among many, I am alone. That is why, I must become ‘indispensable’ to myself.

I do not deviate from my ideals even by an inch. Obstacles come in many forms, yet perhaps because I remain honest and ethical, none of them can overpower me. I carry no grievance from anyone. Even those who, without any reason, acted with malice—trying to harm me, wounding me in different ways—I have forgiven them all without any condition. Because vengeance has no place in my life. Even at my own loss, I have tried to remain good to people. I have never harbored the intention to harm anyone; if possible, I try to be of some help. For life, to me, is very short—shorter than we usually believe. That is why, in every moment, I try to savor it impeccably.

I read books from across civilizations—from the mystical verses of Rumi to the searing clarity of James Baldwin, from the humanism of Rabindranath Tagore to the post-colonial insights of Chinua Achebe, from the defiant voice of Arundhati Roy to the existential depth of Albert Camus. I listen to voices—not just from parliaments and press rooms, but from the footnotes of history, from refugee camps, underground poetry cafes, and tribal oral traditions.

I drink Darjeeling tea with the same reverence I’d offer to Turkish çay, Moroccan mint or a humble cup brewed by a roadside vendor in Dhaka, Chattogram or Feni. I embrace languages—not as symbols of dominance or identity, but as the intimate music of the human soul. Whether it is Bengali, German, Spanish or French, every tongue carries with it a universe of experience.

In our country, intellectual pursuit is often undervalued—at times even seen as a burden. Neither the state nor the society has yet learned how to truly appreciate or welcome intellectualism. Simply because I am a writer, I have gathered many enemies—both known and unknown. Not because I have harmed anyone, but because the success and shine of my writing. And just for this, many choose to distance themselves, to sideline me, to push me into a corner. Yet I believe this with all my heart: even in solitude, I am powerful. And I have always carried this quiet conviction within me: “Without you, I am more.” I just read a lot. And I have fascination for words. It is fair to say that I am besotted with words. I love them impeccably. Words attract me as honey allures bees. I make it a ritual to learn a new word every day—a small act of expanding my universe.

Many may ask: Why do I write?

My humble answer in this regard is: “I write for the same reason that a tree gives oxygen. And I write to save someone’s life, probably my own.” Writing is my only bread and butter. I survive by writing; I live through it. I am one of the most highly paid writers of my time at home and abroad. Even if others fail to recognize my worth, I know exactly how valuable I am. And perhaps most profoundly, my writing has crossed my country’s borders. People from across the world—scholars, readers, diplomats, mass people—read, reflect, and respond to my writing. Even the Secretary-General of the United Nations has read and acknowledged my writings. That, to me, is not just recognition—it is belonging, it is denoting globalism. And so I say it clearly and with conviction: “The world is my country and I am the global citizen.”

Though this idea might seem modern or idealistic, it is, in truth, deeply historical. The desire to belong to humanity before belonging to a nation is as ancient as philosophy itself. The Greek thinker Diogenes of Sinope, when asked where he came from, famously replied, “I am a citizen of the world.” In that ancient time when people clung tightly to city-state identities, Diogenes dared to propose a wider form of belonging—one rooted in moral responsibility rather than tribal affiliation.

Centuries later, during the Enlightenment era, Thomas Paine—the revolutionary writer who helped ignite the American and French revolutions—wrote: “The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.” Paine was a man of conscience, crossing oceans and borders in pursuit of justice. He understood that ethical truth does not wear a flag. Closer to home, Rabindranath Tagore, the first non-European Nobel laureate, resisted the rising tide of militant nationalism. In his essay “Nationalism”, Tagore argued for “universal man”—a being who could live deeply rooted in one’s culture while simultaneously reaching out to embrace all others. For Tagore, real patriotism was never about hostility toward others; it was about harmony with humanity.

These were not idle thinkers. They were revolutionaries in spirit—people who lived and suffered for the ideals they preached. I do not compare myself to them. But I walk humbly in their path. They shaped a lineage of borderless consciousness that I find myself walking in today.

Some may question: do I not love my country or not cherishing patriotism, do I not think about it? The truth is, I nurture patriotism within me every single moment. I constantly reflect on and work toward what is positive and beneficial for the nation. That is why my writings often highlight issues like corruption, crises, irregularities, sovereignty, and geopolitics—while also exploring the paths toward a more just, beautiful and prosperous future.

In this context, I seem it is relevant to share an incident: when I was a student of Class Ten, one of my teachers asked me what my ambition was. I said with the naive modesty of youth: “To do something for Bangladesh”. And I firmly believe that one can contribute to their own country’s progress even as a global citizen.

What does it mean—truly mean—to be a global citizen?

To me, it means thinking beyond identity politics, beyond sectarian divisions, and beyond nationalistic pride that blinds us to universal suffering. It means realizing that a child in Gaza, a farmer in Sudan, a poet in Sarajevo and a student in Dhaka are not “others.” They are mirrors of ourselves. My fashion is freedom—freedom from consumerist conformity, and freedom to express myself as a citizen of all cultures, not imprisoned by any single one. I don’t measure success by how high I rise within a local pyramid, but by how deeply I connect with the world’s shared truths.

Being a global citizen is not about detachment—it is about deep attachment to the whole world. It’s about acknowledging our shared fate in a world where a virus in one region can lock down the world, and a melting glacier in the Arctic can drown homes in Bangladesh. It is about refusing to be silent when a war criminal walks free, even if the war is not on our soil. The pain of people across the world is interconnected. When a journalist is imprisoned in Myanmar, I feel the pang. When a protester is shot in Sudan, I mourn. When a girl is denied education in Afghanistan, it shakes my conscience.

As a writer, I do not write for applause. I write to build bridges. My metaphors are not patriotic cages—they are wings, carrying ideas across continents. When someone in Kenya or Canada, Serbia or Syria reads and resonates with my words, I do not feel like I have “exported” my voice. I feel as though I have listened to theirs.

The dominant political order in the modern world was built on the Westphalian system, which in 1648 established the idea of nation-states as the primary political units of the world. But while the idea of sovereignty was useful in organizing governance, it inadvertently hardened borders of identity. It created an “us” and “them,” a framework that continues to justify exclusion, war, and neglect. But the 21st century demands a rethinking of this logic. The climate crisis doesn’t need a visa to cross borders. Pandemics, like COVID-19, reminded us brutally that what happens in one corner of the world can change lives everywhere. A drone strike in Yemen can radicalize a youth in London. A wildfire in the Amazon affects air quality in Asia. We are entangled—biologically, politically, morally.

To be a global citizen is to acknowledge this entanglement. It is to realize that a Syrian refugee deserves as much safety as a Wall Street banker. That a Malawian farmer facing drought has as much right to water as a Canadian entrepreneur. Global citizenship is not about being neutral; it is about being just, even when justice is inconvenient. In this digital age, the world has become smaller, but not necessarily kinder. While we can connect across continents in seconds, digital borders and censorship are now the new weapons of control. Platforms meant to liberate voices are often controlled by a handful of corporations or states.

As a global citizen, I am conscious of this tension. I write not only to express, but to expose—not just to communicate, but to connect people in the pursuit of justice. My readers may come from different creeds, ideologies or time zones, but the conversation is shared. And the consciousness that emerges from those conversations is far more powerful than any nuclear weapons.

Living as a global citizen is not always celebrated. Whenever I introduce myself or express my identity as a ‘global citizen’, many people mock or laugh at me. Just a few days ago, I posted a photograph of mine on my social media account with this caption, and it drew ridicule from several people. Many people find comfort in binaries: East or West, Muslim-Hindus or Christians, black or white, rich or poor, “us” and “them.” I do not fit neatly into those boxes or brackets. I believe in “liberal humanism.” And often, that has meant solitude here.

However, it is a solitude filled with meaning. It is the solitude of the mountaintop—not the prison cell. And every now and then, I find others walking this same lonely path—poets, writers, artists, thinkers, intellectuals, lovers of peace—and we recognize one another not by accent or attire, but by intention. In a world increasingly fragmented by political extremism, racism and xenophobia, I find peace in difference. I do not seek to blend in, but to stand out—not for the sake of ego, but for the sake of meaning. My lifestyle is built around meaningness, mindfulness and openness. I choose what I wear, read, speak and eat not based on trends or tribalism, but on values and curiosity. 

People often tell me that what I have achieved in this seemingly brief life is a dream that remains unfulfilled for many even in an entire lifetime. I have devoted myself to the pursuit of knowledge. Every day, I spend most of my time immersing in reading and writing.

As I write this, I am surrounded by books from different continents, a cup of tea grown in the hills of another, and thoughts inspired by people I have never met. Yet I feel rooted. I feel home. Because for me: home is not where you are born, but where you belong. I do not belong to one country, and yet I belong to all. I am not less Bangladeshi for loving the world—I am more human because of it. This planet, with all its pain and poetry, is my home.

When others define themselves with castes, creeds, religions, walls, weapons, or war cries, I define myself by bridges—of empathy, knowledge, justice, love and humanity. The world is my country. Humanity is my race. Peace is my religion. And I am—proudly and irreversibly—a global citizen.


Emran Emon is an eminent
journalist, columnist and global 
affairs analyst. He can be reached
at [email protected]