Moshiur Rahman
Finding My Focus in Two Passions
I often reflect on how a life in business led me to two unlikely teachers: golf and photography. As the Chief Executive of Paragon Group, I am fully occupied in business operation & expansion. But from my young age, I found solace and inspiration in these two passions. In the 1990s, while expanding our family business into new ventures, I also picked up a golf club and a camera. What started as hobbies soon became lifelines. On the golf course, I learned the art of patience and precision; through the camera lens, I learned to truly observe the world around me. These pursuits are a counterbalance to boardroom pressures, teaching me lessons that no business school or strategy meeting ever could. Little did I know that chasing a small white ball across the greens and chasing light in remote wildernesses would both shape my philosophy in profound ways.
My earliest memories of photography are entwined with nature. In my boyhood, I borrowed my father’s old film camera to capture the fleeting beauty of a sunset or the vibrant chaos of Dhaka’s streets. Similarly, my introduction to golf came at the Kurmitola Golf Club in Dhaka – early mornings watching experienced golfers line up their drives amidst the misty fairways. I was hooked by the calm focus they exuded. Over time, I realized the golfer’s mindfulness and the photographer’s eye for detail are kindred spirits. Both require discipline, a steady hand, and the ability to envision the result before it happens. I carried those twin passions quietly as I built my career. In board meetings I’d catch myself recalling the stillness of a golf green at dawn or the memory of perfect golden light filtering through forest leaves.
From the Amazon to Antarctica: Adventures in the Wild
Years later, I finally gave free rein to my wanderlust. I slung my camera over my shoulder and set out to see some of the planet’s most remote corners. One of the first great adventures I undertook was into the heart of the Amazon rainforest. Nothing quite prepares you for the Amazon’s immensity – a living, breathing tapestry of green that stretches farther than the eye can see. As I navigated a rusty boat down a coffee-colored tributary at sunrise, the forest around me came alive with sound. The soft morning light filtered through the dense canopy, illuminating tendrils of mist and revealing every shade of green imaginable. In those quiet hours, I often felt like I was inside a giant cathedral of nature. I remember pausing, camera in hand, as a pair of macaws burst from the trees overhead in a flash of red and blue.
The Amazon is home to an astonishing biodiversity – an estimated 2.5 million insect species and thousands of plants, birds, and mammals call it home. From toucans and scarlet macaws to sloths and the elusive jaguar, every hike presented a chance for an once-in-a-lifetime photo.
Of course, photography in the Amazon had its challenges. The air was heavy with 90% humidity; I learned to protect my equipment from sudden tropical downpours and the onslaught of moisture. Under the canopy, light was scarce, pushing my camera and my skills to their limits. I often had to use a high ISO and wide aperture to capture a darting poison dart frog or a curious capuchin monkey in the dim understory. Outside the forest, the tropical sun was intense – I quickly understood why experts recommend a polarizing filter for jungle photography. There were days I returned to camp with leech bites on my legs, clothes soaked in sweat, and not a single good photo to show – yet oddly, I felt content.
The patience and observation the rainforest demanded of me were their own rewards. I learned to stay still for hours, attuned to the faintest rustle of leaves that might signal a creature’s approach. In those moments of quiet observation, I felt the same centering of the mind that I do when standing over a crucial putt, blocking out everything but the task at hand. As one ecotourism guide aptly noted, “Photography in the Amazon presents unique challenges, from humidity and changing light to the presence of wild animals… Patience and observation are key to capture authentic and memorable images.” Indeed, the jungle taught me to slow down and wait for nature to reveal its magic on its own terms – a lesson any golfer who has waited for the right moment to strike the ball can appreciate.
To the End of the Earth: The Polar Expeditions
My journey in photography eventually carried me to the literal ends of the earth – the North Pole and the South Pole. As a Bangladeshi who grew up in the tropics, stepping into the polar world was like landing on another planet.
In the Arctic, I joined an expedition cruise, sailing through a world of ice and light in the high Arctic summer. We navigated past towering icebergs and through fields of sea ice under the midnight sun – a surreal experience where the sun never really set, casting a 24-hour golden hour glow. One clear midnight, as our ship edged towards 90° North, I stood on deck with my camera and felt a shiver (not just from the cold) realizing we were approaching that abstract point where all longitude lines converge at the top of the world.
Unlike Antarctica’s solid landmass, the North Pole has no land – it’s a drifting sheet of ice over the Arctic Ocean. When I disembarked onto the crunchy pack ice, it struck me that I was standing on nothing more than a fleeting raft of frozen sea. The sense of impermanence was profound. I recall kneeling to photograph the crystalline patterns in the ice and the infinite Arctic sky mirrored in a pool of meltwater. The Arctic taught me a valuable lesson in humility and respect: some moments are meant to be observed, not chased. Much like knowing when to play safe on a difficult hole, sometimes in photography you choose not to pursue the shot aggressively – for the safety of yourself and the subject.
My Antarctic expedition, on the other end of the planet, was equally life-changing. Traveling from the bustling warmth of Bangladesh to the frigid wilderness of Antarctica is a study in contrasts. After a long journey via South America, I finally found myself on a small ship cutting through the Drake Passage, braving rough seas to reach the Antarctic Peninsula. The first sight of Antarctica’s coastline will forever be etched in my mind: a horizon of white-blue glaciers and snow-capped peaks rising straight out of the ocean, shining in the austral summer sun. I felt like an early explorer arriving at an untouched world.
Setting foot on the continent, I was filled with a mix of triumph and reverence – few Bangladeshis, or indeed humans, have the chance to walk on this last great wilderness. I remember hiking up a ridge on Snow Hill Island, my boots crunching in deep snow, to visit a colony of emperor penguins. Hundreds of these dignified birds stood huddled against the wind, some with adorable fluffy chicks at their feet. I sat down a safe distance away and simply watched for a while, awed by how these creatures thrive where life seems impossible. Eventually I raised my camera and captured frames of penguin parents waddling in unison, set against a backdrop of endless ice. In that moment I felt pure joy – the kind that wells up when you witness something truly rare and beautiful.
Antarctica assaulted the senses in the best possible way. The silence was immense, broken only by the crack of ice or the distant cry of a penguin. The scale of everything was humbling: icebergs as large as cathedrals drifted by, and volcano-like mountain peaks disappeared into the clouds. I took photos of clumps of hardy moss on rocky outcrops, realizing even the smallest life is precious in this extreme environment.
The challenges of photographing in Antarctica were plenty – the bitter cold meant I had to tape chemical hand-warmers around my camera to keep the battery from dying, and operating fine dials with thick gloves was comical at times. But the rewards were indescribable. One golden evening, I witnessed a huge group of elephant seals sprawled on a beach, backlit by the low sun. Two massive bulls reared up and bellowed at each other, their silhouettes spraying mist in the amber light. I clicked away, heart pounding – scenes like this feel almost prehistoric.
Standing at the South Pole itself was a special highlight. We took a small propeller plane to 90° South, landing at the Amundsen-Scott Station. Stepping out at the South Pole marker, I felt the weight of history and geography converge. All 360 lines of longitude meet at that single point, and in a few paces, you can quite literally walk around the world. I posed for a photo with the Bangladeshi flag there – a moment of personal pride – but it was the inner experience that overwhelmed me. The thin air (at that altitude the South Pole feels like over 3,000m elevation) and the piercing cold took my breath away, but so did the realization that I was standing at the bottom of the planet. In the deafening quiet, I offered a silent prayer of thanks for the journey that brought me here. It was the culmination of a dream, and it filled me with gratitude and a renewed sense of responsibility toward our planet. Not many get to see what I have seen; I felt an obligation to share these stories and images, to inspire others to cherish this fragile world.
Patience, Precision, and the Links Between
By the time I returned from the poles, I had a deeper understanding of why I was drawn to both golf and photography. On the surface, one is a sport and the other an art, but to me they have always been two sides of the same coin. Both pursuits reward the virtues of discipline, patience, and keen observation. In golf, a moment’s distraction can ruin a shot; in wildlife photography, a moment’s hesitation can mean missing the perfect shot. Conversely, a well-practiced swing and a well-practiced eye can both produce magic – a ball arcing perfectly towards the pin, or a photograph that captures an animal in all its glory. I’ve often thought of a golf round as a series of snapshots: each hole is a new scene, a fresh challenge requiring full focus. Similarly, each photograph is like a single hole – you plan it, execute it, and sometimes you get it exactly right, sometimes you don’t. And in both, you have to accept the outcome with grace and move on to the next opportunity.
Perhaps the strongest link between my two passions is humility. Golf is a humbling game – no matter how skilled you are, there will be days you duff every drive or lip-out every putt. Photography in nature is equally humbling – you are at the mercy of your subject and environment. The tiger doesn’t show up on cue; the aurora hides behind clouds; your camera settings aren’t perfect and that award-worthy shot comes out blurry. Both golf and photography taught me to embrace failure as a teacher. A bad round pushes me to practice more, just as a missed photo pushes me to improve my technique or simply be more patient next time. Over the years, I’ve learned that patience isn’t passive; it’s an active state of readiness. Whether I’m standing over a slippery downhill putt or silently waiting in a bird hide for hours, I enter a focused zone, alert but calm. This mental state – almost meditative – is one of the greatest gifts these hobbies have given me. It spills over into my work and personal life, helping me remain composed under pressure and attentive to the little details that matter. Another common thread is respect. Golf, at its core, is a game of honor and respect – for the rules, for your fellow players, and for the course itself. I’ve always loved that golfers call penalties on themselves and repair their divots; it’s about leaving things better than you found them. In photography, especially nature photography, respect for the subject and environment is paramount.
I never want to disturb an animal just to get a shot. Often, I’ve admonished eager companions to keep their distance from wildlife or to tread lightly on fragile terrain. My travels reinforced this ethic: witnessing the pristine beauty of a polar ice field or an untouched rainforest made me more determined to do my part in preserving them. I’ve come to see conservation as another extension of respect – much like replacing a divot, we need to mend and care for the natural world that sustains us.
Bringing It Home: Nurturing Golf and Beyond
After experiencing so much of the world’s beauty through my lens, I also felt a stronger urge to give back to my own community. In Bangladesh, I’ve been fortunate to be in a position to support the development of golf – a sport still growing in popularity here. Years ago, my wife Yasmin and I helped establish an annual professional golf tournament in Dhaka, aiming to provide local talents with a platform to compete. That event, the Paragon Open, has now been held multiple times, and it fills me with pride to see how far our golfers have come. I still recall the delight on everyone’s faces when Bangladesh’s premier golfer.
