When symbols, memory and interpretations of history dominate in the governance of a country rather than policy, economics or practical administrative decisions, the meaningful world of symbols and signs becomes an arena of intense political contestation. There can be no vacuum here—especially in moments of rapid transition. Over the past decade and a half, portraits, statues and unidirectional historical narratives built with state funds have functioned everywhere as a kind of “consent-manufacturing machine”.

During the mass uprising of 2024, this costly mural culture was confronted by fast, spray-painted graffiti. Its language was different—one that polite society does not easily comprehend. At the same time, the raw energy of rap music, Awaaz Uda, effectively overwhelmed many official narrative machines. Meme culture joined this assemblage.

Four decades ago, Bangladesh’s avant-garde writers, the little magazine movement, new waves of cinema and advertising agencies variously popularised colloquial speech in opposition to standardised Bangla and the Kolkata-centric “bhadralok” idiom. At one point, under social pressure, there were even attempts to ban “Banglish” in advertising. That language politics has since shifted hands again and arrived with a new generation, in the form of graffiti that neither “care” nor recognise anyone.