Mirza Fakhrul Islam Alamgir, the minister of local government, rural development and co-operatives, recently expressed his frustration at the prevailing state of governance, saying, “In my four-five months of experience as a minister, I have realised that nothing has changed. Those who used to take bribes are still devising ways to do so, and those who used to obstruct good initiatives are continuing to obstruct them.” This frank admission captures a painful truth about how the post-July uprising era is playing out.
Let us take a step back here. From 1952 to 1971, from 1990 to 2024—every turning point in our history has been marked by the sacrifice of countless people. Why do people shed blood? What compels them to endure unimaginable suffering and even embrace death? Surely it is in the hope for a fair and just society, where people’s rights will be protected, the state and its institutions will be accountable, and hard-earned change will not be limited to only power changing hands.
But what are witnessing today transcends economic and governance concerns. The very people who had stood shoulder to shoulder in July-August 2024, responding to the call of protesting students and refusing to compromise on their demands for rights and reform, now stand divided. The unity that once was their driving force is beginning to fracture, forcing us to ask whether, after so many sacrifices made, so much blood shed, and so many dreams nurtured, we have been able to prepare the foundations for the change we so longed for.
I remember reading a story by Principal Ibrahim Khan, where, during a devastating flood, when people were forced to abandon their homes in search of safety, the character of Boro Mia was carefully loading his belongings onto a boat. Then, facing the same reality, rats, snakes, and other creatures also quietly climbed aboard, none attacking each other until they reached safety. In the face of disaster, they all recognised a singular goal: surviving. We witnessed something similar in real life during the devastating floods of 2024, when reports emerged of people sharing a shelter with snakes and other animals. In times of catastrophe, nature imparts on us a profound lesson—that in the face of a common threat, our differences become secondary, and survival becomes the only priority.
The July mass uprising reflected that same spirit. Men and women, those in burqas and those without, individuals from different political beliefs, social backgrounds, and identities all took to the streets together. Two years ago, no one questioned another person’s attire, identity, or ideology because we were all united towards a common goal. But the moment we felt that the danger had passed, we drifted back into our old divisions. Debates erupted about who had belonged to which camp before, who shouted out the loudest slogans, who posted what on social media, or whose contribution measured higher. The tallying of achievements has become the most important thing. As if we have become free of every crisis. As if there is nothing left to achieve together.
What we fail to realise is that it is this very competition for recognition that is weakening us. History demonstrates how great achievements are often destroyed not by external enemies, but by internal divisions. That is why preserving the unity that once transformed us into a powerful collective matters far more today than placing garlands of glory around our own necks.
To me, the spirit of 1971 and 2024 represents the ideas of social dignity, justice, and freedom from discrimination. That is why I oppose attempts to stop Mohan Raihan from reciting his poetry. For the same reason, I condemn the unlawful intrusion into the private life of former Jamaat leader and MP Gazi Nazrul. I also oppose the public humiliation of anyone simply because they privately support Awami League. Likewise, I condemn the harassment of AB Party leader Asaduzzaman Fuad in Babuganj, Barishal.
An act of injustice must be named as such, no matter who commits it. It is precisely in pursuit of the right and courage to speak this truth that people have made supreme sacrifices from 1971 to 2024. We rejected Hasina’s rule because people were forcibly disappeared, violence was unleashed indiscriminately, false cases were routinely filed, and inequalities widened across society. Yet, sadly, that culture of repression and discrimination has not disappeared afterwards. Once, people used to be branded as “Jamaat-Shibir.” Today, they are labelled “Awami/fascist collaborators.” This tendency of tagging is detrimental to our unity. A democratic state cannot allow people to be shamed or punished outside the law by assigning them a political label.
The question is: why are the cases against the principal July perpetrators not moving forward more decisively through the legal process? If there are specific allegations against anyone, legal action must follow without delay. Punishment should be proportional to the crime committed. Justice must rely on evidence, and not be guided by the political identity of the accused. Let there be thorough investigations, and let justice be done. That said, is it unreasonable to expect a democratic society to remain humane and tolerant in its political and social spheres? Have we forgotten that the martyrs did not lay down their lives so that we could replace one cycle of hatred and revenge with another? They sacrificed so that we could move towards a peaceful, dignified, and just society. How much longer will we continue to nurture these needless divisions and this culture of vengeance? We must seek freedom from every form of oppression and injustice.
It is true, however, that over the past years, a section of poets, writers, journalists and academics openly aligned themselves with and flattered the Awami League in ways that were deeply unacceptable. Their intellectual surrender to political power and willingness to legitimise injustice harmed society. If anyone once again uses their professional identity as a shield while acting as an unquestioning servant of a new political order, discerning sections of the public will surely recognise them for what they really are.
But in resisting one form of injustice, we must not become defenders of another. In opposing authoritarianism, we must not normalise authoritarian behaviour ourselves. At this moment, what we need most is a shared sense of responsibility. Not revenge, but justice. Not divisions based on political identity, but rather equal application of the law. The unity that once gave us the strength to stand together must not be weakened by our own actions. We still have a long way to go. There is much to be done. Let’s bring back our unity to finish the task of rebuilding our society.
Emran Mahfuz is a poet and convener of Abul Mansur Ahmad Smriti Parishad.
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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