By Altaf Parvez 

Translated from original published on Prothom Alo

The past twelve months bear an uncanny resemblance to 1972 and 1991. In our nation’s history, these two years alone share a profound commonality: the jarring transition from immense achievement and soaring expectations to the gritty reality of hard, unyielding ground beneath one’s feet. Each of these 365 days, a full year, was steeped in hope, dreams, and anticipation.

No longer can the public be urged to ‘be patient, much will come’; to believe that the administration, offices, and courts will transform, that old ways will change. Such a metamorphosis has not occurred, nor are there any signs of it. Instead, a reactive future, seemingly more entrenched, appears to be knocking at the door. The nightmare of Muradnagar lingers, and a bitter scent of vengeance hangs in the air, palpable to anyone walking the streets.

After a brief, almost exclusive focus on interviews and promotional profiles of the uprising’s fortunate few frontline organisers, one hopes the media will now pivot its attention towards the stark realities on the ground. When they do, they will discover a landscape barren of fertile crops, overgrown instead with unfamiliar, new weeds.

The declared objective of ‘Red July’ was to reduce inequality. Yet inequality is a structural beast. Captivating audiences with speeches at TSC or before foreign university professors is one thing; liberating people from the shackles of colonial laws is quite another. This cannot be achieved by merely shaking hands with the bureaucracy in the Secretariat. Transforming the state from within proves arduous; even the Bolsheviks failed at it. The state (the administration) must be brought to its knees by confronting it directly with the power of the people.

This chapter should have begun on ’36 July’. Instead, the very next day saw the opposite unfold. All potential was confined to Ramna and Motijheel. The despondent faces of private university students who, whenever encountered on the streets, simply pleaded for opportunities to contribute to nation-building. One could only hang one’s head in sorrow.

The ‘August 2024′ movement was no revolution, despite many, swayed by emotion, misleading students into believing it was. But ’36 July’ undeniably presented a revolutionary moment, forged by the martyrs. This was more than a mere regime change. People in every upazila had believed that new heroes—their own living children—would come to them, to break the oppressive administrative traditions alongside them. An unprecedented, non-violent caravan could have formed. It did not.

36 July was swallowed by 8 August. The intifada failed. The Secretariat absorbed and neutralized the very potential that had dared to challenge it. Cornwallis’s ghost, perhaps, chuckled somewhere. The media, en masse, was tasked with trampling the collective pride of the popular uprising, reduced to a hunt for ‘masterminds’.

The core philosophy of 2024 was state reform to end disparity. In this country, the farmers, labourers, poor, urchins, indigenous and women are the most severely affected by inequality. In the past 8,760 hours, what fundamental steps have we seen to alter their fortunes? Of the numerous commissions formed over the last year, the agricultural sector remained excluded. Initially, there was no commission for labourers either. Later, one was formed, and a remarkable 445-pages report was submitted—followed by a deafening silence. There is no discussion, no debate, anywhere regarding any recommendations on the labour sector.

With what achievements will the poor, minority, and hill tracts indigenous communities, along with other marginalised groups, celebrate the first anniversary of the popular uprising? What have they been given? In the interim, secularism was even dropped from the constitution. Like a lone crow at a holy site, one occasionally scours newspapers, searching for any discussion within the National Consensus Commission’s platform that might genuinely benefit farmers. Has any force from the uprising ever even raised a question on agriculture there? Has the primary demand of workers—a national minimum wage—ever made it onto the agenda of the Consensus Commission’s debates? Were these not the most crucial reform questions for millions of working people?

For many years, the annual wage increase for workers has lagged behind inflation. If annual increments are in single digits while food prices rise in double digits, economic calculations show that the consumption of millions of labourers is decreasing. If someone’s real wages continue to fall like this for 10-15 years, what prevails in their kitchen? Has the new government managed to alter this structural system, which impoverishes millions of workers, even slightly? Have student leaders ever stood before the Jamuna demanding such changes?

We praise New York mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani for his promises to raise taxes on the wealthy to provide free bus services and affordable flats for the poor. But why could our student leadership and the uprising’s government not achieve something similar in this budget? Those student leaders who became government advisors, who, after the uprising, became directors and director-generals, sitting at the helm of departments and directorates—all of you bore the seal of the popular uprising. Why, despite the allure of Facebook likes and shares, could you not deliver something for the marginalised? Even with the administration, police, and the vivid memory of women’s incredible participation in the uprising at your disposal, on 16 May, when women gathered for a solidarity rally to demand their rights, they were branded ‘prostitutes’. Representatives of the student leadership, sworn to bring change, even spoke at anti-women’s commission rallies. Frontline anti-autocracy activists like Umama, Tasnuva, and Zara were not spared online harassment. Mob violence and anonymous lawsuits now sow terror across villages and cities.

Mobs and lawsuits have become a new political economy for various nascent syndicates. In this manner, the revolutionary moment of 36 July has bled, little by little, over 365 days. There has been no room for pluralism.

Meanwhile, student leaders formed a political party. For five decades, the people of Bangladesh have witnessed party-dominated, democracy-deficient political structures. They yearned for new talent and competition in politics, free from such party and dynastic control. Consequently, curiosity and goodwill towards the NCP knew no bounds. Yet, the party’s central leadership has so far failed to overcome its organisational and political ambiguity. They lack their own political manifesto, and there are myriad opinions among their workers regarding the state’s objectives. With such ambiguity, advancing the unfinished work of hundreds of martyrs proves arduous. Nevertheless, they are unwilling to relinquish the agency of the popular uprising.

An election looms. The BNP and others are subtly hinting that the students’ party is a ‘King’s Party’. To avoid this accusation, Nahid Islam set a laudable precedent by resigning from his advisory position. But what about advisors Mahfuz Alam and Asif Mahmud? Do they have any involvement with the NCP, or not? Will the party issue a clearer statement on this matter? Since its inception, another major point of contention regarding the student party has been its stance on the Liberation War. Many within the NCP have repeatedly spoken in favour of upholding the spirit of the Liberation War. Some have even called for forgiveness for the 1971 war criminals. Yet, at a rally organised by the same party to demand a ban on the Awami League, unknown individuals chanted, ‘In Ghulam Azam’s Bengal—no place for Awami League’. This attempt to leverage the League’s misrule to suppress the memory of ’71 has not only increased confusion about the new party, its cadres, and its political future but has also driven a nail into the image of the popular uprising.

Various right-wing forces have exploited the student leadership and the interim government, causing a sharp decline in the latter’s popularity. But did the government and its ’employers’ genuinely intend to build a different Bangladesh? Did they want to stop these forces? The past twelve months offer little strong evidence of this. Consequently, like in 1972 and 1991, we are once again tucking all our aspirations back into our breast pockets.

People, after all, are only as great as their dreams. For centuries, Bengal has simply hoped and waited for Nuruldins. Perhaps in a dark full moon, across a desolate courtyard, someone will issue a new call; perhaps from the body of silence, a new sound, a whistle, will rise again! Perhaps grieving mothers will once again sacrifice many of their beloved children for the nation! For the desire for liberation, alas, never dies.

Altaf Parvez is a writer and a researcher.