A New Chapter for Bangladesh?

The Awami League has dominated Bangladeshi politics since independence. It led the Liberation War against Pakistan in 1971 and, following a period of military rule that lasted until 1990, alternated governing duties with the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) for close to two decades. After winning the 2008 general election by a landslide, however, the Awami League dragged the country toward one-party rule, retaining office in three increasingly rigged votes. Neither party has governed democratically. Yet received wisdom held that, in such a partisan environment, there were no other options. The popular uprising of the summer of 2024 proved received wisdom wrong.

“The Monsoon Revolution,” as it has come to be known, was sparked by employment quotas. Public sector jobs make up just over 3 percent of total employment in Bangladesh. But they are highly sought-after: oases of stable pay and benefits in a desert of precarity. Historically, 15 percent of state jobs have been reserved for women, hijras (a transgender community), and Adivasis (non-Bengali, non-Muslim indigenous groups). This is indeed a case of robust affirmative action. But during its first post-junta tenure (1996–2001) the Awami League set aside a further 30 percent of state jobs—including up to 80 percent of entry-level positions—for the extended families of “freedom fighters,” or veterans of the Liberation War. It introduced these reservations as a temporary measure, then expanded and codified the system after 2008, effectively using it to purchase loyalty. A small cottage industry even emerged to forge or otherwise illegally procure “freedom fighter” certificates. 

In 2013, ahead of a pivotal election, sporadic protests against the freedom fighters reservations coalesced into a small movement. But the grassroots effort was overtaken by a maelstrom of political violence: cadres of the BNP and its coalition partner, Jamaat-e-Islami, the largest Islamist party, instigated clashes against state forces in which over five hundred people were killed. In 2018 demonstrations against the freedom fighter quota rekindled in Dhaka University and spread to other campuses. Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina, who is famously temperamental, unleashed the police, Rapid Action Battalion (RAB, a paramilitary outfit which the United States government recently sanctioned), and Chhatra League and Jubo League (the party youth wings, which operate as de fact militias), on the protestors. Then she abolished the entire quota system by fiat, which was manifestly illegal. 

This was a familiar move. In the face of public pressure, Hasina often pretended to yield, passing unconstitutional decrees that could be reversed in court later. (For instance, in 2011, to appease conservative supporters, she retained Islam as a state religion after the Supreme Court had deemed that action unconstitutional; a challenge to this move has been in judicial limbo since.) The ploy has the added benefit of making her seem to stand with the common people against a recalcitrant judiciary.    

Six descendants of freedom fighters—all affiliated with the Awami League—duly petitioned the High Court, which this June reinstated the quotas. The ruling came amid record levels of youth unemployment and in the aftermath of high-level corruption scandals involving a former police chief, a former army chief, and several Awami League leaders. Students took to the streets again, with greater determination. The freedom fighter reservations, in other words, became a lightning rod for broader discontent. 

Hasina again responded truculently, calling the students enemies of the state and ordering the Awami League youth wings to harass and assault them. Matters took a drastic turn for the worse in mid-July, when she declared curfews and ordered the police, paramilitary forces, and eventually the army to attack protesters. Over twenty-two days, in perhaps the worst instance of state violence since independence, more than seven hundred people were killed and tens of thousands injured. (Both numbers are likely to rise as information comes in.) 

By late July it appeared that the movement had been smashed. But the students persisted in the face of incessant brutality and protracted telecommunications shutdowns. The tide slowly turned against Hasina. As ever more civilians joined the movement, the army retreated. On August 5 she fled to India; on August 8 an interim government assumed power.

How did the unthinkable happen? Over the past fifteen years Hasina had captured the state machinery, outlawed opposition parties, co-opted the intelligentsia, and neutered civil society. There seemed to be no space left for dissent. Yet this summer it became clear that she had failed to pacify the youth. Understanding Hasina’s fall requires revisiting the history of Bangladeshi nationalism. Having monopolized the legacy of the freedom movement, she had all but claimed a divine right to rule. But when the protestors challenged that narrative, her grip on power unraveled. 

The Bangladeshi war of independence began in March 1971, after the Awami League secured a simple majority in Pakistan’s general elections, winning 167 of 300 seats (and 160 of 162 in East Pakistan). When Islamabad rejected the results, a civil disobedience movement broke out; the ensuing clashes between the army and protesters snowballed into a full-scale guerilla war. The military killed as many as three million Bangladeshis in a genocidal campaign of counterinsurgency before the new country secured independence in December 1971. The Awami League’s leader, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, affectionately called Bangabandhu (friend of Bengal), had been imprisoned in West Pakistan during the conflict but now returned to become prime minister. He marginalized other members of the party leadership—like Tajuddin Ahmad and Syed Nazrul Islam, who had overseen the war effort—and ruled until 1975, when military officers assassinated him and most of his family as part of a coup. Only his daughter Sheikh Hasina and her younger sister, Sheikh Rehana, survived.

Military rule of one kind or another followed until 1990, when the Anti-Authoritarian Movement, led by Hasina and Khaleda Zia, head of the BNP, restored parliamentary democracy. They fought against each other in more or less competitive elections until 2006, when violent clashes between supporters of the two parties prompted President Iajuddin Ahmed to declare a state of emergency, after which the army stepped in. Elections resumed in 2008, and Hasina took office determined to capture state and civilian institutions. She exploited the quota system, filling the bureaucracy, judiciary, and law enforcement agencies with apparatchiks. At the same time, she launched a smear campaign against the BNP and Jamaat, branding them as traitors. (Jamaat leadership had collaborated with the Pakistani military in 1971.) Under the cover of fighting terrorism and anti-state activities, the Awami League disappeared, extrajudicially murdered, and indefinitely detained opposition cadres, activists, workers, and students. The BNP and Jamaat were organizationally hollowed out; they were conspicuously absent during this year’s protests. 

Hasina also set up a bespoke propaganda institution, the Centre for Research and Information (CRI), which her nephew, Radwan M. Siddiq, helmed. Her son, Sajeeb Wazed, oversaw its Young Bangla youth initiative. CRI crafted a PR strategy to rewrite the story of Bangladesh’s independence around a deified Mujibur. It co-opted a once-rebellious underground music scene by inviting artists to perform at annual Joy Bangla concerts commemorating a famous Bangabandhu speech; commissioned cartoonists to adapt his autobiography; invited filmmakers to shoot a biopic about him and a documentary on Hasina; showered writers and academics who praised the regime with prizes, research grants, and teaching positions. This cohort of artists and intellectuals were sent out to thrive in the media, much of which is controlled by conglomerates with close ties to the Awami League.

A revolving door opened between the CRI and the country’s two major NGOs, the Building Resources Across Communities (BRAC) and the JAAGO Foundation. BRAC’s executive director, Asif Saleh, and JAAGO’s founder, Korvi Rakshand Dhrubo, appeared by Hasina’s side at every opportunity and worked closely with her administration on its Sustainable Development Goals. Even local branches of foreign organizations were defanged. Under the leadership of Kazi Anis Ahmed—the publisher of the Dhaka Tribune and Bangla Tribune and the brother of a former Awami League parliamentarian—PEN Bangladesh was largely entirely silent about Hasina’s despotism. (The organization did not respond to requests to comment.)

Hasina’s rule was predicated on a close if profoundly unequal relationship with India. Prime Minister Narendra Modi unconditionally supported her at international forums and in return burdened her administration with extortionate trade and infrastructure policies. (He secured his friend, the billionaire Gautam Adani, a deal to sell electricity at inflated rates to the Bangladeshi state.) Following Modi’s reelection this May, Hasina visited Delhi twice for bilateral summits. The Bharatiya Janata Party’s demonization of Bangladeshis as terrorists and infiltrators was not on the agenda. Nor was an equitable water-sharing agreement. Instead Hasina invited Modi to establish a rail network through her country’s sovereign territory, connecting mainland India with its politically restive northeastern states, which lie on the other side of Bangladesh. (Opposition parties denounced her move.) She then visited Beijing, reportedly to secure a $5 billion loan, but returned home early and with only $140 million.

By then the quota protests were gathering steam at public universities. On July 14, at a press conference about her China trip, attempting to distract from her foreign policy failures, Hasina turned her ire on the students, labelling them “progenies of Razakars”—a derogatory term for those who collaborated with the Pakistani military in 1971. Normally such pious slander would help delegitimize protests in the eyes of civilians. But this time it did not work. The students took the term and ran with it, chanting in the streets of Dhaka, Rajshahi, Chittagong, Sylhet, and Khulna: “Who am I? Who are you? Razakar. Razakar. Says who? Says who? The dictator. The dictator.” That night they expelled the Awami League youth wings from public university campuses. 

The Awami League propaganda machine rumbled into action. The party’s general secretary, Obaidul Quader, solemnly proclaimed that its youth wings would strike against anyone insulting the Liberation War and conducting anti-state activities. Between July 16 and July 18, the Chhatra League and Jubo League militias, police, and RAB put the protesters under siege. The Border Guard Bangladesh (BGB) soon joined them, with shoot-at-sight orders from Quader. 

All this was broadcast live on social media. Videos of murder went viral. Twenty-three-year-old Abu Sayed, his arms raised in surrender, was gunned down at point-blank range with birdshot; the police First Information Report only reported that a “student was seen falling to the ground.” Twenty-five-year-old Mir Mugdho, who was distributing food and water to the protesters, was shot in the head. The body count mounted during those seventy-two hours, prompting law enforcement to pressure families and hospitals to misreport. (The Bengali daily Prothom Alo highlighted one particularly egregious case: when battling protestors on the streets of Dhaka, the police fired a bullet into a residence, killing Safqat Samir, a fifth-grade student. Officers later pressured his father not to press charges.)  

On July 18 a somber Hasina addressed the nation, recounting the loss of her father, as if this personal tragedy—and the cult of Mujibur—overshadowed what her forces were doing to the students. No sooner had her brief address ended than a nationwide Internet shutdown cut Bangladesh off from the world. A curfew was imposed, and the military rolled out in armored vehicles marked with the UN insignia. Domestic television channels in the Awami League’s pocket reassured viewers that everything was all right, but no one was about to forget the images that had been circulating online. Besides, helicopters were flying overhead and there was constant gunfire. The international community was largely silent, with some exceptions: PEN International called for journalists to be protected and the Internet to be restored, and the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, Volker Turk, took umbrage that UN peacekeeping vehicles were used to attack civilians, raised concerns over human rights violations, and called for a robust investigation. 

In a public statement, the students said that they organized horizontally because the Awami League had co-opted and targeted dissenting leaders in the past. Nevertheless, as state violence intensified, spokespeople like Nahid Islam and Asif Mahmud emerged. In an interview on July 19 with Netra News—an independent Bangladeshi outlet based in Sweden, where I work as the managing editor—Islam recounted the indiscriminate slaughter, opposed the curfew, demanded that security forces and Awami League cadres withdraw, and affirmed that the anti-discrimination movement would continue. Most importantly, he refused to negotiate with the government at gunpoint. Doing so, he said, would insult the memory of those who had fallen. 

Private university students joined their public university counterparts at this critical juncture, bringing the urban middle class firmly into the fold. Indeed, civilian support kept widening. Rickshaw-pullers saluted the protestors and turned their vehicles into ad hoc ambulances. Graffiti artists painted the cities with expletive-ridden witticisms and anti-government sketches. The rappers Shezan (“Kotha Ko,” “Speak up”) and Hannan (“Awaj utha,” “Raise the noise”) wrote soundtracks for the movement. Expatriate Bangladeshis demonstrated in solidarity across Asia, Europe, and North America. Migrant workers protested in Qatar and, risking arrest, in the UAE.

Meanwhile the Awami League’s terror apparatus chugged on. Its cadres piled into hospitals with spears, machetes, and guns to attack students receiving treatment. (The Daily Star published video footage of one raid.) Police raided university-adjacent neighborhoods, abducting and detaining students. Upwards of 450,000 nameless arrest warrants were issued, to be filled later for retroactive punishment. 

On July 24, with telecommunications almost fully restored, Hasina appeared in official press photographs crying into a tissue in front of broken computer screens at a government office. Wazed—her son, information and communication technology adviser, and the head of Young Bangla—and Mohammad A. Arafat, minister for state and information broadcasting, clarified that the shutdown had been in response to a “terrorist attack” at a government data center, insinuating that the protesters had set it on fire. (There is no evidence whatsoever that such a thing happened.) Arafat also speculated that the students were protesting under the influence of illegal narcotics. Awami League apologists flooded the airwaves and social media proclaiming their undying trust in Hasina and mourning the damaged state property. Nahid Islam was abducted, tortured, released, then abducted again and forced to pose for photographs having afternoon tea with police chiefs. Under duress, he released a statement calling for the protests to end.

It appeared the movement was on its last legs. Then, on July 27, a fresh-faced new trio of students—Abdul Hannan Masud, Mahin Sarker, and Rifat Rashid—held a carefully guarded online press conference from an undisclosed location. They compared the Awami League’s response to Operation Searchlight, the Pakistani military’s massacre of civilians in 1971—thereby turning the Razakar label on its head—and promised to continue the movement until its demands were met: the resignation of Quader and the home and law ministers; the removal and investigation of security officers on active duty during the protests; indemnity from prosecution for protestors; the resumption of classes; the permanent expulsion of the Awami League youth wings from campuses; and an apology from the prime minister. Hasina held two meetings with business leaders and heads of security forces but refused the students’ demands. 

On August 3 Waker-uz-Zaman, the army chief and husband of Hasina’s cousin, commanded the troops to enforce order but refrain from firing on protesters. He had good reason to be nervous. By then the number of civilian casualties had grown too high to conceal or brush off. There was a threat of foreign sanctions, not to mention that the army could be barred from participating in lucrative UN peacekeeping missions abroad. Besides, his soldiers were tiring after three weeks of all-out war against the citizenry. 

The movement then narrowed to a single, new demand: that Hasina resign. On August 3 people scaled the Shaheed Minar—erected on the site in Dhaka where the Pakistani military gunned down activists of the Language Movement in 1952—holding aloft the red and green flag. Below them, factory workers, school students, white-collar employees, and even celebrities milled about, singing patriotic songs, dancing, painting, and above all chanting against Hasina. 

Internet and telecommunications were shut down again on August 4. State forces killed over a hundred citizens that day, the bloodiest since the uprising began. But this proved to be the last gasp of a lost cause. On August 5 the protestors prepared to march on Hasina’s residence. As the crowd built at Shaheed Minar, news broke that the prime minister had resigned and fled to India under the cover of a military training exercise. Zaman waited for the aircraft carrying her and her sister to enter Indian airspace before making a national address. This was a cue for a more brazen revolt against the Awami League. Statues of Mujibur—erected across the country at the cost of tens of millions of dollars—were defecated on, toppled, and smashed to pieces. His residence was set ablaze. 

Now in politically uncharted waters, the president and military leaders met student coordinators to discuss appointing an interim leader. They agreed on Muhammad Yunus, an eighty-four-year-old Nobel laureate who founded the microfinance institution Grameen Bank. Yunus is admired by the likes of the Clintons and The Gates Foundation but viewed more skeptically by progressive economists, who believe his bank traps the poor in a cycle of debt with high-interest loans.

Less often noted is that Yunus has an ambiguous relationship with the Bangladeshi military. During the 2006–2008 political crisis, when the military briefly took power, it honed the practices of enforced disappearances, indefinite detentions, and extrajudicial killings—practices that the Awami League later deployed. Yet in 2007, as he considered launching his own political party, Yunus assured The Washington Post that the army was “cleaning up” the country by detaining corrupt officials. 

Yunus was sworn in as the head of an interim government on August 8. Saleh and Rakshand are part of his advisory team. His motley crew of ministers include the student leaders Nahid Islam and Asif Mahmud, retired army officers, and several Islamist ideologues, but only one indigenous representative, Supradip Chakma, whom activists from the community view as an Awami League stooge. Rani Yan Yan, chief advisor to the Chakma Circle—one of three hereditary chiefdoms in the Chittagong Hill Tracts—publicly opposed his appointment. 

The early days of the Yunus regime have not been promising. JAAGO’s volunteers painted over revolutionary graffiti with anodyne messages pinched from self-help books. The members of civil society Yunus appointed as ministers have repeated familiar homilies about accountability and justice but not acted to dismantle the Awami League patronage system. Rather than return to the barracks, the army flexed its muscles on September 17 by assuming magistracy powers—the authority to oversee civilian law enforcement—for the next sixty days. Except for the token arrest of Ziaul Ahsan, a particularly notorious army officer, the security forces have not been investigated for their actions during the protests. Evading responsibility for its role in propping up the Awami League, the mainstream media runs daily paeans to the interim government and stays silent about the military.¹

Meanwhile Islamists, party cadre, and some students have enjoyed an orgy of violence against minorities—destroying Sufi shrines, vandalizing Hindu temples, and harassing women and the LGBTQ+ community. Over a dozen people have been killed, including at least four in military custody. In mid-September, in two separate pogroms in Khagrachhari and Rangamati in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, Bengalis murdered four Adivasis, injured close to hundred, and set fire to some fifty shops. Conscientious citizens have mobilized against the hate, but the state has not lifted a finger, except for retaining the Awami League’s draconian laws against freedom of expression. 

The students resumed their studies on September 22. They had come together across lines of class and ideology, not seeking power but simply acting on their conscience. Yet they ousted a dictator. Opposition parties, wary of the students’ wide support, are now trying to discredit the movement by holding it solely responsible for the violence that has flared up in its aftermath. This is to be expected. Some of the student organizers have shown interest in going into politics; the old guard surely fears that the movement might develop a unified ideology and coalesce into an electoral force. If they follow that path, the students will find formidable challenges lying ahead. Though momentarily discredited in the eyes of the people, the dominant parties will not disappear so easily—and nor will the military.