Jahanara Nuri
Prologue
I stand, breathless, as the quiet erosion of rights and freedom unfolds before my eyes—a siege waged in silence with treachery, yet deafening in its impact. The weight of witnessing women’s quiet endurance in the Delta creates a storm within me. I ache. It’s vast. It make me loose words. As a child I was there. My battle was to change that position of women.
Beneath my feet, I sense the quake trembling under the weight of whispers—whispers of extremes, cold and calculated. In my childhood, they slithered through the air like a serpent in prayer robes. They press against the soul of my birthplace, masquerading as holy. A book serves as a prop to sanctify their grip. My teenage was gripped to the point, I was going mad thinking, “I am not pure, I’m cursed.” I’m the genesis 3:16, or numerous directives in Holy books, ‘I was created to endure pain multiplied by the creator’ and ‘he shall rule over you.”
I have seen hands that do not bless; only bind, words that do not guide; only command. And actions, sharp as a dagger’s edge, turned against you—the independent woman.
You watch as they take hold, weaving a web of control over you, misogyny released and in action in full force, subjugating women and children in particular. At this point, you feel dome and long dead.
It’s a scene painted and repainted in stark contrasts, in my memory. The same monochrome tragedy unfolding as if on a photosensitive surface, etching its shadows deep into the history of my nation’s struggle in order to stay as a manifold and diversified colourful habitat.
There’s blood in that habitat—spilled, colour faded, mixed in rain and soil, sunrays and winds, eventually blurring into the unseen, hiding in stockpiled memories. There is a plundering—not of land alone, but of minds, of identities, of dreams. Whether you are Bengali, or a Muslim. The occupied in me wander through the corridors of memory, searching for meaning in a war long waged, to identify myself through an ideological invasion whose echoes refuse to fade. And through it all, history watches—silent, patient, and unflinching.
As I write, I feel my soul witnesses land shifting beneath my feet, the despair, the cracks, as the nation’s progress eroding fast by the relentless attack and creeping control. The agony of the soul of Delta reaches me through the voices of her daughters. Women have endured so much in Bangladesh! Just when there was hope for them to break the barriers, the door is being shut by wild stampede of the Islamists and their allies. You will understand why I say this if you read the following words of a journalist from Dhaka:
” The honourable religious advisor requests media coverage before organizing a program, meaning it must be reported. However, no female journalists were allowed to enter. This is not the first time such incidents have happened while covering similar programs. There have been occasions when some of us were denied entry, but at other times, some organizers respectfully allowed us inside, with our male colleagues making space for us. However, since those events were not officially organized by any government-appointed authority, we chose to remain silent.
But today, at the event of the honourable advisor, I and several other female media professionals and reporters had to face this situation. A security guard informed us that a few women had already left after being denied entry. Some may speak up about it, while others may remain silent.
Despite this, I waited. Then, someone approached from a distance, looked at a few individuals related to the event, and told me, “Sister, I just asked them again. Women are not allowed to enter!”
At an event of an esteemed advisor, not only journalists but any woman was denied entry. If nothing else, this was outright absurd. No matter whose orders these were, can those responsible truly evade accountability?”
First they came for…
Let’s give this journalist a name—let’s call her A. She was among those who supported the July protests against the quota system. Analysing how that support led A to her current desperate situation—where she now feels compelled to share her agony on social media—is a subject for sociological research. Here, however, we focus solely on the irony of the situation we sometimes find ourselves in.
Her sorrow is not hers alone; that’ how past echoes and we again and again fail to listen to its meaning. Time and time again, those who dare to stand up for a cause of their community, often find themselves abandoned or persecuted. In moments like these—when the weight of irony presses upon us, the time long gone returns and whispers its warnings—we take refuge to poetry. For poetry, like scripture, must be spoken, remembered, and etched into the heart.
There’s a poem—one known across the world. In hard times like these, it holds the wisdom that our history forgetting mind search. So let us begin with the poem.
First they came for the communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me.”
Recast in poetic verse, this was what Martin Niemöller – the German Lutheran pastor’s said in his 1946 post-war confession.
The story of Martin Niemöller began in the early 20th century on the banks of the Northern Rhine, while A’s unfolds in 2025 by the Bay of Bengal. Their lives, though distant, share echoes. In 1916, Martin, then aGerman Navy officer Martin Niemöller once patrolled the Strait of Otranto, planted mines in Port Said, and raided Mediterranean commerce aboard the U-boat Vulkan. Years later, he chose faith over war, becoming a clergyman.
A quarter of the 21st century has passed. In Bangladesh, we have danced with the waves of the Indian Ocean, listened to the songs of a thousand rivers, and stood in awe of towering mountains. Yet, as myth-loving beings, what have we truly achieved? There is little satisfaction in our search for meaning through religion. We allowed regression and tyranny through silence. The confession of the two times drifts in silence.
In the Northern Hemisphere’s cold embrace, my city breaths, shrouded in dense snow dusts. I sit, my vision lost beyond a hundred feet. It feels like floating in my mother’s womb—a tunnel where I breath unconsciously, and time ‘ticks and talks’ as I grow, and move towards the end, where, always, a green Delta emerges. A red yolk hangs lightly from the midpoint of its forehead at dawn, turns gold by afternoon, and suddenly, sinks into crimson ocean as evening tides in, casting weary shadows over the streets of Dhaka, Chittagong, and Khulna ─all the ancient ocean ports. Dhaka sleeps late and rises with the first call to prayer. Now, only the Muezzin’s voice lingers; all others have fallen silent. We do not hear sounds from temples at this moment. Church’s bell rings at day time.
I see myself in A ─a young journalist, a supporter of the student’s July anti-quota protests. I clutch my press card and step toward the program of the Religious Affairs offices. At the conference hall’s entrance, they block my path. Inside, Dr. A. F. M. Khalid Hossain, an adviser to the Interim Government, leading a discussion on current religious affairs policies.
I am A. I had covered many events before, faced resistance, was laughed at, even faced slander. But today, I believe, it would be different. After all, I ain’t an opposition. I was an activist. I turned red, when they said they were red. Their red meant Islamic red, not Chinese red. My name A indicates I am from a Moderate Muslim family. I was one of them—an ardent supporter of the events that helped this government to seat in its power.
But as I step forward, the uniformed guard at the gate extend a hand, stopping me.
“Women are not allowed,” he said in flat voice.
“Why not? I have press clearance. This is my office duty.”
The man opens his mouth like a fish in short of air and needs to breath, quickly closing it, and shifting his feet uncomfortably. His gaze flickers to the entrance, where a cluster of men stand, their white panjabis, shirts, and jeans cleaner than in July. They smile warmly, a bubble of brotherhood. The guard hesitates, then speaks in a voice barely above a whisper.
“No woman is allowed. Those who came before you already left.”
For a moment, I do not know what to do. The city goes silent, the cringing sounds of the rickshaws, the peeping honks of the cars—all of it fading.”
The word “woman” hits me like a slap. I freeze. I’m boiling with rage, drowning in the agony of that insult.
Fortunately, my youth in the Delta didn’t come with Facebook, so I missed out on those modern tantrums. Our friend A channels her pain into a series of overly formal questions, addressing the Adviser as “honourable,”, which, let’s be honest, probably just makes her sound like she’s auditioning for a role in a courtroom drama. In my younger days, I was fiery. I might not have used “honourable” three times. Instead, I would’ve probably done something heretical—something so bold it might’ve gotten me fired faster than you can say “professional journalist.”
If I were you, Lal
I found myself adrift, reeling, as if I were A. Yet I could neither stand in opposition nor align myself with that platform where radical Islamist youth, cloaked in the guise of secular students, concealed their true intent. A had once defended their protest, blind to the dark shadows beneath their cause for an Islamic state. But those who veil their purpose in deception and then dare to tell her, “women are not allowed in programs run by the taxes we pay” were not only fraud, they were fascist in true sense—such was the very essence of their treachery. In that moment, none of A’s work, education, her participation in July movement mattered. The only thing that mattered was that she was a ‘female’.
A might have glanced past the guard at the sweet-talking men beyond, who still ignored her; their eyes would never meet hers. Some would turn away, others would whisper among themselves. She was invisible to them—just like I’d experienced all my life. A was left puzzled, her world suddenly meaningless. They embraced the Islamic students as fellow travellers, wanted to be inclusive. Now A’s secular school-going students were no longer considered, ‘friend’. Seas apart, two comrades, in six months.
Did A understand now that she wasn’t alone in her struggle? Since August 5, thousands of journalists have lost their jobs—some fired for working during the previous government led by Sheikh Hasina, others for simply existing in a time when any ‘uncomfortable truth’ related to the Interim Government is unwelcome. Most of her brilliant colleagues had been marked as “the collaborators” of the fascists. Did she know that the Jinny they had released would make the battle for women’s lives manifold?
It was not just about being a journalist. It was about being a woman. A’s mind plays with the words.
Unravelling Women’s Dream
Perhaps A had grown up believing in the dream of Bangladesh, inspired by journalists like Rupa and Munni Saha, and leaders like Motia Chowdhury and even Sheikh Hasina, whom they called “the Fascist.”Wasn’t she once revered as a beacon of empowerment, a woman who bore the weight of her family’s bloody sacrifice? A lineage that had given a hundred years of its soul to the nation. Didn’t they once view her as “a fantastic news story” of women rising to the highest positions? A had watched also women like Shirin Sharmin Chowdhury, the first female speaker break barriers, and many other women who had been elected to local governments.
Yet here was A, unable to cross a door after six months of claims that their country was free. Did she think of the women journalists silenced, threatened, or harassed by the Interim government? Perhaps of Rozina Islam, dragged out for reporting on corruption? Or the media houses besieged by Jamaat organised mobs.
I wonder if she had heard of the barefoot journalist Monaztuddin, who dared to write about North Bengal’s villages and stand up to power and religious goons. Did she consider the hundreds of reporters who had been doxxed simply for doing their jobs? Or the men who, unable to counter a professional woman’s presence, sought instead to discredit her for being biologically a woman, undermining her life, morals, and merits?
Demonization of women who leads
It’s ironic, cruel, and uncivilized. Even Sheikh Hasina, whom A once saw as a “fascist,” was not spared gendered attacks. Her policies were too strong to challenge, so critics tore at her as a woman, as the daughter of Sheikh Mujib, though she never ruled alone. Mocked as daughter, mother, widow, and leader, her image became a canvas for slander—on graffiti, posters, and social media. This treatment lays bare the misogyny entwined in Bengali extreme right Muslim mindset and their politics. A devout believer and practicing Muslim Sheikh Hasina was branded an ‘atheist’ by Jamaat and Shibir. Will these Bengali Extremist Muslims ever free themselves from such deep-seated misogyny? I wonder!
Thousands Voices from Media: ghosts or living human
In newsrooms with windows overlooking the key streets of cities across Bangladesh, many chairs were emptied by the armed mobs organized by SAD. Journalists, news editors, and broadcast planners once sat in those chairs. They lost their jobs, and slowly, new occupiers have filled them. Those who didn’t lose their jobs either lacked the will to fight or are backing the student mob and their current interim government.
The rule was set in hard ways—you survive, if you play safe.
But the silence that forced these people to leave their duties is louder enough to make A’s knee shake. She knew, the secular individuals who joined the movement were driven by emotion and thoughtlessness. Their dream for ideal democracy was their weakness. The thought that there exists an ideal form of democracy in the world, was kind of naive.
What Next?
I wonder if A ever thought of the press statements, the speeches, the slogans of her fellow protesters. Even in her Facebook post, she seemed to remain an outsider. Perhaps she, a smart girl, knew this was not her battle alone—it was for all who dared to believe ‘we, who dreamed of change, could survive together. Another battle for the future of women in Bangladesh begun again from where it started fifty-four years ago. Until we all win the battle for Bangladesh’s soul, A can not win.
What does it mean when, for fifty-four years, a nation boasts of women’s empowerment, yet an extremist group shuts out country’s female workers, journalists, and intellectuals? They vilify the Prime Minister. The moment she leaves for her life’s safety, they loot and portray her as a monster—proving themselves the greater monster. Should we let this culture persist for a thousand years?
Imagine the voices of over a thousand journalists fading, unheard. What if we don’t demand to hear them again? The Delta has come full circle, yet silence cannot be our choice. We, the secular men and women—who speak, write, think—cannot allow ourselves to be barred from the rooms where decisions are made and ideas exchanged.
The nation now treads backward, dragged by extremists who deny women’s presence, choosing stagnation over progress. We must reclaim our secular state from this regressive force. This is the path the Delta must find, or silence will echo, deafening and unyielding. Silence hurts.
- Martin Niemöller’s Confession in our lives
Let’s return to Martin Niemöller confessional speech delivered in 1940. He reflected on the rise of Nazi power in Germany after World War II, likely around 1946. (William L. Shirer, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, 1960).
His words was an elegy of silence and complicity. Lone soul mourning the acquiescence of intellectual. Be it a clergy with a bible at the core of his heart speaking as the Nazi spectre rose, or a July protester who took hands of the Islamic Nazi that dreams only male rule and an Islamic empire.
A’s experience and Martin’s words speak about how methodically regressiveness hidden in us erase those deemed unworthy by our intentions. Through the sombre cadence of the world, humanity—a festivity of life and motion—now resonates as a shadow in our bubble, a fading echo of worth. Martin’s words echo with persecution and guilt, burdening both A and me with the weight of repentance. Though we tend to disagree with ourselves, find ourselves, perhaps, more on the side of victims than perpetrators. We would like to grab eagerly a call to solidarity. We think we know there are a few things in the world, we can’t change soon., despite the truth that ‘change is inevitable.’
This is the essence of echoes around A and me. In our countless tongues we speak and write about silence and deafness, soundlessness and blindness; each iteration a solemn reminder that we are personally responsible in the face of creeping underdevelopment. Tyranny was always with us. We fought it, only to embrace a greater one. We took freedom for granted, and lost sight of our joint purpose.
Until we root ourselves in solid ground of our homeland, learn how to welcome differences, and show humility in our majority, tyranny will linger. Diversity is the antidote to tyranny; monoculture invites it back again.
For fifty-four years, tempests have raged against us, yet we have shifted course like waves in a restless sea. Our spirit, as sons and daughters of the largest Delta on Earth, has fought any attempt to subdue us—whether as Bengalis, women, or agents of ethnicity. Women in Bangladesh persist, carving their path like the Padma River through the Delta. Men and women’s united voices against extremism must rise.
Women are key to our democratic nation, the litmus test for politics promising enlightenment. We must stand firm against forces pulling us backward, with our women by our side.
You may disagree, but under Sheikh Hasina’s leadership, despite growing opposition, Bangladesh has quietly revolutionized: laws protecting women from violence, economic programs fostering independence, and initiatives ensuring girls stay in school. Controversial choices were made too, but the truth remains: the fight for women’s equality is slipping backward now, and even a single year of regression would be disastrous for every family.
The threat of radicalization, capturing institutions and governance, cannot be fought by policy alone. Only a resolute commitment to secularism and justice will prevail. International influence plays a role too, as global powers align with regressive forces, often at the cost of women’s dreams for a freer Bangladesh.
Our Irony with ‘My PM’ and ‘your PM’
On August 5, when I heard the mob was racing toward Sheikh Hasina’s residence, I whispered, “Not a single hand shall touch her.” Shaking, pacing in my small flat, I knew I could not bear it if the protesters laid their hands on her.
The irony was not lost on me. I had been exiled from the homeland I helped build, while she, in her pursuit of inclusion, had opened the doors to Hefazat, Jamaat-e-Islami, and the Kwamies. The Secularists, atheists, and dreamers of a more liberated homeland were shut out. One by one, the Islamists silenced the voices of my brothers, driving us into exile many of us under relentless death threats.
Yet, on August 5, 2024, I trembled, consumed by the longing to know my Prime Minister was safe. She was no longer just a leader—she had become my homeland, the land I had witnessed in 1971, battered and bloodied. She embodied the countless women I had seen, forced to travel from family to unknown refuge, hundreds of thousands torn from their homes—Muslim, Hindu, ethnic families alike—ravaged by the brutal forces of the Peace Committee, Al-Badr, Al-Shams, and the Razakar militias.
It was that spirit, born from sorrow-soaked soil, that transformed Sheikh Hasina into the tigress of the Sundarbans. Her indomitable will surged, propelling our fractured homeland forward, defying the weight of extreme forces. With the strength of her Dravidian ancestors coursing through her veins, she moved like a flame—blazing a path toward a future that cast aside old foes. She yearned for us to rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes of the past.
But I, too, yearned for all the children of Gen-Z, the secular, the Madrasa students, the workers, the graduates, who were in that crowd, to keep their hands from my Prime Minister—for I could not bear to witness the final descent of our sons and daughters into the ultimate abyss of cruelty and unreason. My own son walks among them, his years, learning, dreams and wishes entwined with theirs. If they falter, I see the ancient banyan tree of Bengal’s villages—its roots, a thousand years deep—severed, its mighty fall a sorrow neither he nor I could endure.
On August 5, 2024, I wished for you all, our children, to guard the last sanctuary, not to cross the threshold from which no return is certain. I wept for them—to turn back, to come home—so that we might meet each other’s gaze once more and speak, as only the rational soul can speak.
Jahanara Nuri, Freelance Journalist & Writer, Sweden.
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Opinions expressed are solely those of the authors and do not reflect The Voice’s views. The Voice upholds free expression but isn’t responsible for content in this section.