By Zareen Bedita
The following is an extended excerpt of the Master’s thesis of a Bangladeshi student who recently graduated from Columbia University. We have chosen to publish it due to its profoundly compelling analysis of the revolution last summer and how it relates architecture, history, protest, secularism, and social justice.
On August 3, 2024, the central Shaheed Minar (“Martyrs’ Memorial” in Bengali), a national monument commemorating the martyrs of the Language Movement of 1952) in Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh, was filled with an immense gathering of people from across the country. Led by students, people from all walks of life—regardless of age, gender, belief, or social status—joined the call for “The Long March to Dhaka.” The plaza of the memorial became the grand stage for a performance of resistance. The monument once again came alive with hundreds of thousands of voices singing patriotic songs in unison. Alarmed by the uprising, Sheikh Hasina, the autocratic former prime minister, was forced to flee the country on August 5.
The July Uprising—a recent student-led protest, which originated in an anti-discrimination campaign related to public sector hiring and led to the fall of an authoritarian regime that had ruled for over 15 years—is a striking example of the power of united youth. Despite hundreds of deaths at the hands of police and paramilitaries, internet blackouts, and state repression, the protests endured. Seeking solidarity against oppression, protestors chose the Shaheed Minar—a symbolic rallying ground since 1952—as their site of resistance. History repeated itself: in 2024, the world once again witnessed the enduring spirit of student-led protest in Bangladesh.
The Shaheed Minar’s resurgence was not just about policy or party politics. It reflected decades—centuries, even—of a unique Bangladeshi cultural choreography between space, art, memory, and protest. What unfolded in 2024 was not simply a mass movement; it was a performance deeply rooted in a history of public resistance, where architecture and art have continually shaped and been shaped by the people’s struggle for identity and justice.
Historiography: Forging Collective Identity & the Context of Resistance
As a region and as a nation, Bangladesh is no stranger to protest. Shaped by fertile lands and flowing waters that catalyzed complex social hierarchies, this land bears a long history of oppression and social injustice that is deeply woven into its fabric. Its porous frontiers made it a space where contrasting forces converged—through conflict, exchange, and adaptation—ultimately crafting the distinct character of the region.
Bangladesh’s path to independence was marked by layered socio-political shifts and a persistent longing for an identity. On their journey to claim their own place in the world, the people of this region forged a tradition of resistance. From these acts of defiance emerged a collective identity—rooted in everyday struggles and the weight of historical injustice.
To understand the formation of this collective identity, we must return to Bengal—where centuries of shifting rule and entrenched hierarchies cultivated a sense of cultural assertion. As early as the first millennium BCE, the caste system was established here, relegating much of the population within what is now Bangladesh to the lowest social strata and marking the onset of chronic suppression. Over time, Bengal came under successive regimes—from early Buddhist and Hindu kingdoms to Muslim sultanates, the Mughals, and eventually the British—each reshaping the region while deepening existing hierarchies. In response, lower-caste communities shifted religious affiliations—from Hinduism to Buddhism, then to Islam—in search of liberation from imposed subordination.
These layered histories gave rise to a shared secular identity rooted in emancipation. Partition in 1947 fractured the region along religious lines, placing East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) between West Bengal’s Hindu elitism and West Pakistan’s Islamic fundamentalism. Under Pakistan’s autocratic rule, cultural protest became a political tool: songs, murals, performances, and architecture transformed public spaces into sites of resistance. The 1950s and 60s marked a period of youth-led political awakening. The Language Movement became the first major articulation of this identity. When the state tried to impose Urdu over Bengali—a language deeply rooted in local culture and history—students rose in protest. On February 21, 1952, police killed nine demonstrators, embedding language, sacrifice, and spatial memory into the very foundation of national resistance.
Weaving Protest into Space: Materializing Memory and Identity
As space bears witness, and to inscribe memory within the urban fabric, on February 23, 1952, the students of Dhaka Medical College built an eleven-foot-tall monument at the site overnight. From February 24, people began gathering around this spontaneous structure, organizing cultural programs in remembrance of the nine martyrs. Provoked, the government demolished it on February 26. Though the physical structure was destroyed, it remained alive in people’s hearts. From 1953 onward, a ritual called Provat Feri began—a morning procession with flowers to the site on February 21 to honor the martyrs.
Alongside the Provat Feri at the main site, replicas of the monument began appearing across East Pakistan. People started building Shaheed Minars in their own neighborhoods and educational institutions as acts of solidarity with the movement. The structure, infused with a living spirit, evolved into a powerful symbol of protest against oppression.
Building on the symbolic power of the temporary monument, the provincial government laid the foundation for the Shaheed Minar on February 21, 1956, and called for design proposals. Novera Ahmed, the first sculptor of Pakistan (both East and West), and Hamidur Rahman, a notable painter, collaborated on a comprehensive proposal.
Novera and Hamidur were two unconventional artists. Beyond a single monument, their design envisioned an entire area—sculpture gardens, fountains, gathering spaces—a platform to inspire youth through art. Novera believed that art and architecture were inseparable, and together, they had the power to unite people.
The concept of the Shaheed Minar was deeply rooted in symbolism and abstraction, reflecting a distinct Bengali identity that consciously diverged from dominant colonial and Islamic architectural traditions. Rather than following pre-existing styles, the monument was conceived to tell its own story. Its half-circular columns stand as an emblem of the image of a mother standing tall with her martyred sons, embodying both the grief and resilience of those who sacrificed their lives.
Though such artistic expression was new to the region, its meaning resonated deeply with the people as the resurgence of the 50s and 60s was intertwined with the pursuit of a shared identity, the rise of voices against ideological suppression, and the expression of diversity. This identity embodied multiple cultures: Bengaliana, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, and Indigenous traditions. The formation of Pakistan under the banner of Islam was, in many ways, an attempt to erase this inclusivity. However, spaces that encouraged coexistence—where people united regardless of culture and religious belief—emerged alongside the adaptation of global architectural and artistic styles into a pluralistic Bengali identity.
The Shaheed Minar’s design was an abstraction of human figures, rather than a direct representation of heroic individuals. The people of this region could relate deeply to this symbolic embodiment of art and the spirit it carried. Some interpretations of Islam discourage the depiction of human figures in art, upholding aniconism—the avoidance of human or animal representation. In this sense, the Minar’s metaphorical human forms could be seen as accommodating that belief. Yet, the structure did not reflect Islamic architectural features such as domes or minarets. More significantly, the celebration of visual and performing arts, and the inclusive nature of protest—never excluding any religion or privileging any single affiliation—affirmed the secular character of the region. The “unique sense of Bengaliana,” merging or existing beyond both “Bangali” and “Muslim” identities, was visible in spatial formations and their interplay with artistic expression. Novera Ahmed, as a woman and the first sculptor of the region, stood boldly against fundamentalist norms; and though the society remained bound by patriarchy, her work was embraced and allowed to rise.
Once more stirred by the monument’s potent symbolism, martial law imposed by Ayub Khan halted construction, leaving Novera’s envisioned space unfinished. Yet despite its incomplete state, people continued to gather each year on February 21 to pay tribute to the martyrs of the Language Movement.
Over time, the memorial turned into a crucible of action, intertwined with various forms of artistic expression, and continued to challenge the authorities. Student protesters from the Architecture Department at East Pakistan Engineering and Technology (EPUET) expanded the movement by transforming the space into a visual statement, covering a wall opposite the memorial with posters, banners, and tapestries. These displays were spontaneous yet bold, emerging during crucial periods of ongoing protest, including the Six-Point Movement in 1966, the Mass Upsurge against the military regime, and demonstrations expressing global solidarity with the civil rights movement and protests against the Vietnam War in 1968–69.
In 1970, Zahir Raihan, a subversive filmmaker from East Pakistan, captured this spirit of defiance in Pakistan’s first political film—Jibon Theke Neya (“Taken from Life”). The film was a metaphorical political satire, portraying a family whose internal dynamics mirrored the oppressive conditions in East Pakistan. To draw parallels, Raihan incorporated actual footage of Provat Feri to document the revolt and establish a symbolic connection to the Shaheed Minar. These scenes brought unparalleled authenticity to the film, transforming it into both a work of art and a historical document. The military regime recognized the film as a direct threat to its authority and banned it on the day of its premiere. Zahir Raihan faced immense pressure, including threats to destroy all copies, yet he stood firm. The memorial once again triggered a response from the authoritarian state.
As the Shaheed Minar transformed into a living symbol of resistance, the Liberation War began on March 26, 1971, following the horrific genocide of March 25. The Pakistani military—threatened by the monument’s symbolic strength—swiftly demolished every replica, including the main structure, within days. At the site of the demolished memorial, they erected a sign reading, “Reserved site for construction of Mosque”—a visible attempt to overwrite the secular Bengali identity with a strictly Islamic one. This act of destruction underscored the monument’s profound impact: its very existence had become an act of defiance and a testament to the enduring spirit of resistance and cultural identity.
The formation of this distinct cultural essence was, in itself, an act of resistance—collectively challenging imposed identities, oppression, and long-standing injustice etched into the land. Becoming a beacon, the youth empowered ordinary people to speak through the convergence of architecture and art. The establishment of the architecture department at EPUET, the design of the Art College at Dhaka University by Muzharul Islam, the celebration of Bengali New Year in Romna Park, and other cultural initiatives as tools of protest—all within the same urban fabric—demonstrate how the built environment and the youth, through their artistic expressions, resonated together in claiming this identity. This harmonized collective self, shaped through artistic activism, ultimately became the driving force behind the struggle for an independent nation, culminating in victory after a nine-month-long war.
Continuing the Choreography: Space, Defiance, and the New Generation in Bangladesh
On December 16, 1971, after a brutal and harrowing nine-month war of liberation, Bangladesh claimed its geographical identity as an independent nation. Tragically, it has since been governed by several dictatorial regimes. In harmony with history, newly shaped urban spaces have continued to stage acts of defiance. The spirit of the 50s and 60s remains alive in the souls of youth across generations. The longing for identity, and the enduring conflict between fundamentalist Islam and pluralism, still persists within the national borders claimed just 54 years ago.
In 1972, during the first year of liberation, the new government initiated the restructuring of the Shaheed Minar. Hamidur Rahman, in collaboration with architect M.S. Jafar, submitted a design that was once again selected. Although Novera had left Bangladesh before independence and was not present at the time, the design reflected the vision she and Hamidur had first developed in 1957. After surviving destruction, the final memorial was built on the same site in sovereign Bangladesh in 1972. The monument rose boldly within the cityscape—a witness, a bearer of pain—emerging with its very essence as a protest itself.
The Shaheed Minar did not remain a singular structure within the built landscape; rather, it expanded—a fluid presence, not merely observing protests but speaking through them. Walking within the premises, one sees walls covered with slogans, posters, and images; plazas and nodes choreograph protests, capturing the zeitgeist of historical uprisings. The architectural tapestry, interwoven with art, continues to be the language of defiance.
As a space that has continuously shaped resistance, the Shaheed Minar is part of a broader landscape of defiance in Dhaka, interconnected with other sites like Shahbagh Square. This urban enclave—comprising Dhaka University, Dhaka Medical College, and BUET (the nation’s leading engineering university)—forms more than just a physical setting. Shahbagh is a pulse, a rhythm composed into the city’s heart. Nestled beside the Fine Arts Institute (formerly the Art College), it stands in close dialogue with the Shaheed Minar.
This urban fabric has choreographed movements, shaping the defiant footsteps of those who gather here. It has become a platform where youth find their voice—where voices rise against injustice, division, and oppression. It is where history breathes, where the struggles of the past converge with the demands of the present, and where every protest carves a deeper mark into the landscape of resistance.
Shahbagh Square has long served as a vital civic space where generations of protests have converged. Among the most powerful voices to rise from this ground was Jahanara Imam—known as the “Mother of Martyrs”—who, in the early 1990s, led the call for justice against the Razakars, war criminals of 1971 who had re-entered politics. In 1992, she and the Ekattorer Ghatak-Dalal Nirmul Committee staged a symbolic Gono Adalot (People’s Court) in Shahbagh as an act of protest. Two decades later, her spirit returned when students occupied the square in 2013, outraged that a convicted Razakar was spared the death penalty. This movement, led by a generation born after the war, reignited the fight for a secular identity and renamed the square Projonmo Chottor—New Generation Square. The momentum continued, especially following the killings of secular bloggers between 2013 and 2017. Shahbagh, like the nearby Shaheed Minar, became a powerful insignia of pluralism, provoking backlash from Islamic extremists who coined the slur “Shahbaghi” to mock those fighting for secular values. Once again, space became both witness and participant in the struggle for justice.
The July Uprising and the Reimagination of Protest Space
Alongside the Islamic reactionary forces, Awami League—the so-called secular political party in Bangladesh under the regime of Sheikh Hasina—ruled as an autocracy for 15 years. Her tenure, beginning in December 2009, has been marked by human rights violations and widespread repression across the country. In recent times, the Shaheed Minar has once again become a focal point for activism against this autocracy. The 2024 student protests, ignited by the reinstatement of a controversial quota system reserving 30% of civil service positions for descendants of Liberation War veterans, saw students from educational institutes across the country coalescing within the same civic landscape.
Like the 50s/60s, the protest began with peaceful sit-ins and cultural performances. In this contemporary movement, graffiti emerged across Dhaka’s protest landscape—visual art entering into dialogue with the space, invoking the spirit of revolutionary youth. However, repeating history, the dictatorial government attacked the unarmed students. When the protest was met with violent crackdowns, it resulted in significant casualties and heightened tensions nationwide. With the deaths, the protest transformed into a massive peoples revolt that came to be known as the July Uprising. With the youth at its center, people from all over the country came together with one demand—the fall of the dictatorial government. As mentioned earlier, people gathered around the Shaheed Minar on August 3, 2024. They raised their voice with the tune of the music as a response to the brutal violence—bringing the spirit of Shaheed Minar back again.
The ex-prime minister, Sheikh Hasina, was forced to flee. Just as a single vibrating string produces sound and creates resonance, amplifying its quality by making it louder, clearer, and deeper over time—the confluence of art, architecture performed by the united bodies shook the pillars of the oppression and caused the fall of a brutal regime.
These amplifying voices did not only break the autocratic regime but also led to Dr. Muhammad Yunus becoming the head of the interim government. A Nobel Peace Prize laureate and global symbol of social entrepreneurship, he had long been sidelined and harassed by Sheikh Hasina’s regime. Once celebrated for founding Grameen Bank and pioneering microfinance, he became a target of political vendetta—facing dozens of legal cases, travel restrictions, and public vilification. Yunus reluctantly accepted the role of Chief Adviser (interim head of government) when called upon by the public as a moral leader in a moment of collective reckoning. His elevation in the aftermath of the July Uprising symbolized not only the collapse of authoritarian rule but also the restoration of a democratic and ethical civic vision that had long been suppressed.
The July Uprising and other contemporary protests in Bangladesh reveal a recurring pattern. The urban sphere, decorated by the protesters with pro-uprising murals, turned cities around the country into galleries of resistance. The artworks are embedded in the rhythms of protest, making the built environment and the landscape central to the visual and emotional language of dissent. In doing so, protest art reclaimed public space as a site of memory and emancipation, where the past, present and future were visually and spatially negotiated.
With the rise of social media, the concept of space becomes broader. The protest in Bangladesh flowed through virtual space and gained the power to form a language shared by many. The new generation has created a new dialogue through digital art—provocation through memes, slogans through hashtags, voices resonating through reels—all together breaking the borders of territories and creating a boundaryless virtual space.
When divisions grow sharper, the resonance of humanity must grow louder—breaking boundaries to assert unity. Just after the July uprising in Bangladesh, protests broke out on the streets of Kolkata, India, in response to the gruesome death of a trainee doctor after a brutal gang rape on August 9, 2024, at RG Kar Medical College and Hospital. Reverberating with the July uprising, this movement also demanded the resignation of the health minister and the chief minister of West Bengal. The digital platform connected physical spaces across the two Bengals—enabling shared slogans, artistic expressions, and the collective claiming of public space for protest. Particularly, music and artistic symbolism created a resonant dialogue between the two movements.
Though the uprising in Bangladesh caught the attention of the world with its success, the consequences of the protests have yet to be fully understood. Several incidents after the fall of the dictatorial regime indicate that another sort of dictatorial regime is brewing in the country; Islamic groups, who were oppressed during the Awami League, are asserting themselves. Processions took place against the group derogated as ‘Shahbaghi’—labeled as supporters of the dictatorial regime because they stood against fundamentalist Islamic views.
During a presentation titled “Women of July Uprising in Bangladesh: Prospects and Challenges” at Columbia University, Professor Samina Luthfa, an active participant in the uprising, described how women were quickly pushed out of the movement’s narrative as an act of patriarchy and fundamentalist belief. Several incidents of attacks on religious minorities, indigenous communities, the increasing rate of rape and violence against women, the rising number of posts on social media supporting extremist Islamic views, and questioning the Liberation War of 1971—all raise a critical question: Is the uprising falling into the wrong hands?
Art, Space & Resistance
Throughout history and into the present, barricades have been erected to suppress resistance; voices have been silenced by blindfolded power elites across the world. Yet spaces, woven with memory, continue to whisper their stories to those willing to listen. Those who hear, gather—breaking through imposed boundaries. Protests converse with time and space; art and architecture emerge as active participants in this dialogue. Structures like the Shaheed Minar do not simply witness dissent—they become dissent. Movements, through their aesthetic force, transform spatial arrangements into stages of resistance. At times, it is the built environment itself that choreographs protest by evoking memory. The cacophony of suppressed voices, carried by stone and sound, begins to harmonize with architecture and art—amplified, resonant, and transformed into an orchestra of defiance.
