My ballad of fear and resistance

Abrar Fahad, a student of Bangladesh University of Engineering and Technology, who was brutally murdered by the members of Bangladesh Chhatra League in October, 2019. — Ridwan Noor Nafir/Abrar Fahad Archive

by Farzana Wahid Shayan

ON THE night of 6th October, 2023, the deposed prime minister Shaikh Hasina threatened to shut everything if critics asked too many questions. At a press conference at Ganabhaban to brief the media about her trip to the United States for the 78th session of the United Nations General Assembly, she made the remark. Essentially, she rejected people’s ownership of this country when she said, ‘If they talk too much, we will shut everything down and sit down. After the election, if I can come to power, I’ll resume my work. Let’s see who agrees to take over. I’ve got it all ready.’ She hinted that the people of Bangladesh behaved very ungratefully with her, after all that she did for this country. By ‘all’ she meant the mega development projects, the ploy for funnelling public money to private pockets, and the story of building a ‘digital Bangladesh’ that her regime deceitfully publicised all these years. I was offended, personally aggrieved. I felt I was denied the dignity I deserve as a citizen of this country, my country. In her kleptocracy, demanding accountability was blasphemy. The song ‘Ranimaa,’ a satire of the Awami regime, was born that night.

Ranimaa was an important song and performance of my life. I took the opportunity to directly ridicule ‘Rani-maa’ by using her own words in the song and communicating my very legit anger. A week later, on October 13, 2023, the song found its community in a public protest for the right to vote and freedom of speech. That was my first public performance of Ranimaa in front of the National Museum. I never officially published the song. A fellow comrade from the protest gathering recorded the performance, and the song got a life of its own. In that political climate, when asking any question, even the very basic demand of voting rights in a democracy was considered anti-state; it would have been near impossible for me to find a public forum to sing the song. A platform of courageous teachers, writers, journalists, and cultural organisers created space for the song. In that collective space, I found the courage to sing the song. I have to admit, I was otherwise shaky and scared. I felt the tremendous amount of fear produced by the fascist power structure. My friends expressed concerns about my safety. There was artistic pleasure and joy, but I was frightened all the time. My nights felt very uncertain and fearful. I learnt firsthand that facing fear is an everyday battle.

The July mass uprising came to me as the highest test of resilience. As a citizen, I have always carried this strong and sacred sense of ownership about my country. I felt obligated to closely observe the work of the people in power. The government is constitutionally bound to serve the people — us. We are the people. We are Bangladesh. The constitution empowered the people to question the government. In practice that constitutional privilege is taken away by draconian laws. A handful of laws were enacted; the constitution was unconstitutionally amended to protect and please our fallen prime minister, the then ‘queen-like’ head of the state. There is no denying that I have also lived in fear for a very long time until I finally found refuge in friendships and comradeships with the people who cultivated the art of sailing through this fear day after day comfortably and gracefully.

During the last few years of the Hasina regime, people’s struggle grew stronger. My fears also felt heavy. It often felt like prison, and singing songs was emancipatory. I used whatever creative skills I have to combat my fear. In April 2018, when the movement for quota reform reached its peak, I became hopeful, yet restless, because the government quickly quelled the protest. In solidarity, I wrote the song ‘hushiyari.’ A few months later, in July-August 2018, the students for road safety jolted the unbridled power of the Awami regime. Dhaka was cut off from the rest of the country for a day. People came out supporting the students’ demand. I too joined the protests. Songs are my mode of solidarity. So, in solidarity, once again, I lent my support and republished a previously released song, ‘shadhinotar pokkho shokti’. The road safety movement too was violently crushed. 

In 2019, Abrar Fahad, a student of Bangladesh University of Engineering Technology, was brutally beaten to death in his residential dorm by the Bangladesh Chhatra League members. After the murder, one of the BCL members was seen chanting, ‘Joy Bangla.’ The chants of the war of independence were appropriated by the killer of Abrar Fahad. The chant evoked fear. I was hurting. Songs are the only healing I know. I responded and rewrote the chant in my next song, which was dedicated to Abrar Fahad, ‘Bhoy bangla, bhoy banglay bhoy, ai Bangla naki tader, onno karo noy.’ A few days later, in a Bangla Academy programme, I wrote another song for Abrar Fahad, ‘je tomar biruddhe jay tumi take rakhbe kothay.’ In Abrar Fahad’s brutal death, at least for me, the Joy Bangla slogan’s historic tie with 1971 was broken.

I consider romance and revolution to be twin sisters, but the last few years of the Awami regime were breathless with new events of torture, violence, and heartbreak. My songs about heartbreaks and lovebirds keep getting sidelined. Photojournalist Shafiqul Islam Kajal went missing in March 2020. He was unlawfully picked up by law enforcers in plainclothes and remained missing for 52 days. Monorom Polok, his son, contacted me to join an online protest under immense state surveillance. I participated in the program again with a song, ‘Kajol kothay, kajol kothay khujchi obiram.’ Some violence is too brutal to give language to, to memorialise in musical form. In February 2021, when writer Mushtaq Ahmed died in jail custody, an incredible pain struck the nation. Yet, again. I could not write a song. To this day, I wish I could make a song for Mushtaq Bhai.

The 36 days of July were when we carried Abu Sayed, Mugdha, Anas, Saikat, Naima, Nafisa, Ria, and many, many others’ courage, hope, and dreams with us. I didn’t create a new song but sang and republished my already released songs as a prayer to these children who embraced death in courage. On July 26, 2024, there were just a handful of us, protesters in the National Press Club area, but many Bangladesh Army vehicles were moving about. The Border Guard Bangladesh and the police are ready in riot gear. We were determined. We will bring out our gaaner michil (procession of protest songs). We didn’t have a proper microphone. With a hand mic, I sang ‘bhoy bangla, bhoy bangla’ and the protesters lent their voices in solidarity. That was the greatest stage a singer could ever imagine — daring a curfew, singing with people’s support and solidarity. I found courage in people and momentarily beat my fear.

Of course, taking down a fascist does not take down the fascist system.  I have faith in people’s power, I believe, and the July uprising strengthened my belief that no matter how incomplete the freedom feels, ordinary people can take down a mountain. They can bet their life for a change. As my favourite freedom singer, Nina Simone once sang,

I’ve got life

I’ve got my freedom

I’ve got life

I’ve got life

And I’m gonna keep it

I’ve got life

And nobodys gonna take it away.

Farzana Wahid Shayan is a singer and songwriter.