Return of dreams

by Faizul Latif Chowdhury

THE sun once again nears its cyclical path towards the 36th of July. On August 5, 2024, the course of Bangladesh’s history came to an abrupt halt and took a sharp 180-degree turn in the opposite direction. According to Julius Caesar’s calendar, July has no 36th day — yet, the successful mass uprising of 2024 and that extraordinary month have become inextricably linked, like two inseparable twins of the same mother. The people of Bangladesh, out of love and reverence, have embraced the 5th of August as the symbolic 36th of July.

On December 16, 1971, we emerged on the world map as a sovereign and independent nation. But since the newly elected government of 2009, the independence we earned with blood and sacrifice was gradually traded away. Step by step, the ruling party sold off our national sovereignty in the name of development, global partnerships and control of terrorism. And we — the people — did not even realise it was happening. To cling to power, they systematically blocked every democratic path to free and fair parliamentary elections. Before we could raise our voices in protest, our collective ruin had already taken place.

It is often said that on August 5, 2024, Bangladesh regained its independence—its true sovereignty was restored. We must admit, the success of the July uprising was an almost miraculous event. Even seventy-two hours prior, no one could have imagined such a sweeping transformation. Yet on the symbolic 36th of July, the monstrous burden of tyranny that sat heavily on the shoulders of the nation fell — much like the mythical Sinbad’s oppressive giant. But this wasn’t merely the fall of a despot clinging to power for the sake of domination and exploitation; the 36th of July marked something far more profound. It was the day when the nation reclaimed its right to dream. The people once again became free to hope, to envision a different future.

However, this dream was not about reaching Dhaka from Khulna in four hours via the Padma Bridge. It was not about getting from Mirpur to Motijheel in 20–25 minutes on the Metro Rail. It wasn’t about crossing the Karnaphuli River through an underwater tunnel. Nor was it the dream of becoming a ‘middle-income country’ at rocket speed. The dream was, first and foremost, the right to live freely and independently. The dream was about dignity, justice, and the ability to speak without fear.

We were often told stories of a ‘Golden Bengal’ — whether it had any historical basis or not, people clung to that dream. Yet it’s worth remembering that in 1974, Maulana Bhashani distributed a powerful poster across the nation with the headline: ‘Why is Golden Bengal a Crematorium? We demand an answer from Mujib regime.’ This raises the question: was the dream of Golden Bengal ever a historical truth, or was it merely a political slogan? If Golden Bengal once existed, it had evidently turned to ashes soon after the independence of 1971 due to misrule and corruption. Exactly when was the phrase ‘Bangabandhu’s dream of building a Golden Bengal’ started to be used? Investigating its origins might reveal more than we expect—it is not an irrelevant academic pursuit.

Meanwhile, a parallel narrative was pushed: ‘development.’ The idea took hold that the accumulation of national wealth equated to progress. However, nowhere in this conversation was there room for the equitable distribution of that wealth. The people were sold a dream of GDP figures and large-budget infrastructure while forfeiting dignity, freedom, and security. For fifteen long years, we witnessed an obsession with so-called development. The government kept us intoxicated with tales of progress, while behind those glossy stories, we lost everything — our safety, our property, our voices.

Basic democratic rights were strangled. The right to dissent was labelled a threat to national interest. Authoritarianism was disguised as democracy, and we were told that development must come before democracy. Systemic corruption and gangsterism became the norm. Every shred of goodwill in society was worn away. Lawlessness became the law. The judiciary became a pawn. Every change in society was for the worse—rot and decay overtook every institution. The elders, who once steered society with wisdom, watched helplessly as the social fabric unravelled.

Worse still, people were convinced that the state was more important than its citizens. We were taught that human rights were secondary to so called national advancement. Anyone who demanded democracy was branded a traitor. Opposing the government was declared synonymous with betraying the country. New and terrifying definitions of sedition were invented. Anyone who dared speak out vanished mysteriously. ‘Mirror rooms’ were created to hide people of forced disappearance. People like OC Pradeep and hundreds of others were given licenses to kill. Writers and journalists were bought, silenced, or forced into complicity. Those who saw through the deceit wept quietly, remembering Jibanananda Das’s haunting lines:

‘A strange darkness has descended upon this world today,

Those most blind are the ones who see the most;Those without love or compassion in their hearts,The world now runs by their perfect advice.’

Ultimately, it was the youth — the torchbearers of change — who stood tall before bullets, like an unyielding Great Wall of China. And then, like magic, the palace of power collapsed like a house of cards. History tells us such events occur a handful of times every century. We read about them, but we do not remember. We forget — and in our forgetting, we become frenzied, greedy and blind once more.

This article is titled ‘Return of Dreams’ because that is exactly what the 36th of July symbolises — it gave us back the right to dream. We can now imagine justice, speak of human rights, and envision a truly free nation. We have learned that polite dialogue is not enough. Roundtables and ‘civil society’ discussions are simply hopelessly fruitless. Neutral reports from international organisations are mere skirmishes. Without a genuine uprising, real change is impossible. Only through mass mobilisation and successful resistance can patriots achieve political victory.

That said, even a year after the uprising of July 2024, society has not completely transformed. It remains in a state of flux — caught between promise and reality. Conspiracies are being hatched. Injustice still festers in pockets of power. Achieving long-term peace and stability will take time. The deep divisions within society, cultivated over the past 15 years, cannot be bridged up overnight. Consensus on true social and national priorities will require extensive dialogue with conceding approach.

The experience that state power is the key to personal or group success is not easily forgotten. Although the tyrant has fallen, her ideological and administrative heirs remain entrenched in many institutions. Dismantling their influence is no simple task. Reaching harmony among various groups in a fragmented society, while safeguarding individual freedom and prioritising national interest, is a delicate and time-consuming process. We must draft new social equations in a society torn by hatred and unfair competition. We must render the very idea of sacrificing one person for the sake of ten others obsolete. 

We must ask: Why did society enable and tolerate a dictatorship from 2009 until the 36th of July? Who enabled that regime? What were their values? The dictator has fled, but his sycophants and sponsors still lurk in the shadows. They remain blind. They still believe the uprising was an ‘unjust attack on power.’ How can the youth of July bring such people into alignment with the new vision?

After the 36th of July, a universal demand emerged — reform of society and the state. Calls for state reform are not new. But without healing the divisions, curbing greed, and realigning social priorities, no real reform can achieved. 

Removing the dictator was no easy feat. Yet gradually, people — especially the youth — realised that unless we changed the fundamental structures of society, the nation would continue to slip into darkness. The idea of state reform had been voiced even before 2024. It began to crystallize after July 29, 2018, when two school students were killed in a traffic accident. Their classmates, aged between 14 and 18, led a spontaneous protest that quickly evolved into a national movement. The demand was clear: right to safe life and safe movement. The state was held accountable by the children. Gradually, this demand for safety evolved into a larger demand for state reform. It was a new idea — that the state itself needed fixing — and it resonated deeply with the public. 

Still, the first demand placed before the interim government was for political reform — to ensure that no future democratically elected government could slide into tyranny. The people wanted guarantees that administrative institutions, law enforcement, the judiciary, and even the armed forces would remain neutral and serve the public — not a political party. However, political consensus on these points has yet to be fully achieved.

The public’s dreams go deeper than political slogans. As people interacted with each other through years of hardship, a shared vision for a new society took shape. That vision contains no Padma Bridge, no Metro Rail, no nuclear power plant, and no extravagant flyovers that keep the poor stuck in traffic while the elite soar overhead. The politics of development has been replaced by the shared dream of living in safety and freedom. Utopian fantasies have been grounded in reality.

Dreams are personal by nature, but shared dreams are not fiction. How do individual hopes transform into collective vision? It’s a question worth pondering.

Perhaps these collective dreams sprout from daily interactions, struggles and shared experiences. People slowly come to realise what kind of society they want to live in. There are two key realizations: first, awareness of how society is causing their personal suffering; second, a general idea — however vague — of what a better society would look like. The July uprising was rooted in these realisations.

Life, like dreams, is deeply personal — but when personal suffering becomes universal, it generates a shared consciousness. For example, the least common denominator of the average Dhaka citizen’s dream is simple: the end of traffic congestion. This is a collective dream born of two decades of daily frustration.

Hope is the root of shared dreams. People only begin to hope when they sense that change is possible. The fall of the dictatorship and the appointment of a visionary leader like Professor Yunus to state leadership convinced many that their hopes may now be fulfilled. They began to hope — for decent living, for dignity, for safety, and for the freedom to speak. They wanted to be not slaves of the state, but its most valuable citizens.

It is true that modern humans have voluntarily endorsed the formation of nation-states. This does not mean that in exchange for citizenship, they have sacrificed human rights. The power and authority of the state can under no circumstances be unmixed and absolute. A modern state will only gain recognition for progress when it can, first and foremost, ensures the rights of individual human beings. And therefore, the state must provide its citizens with the opportunity to dream human dreams; and, within the framework, of the constitution, it must create opportunities for citizens to fulfil their dreams. No political party can claim to be committed to the spirit of the July popular uprising until it accepts this fundamental condition regarding the state. The ultimate measure of a state’s advancement lies not in its economic might or military prowess, but in its unwavering commitment to safeguarding the inherent dignity and fundamental freedoms of its people. Anything less is a betrayal of the social contract and a denial of the very essence of human existence. Unless a political party fully accepts this basic truth, it cannot claim to be faithful to the spirit of the July Uprising. And without firm commitment to the message of July Uprising, no political party will be able to prove that they are genuinely pro-people. Negotiations are going on. People are eagerly waiting to see the contents of the proposed ‘July Charter’. Betrayal of people’s aspirations is destined to bring about a doom’s day. 

Professor Faizul Latif Chowdhury, a novelist and literary critic, teaches economics and quantitative analysis at Independent University, Bangladesh.