The bus lurched to a halt, the passengers jolted in their seats. A young one was getting on the bus, and some uncle said, “Why don’t you wait for the next bus, Aree, you are a girl, no? How can you travel like this?” His hands gestured to the crowded bus.
“I have been standing here for thirty minutes. I don’t want to lose this bus too. It’s getting late!” she replied. An older woman urged with casual urgency, “Just get up.” The women of the bus moved in a witchy unison to fit the girl, shielding her from the uncles who warned.
“My daughter’s in college. Whenever it’s late, I cannot rest until she gets home,” an older woman explained. The young girl nodded, she heard this sentiment before. All our mothers sound like that, all of our sisters are in a hurry looking for the ride that will get them home where their mothers are pacing in paranoia.
Since July, The city has felt different – too loud for comfort. There was a brief, beautiful period of hope, from July 15 to August 5, that perhaps fear would not be the primary tool of governance. But it feels heavier now, especially for women. Freedom is never promised to everyone; after all, as Orwell warned, some animals are more equal than others.
As we approach International Women’s Day, we must reflect. Firstly, was the July 2024 uprising not a testament to the indomitable spirit of Bangladeshi women? We saw women with bloody faces returning to protests, chanting slogans, occupying streets, physically holding back police cars during mass arrests. The women of this country were equal, if not greater, stakeholders in toppling the fascist regime. Now, when the climate fosters renewed rhetoric and violence against women, it is utterly frustrating.
In February 2025, the United Nations Human Rights Office released a report detailing how security forces and armed supporters of the then-ruling Awami League party systematically engaged in sexual violence against female protesters. These violations were not isolated incidents but indicative of a pattern of gender-based violence employed as a tool of political repression. Knowing our culture, we realised it was not going to be easy to move forward in the right direction. But what we perhaps didn’t anticipate was that the fall of fascists would also empower fringe religious-political groups, invariably giving power to the already depraved people of this land.
Yet, amidst all the turmoil, it’s important to tell stories. That is how we continue living. We recount tales of our mothers and grandmothers, understanding that the presence of women in the recent uprising is a continuation, a legacy of resilience. There was a woman named Zohra Begum Kazi, born in 1912 in Rajnandgaon, British India. In 1935, she graduated with a Bachelor of Medicine and Surgery from Lady Hardinge Medical College for Women in Delhi. For thirteen years she practiced across British India, then returned to her roots in 1948, joining Dhaka Medical College and Hospital as a resident surgeon. During the language movement in 1952, Kazi volunteered to help wounded protesters, defying the regime that had harmed them. In 1971, when the Pakistani force targeted hospitals, Kazi stayed in Dhaka, turning her home into a refuge. She smuggled medical supplies, hid freedom fighters, and performed surgeries as war tore through the city. Behind the nation’s back, in vague whispers of admiration and gratitude, she was given a name that did not need to be written down to be remembered – Florence Nightingale of Dhaka. Yet, here I am, speaking her name as if for the first time. I should have known her story as well as my own. Shouldn’t her name be on every little girls’ lips as they learn Shukumar’s limericks by heart?
In January 2025 alone, 205 women and girls were subjected to violence, a sharp increase from 163 cases in December 2024. Among these, 67 women were raped – 20 were gang rapes – while one woman and one girl were killed after being raped. Two women suffered acid attacks, one fatally, according to The Daily Star. These numbers represent not just statistics, but lives shattered and communities traumatised.
Should we now look to Chile? Yes. Let’s. In November 2019, the feminist collective Las Tesis introduced the powerful anthem “Un violador en tu camino.”, which translates to: A rapist in your path. Their performance was strikingly simple yet profound: women of all ages, blindfolded and united, chanted, “El violador eres tú.” The rapist is you. This wasn’t just an accusation against individual perpetrators; it was a condemnation of the state institutions and systems that perpetuate sexual violence.
Must we, in Bangladesh, resort to performing ‘El violador eres tú?’ after every such incident? When people of my country, who I thought to be my kin, for whose freedom I have fought, for whose identity Zohra Begum Kazi fought, begin to say, “What was she wearing?” “What time was it?” “Who was she with?” – should I look directly at them and say, “The rapist is you.”