MY KNOWLEDGE of the people’s movements and uprisings that have taken place across the Bangladesh is very limited. The histories prior to the Hatikheda uprising of 170 years ago remain blurry to me. Yet I do know the story of Amrita Devi of Rajasthan from 1730 — who sacrificed her life to save trees — the spirit that later inspired the Chipko movement. However, I have not yet conducted any participatory research on Chipko itself. I have tried to learn and understand — from the activists and organisers, as well as from their predecessors and successors — about the movements of Hatikheda, Hul, Ulgulan, Tebhaga, Tanka, Nankar, Bhanubil, Balishira, Salanga, Mulluk Yatra, the Liberation War, the Kaptai Dam, the Chittagong Hill Tracts, Farakka, Eco-Park, Menkifanda, Tipaimukh, Phulbari, the jute mills, the Sundarbans, the salt pans, commercial shrimp farms, Madhupur, stone extraction, mining and Bagda Farm. However, regarding the Fakir-Sannyasi Rebellion, very little detail can be found from the descendants of the revolutionaries. Every subaltern movement has its own signature slogans, songs, and artistic expressions. One of the signature slogans of the Tebhaga movement was ‘We will give our lives, but not our paddy.’ During the Liberation War, the song ‘We fight to save a single flower’ became immensely popular.
The July Uprising was infused with a vibrant wave of hip-hop and graffiti. One of its signature graffiti artworks depicted a fresh, leafy tree — a tree standing on Bengal’s soil that symbolically held together the identities of Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Indigenous peoples, and Bengalis — representing an inclusive Bangladesh for all.
But before a year had passed, the people’s aspirations of that bloody July Uprising were shattered. The authoritarianism and binary oppression of the former regime were reinvigorated. Before everyone’s eyes, the leaves of that graffiti tree were torn apart — a brazen act of erasing the indigenous peoples from the vision of a shared Bangladesh. The state did not deliver justice for this injustice. Torn leaves cannot be reattached with glue.
Yet, in a safe ecosystem, new leaves do sprout again. But for indigenous lives, the sprouting and flourishing of new leaves remain unresolved. The question of indigenous self-determination continues to be imprisoned within fascist binaries and the colonial legacy — even after the uprising. Persecution, land-grabbing, looting, Bengali chauvinism, and sexual violence in indigenous lives and settlements have not ceased.
More than a year has passed since the fall of the Awami League regime and I recall that signature graffiti of the people’s uprising — the leafy tree that embodied the people’s collective longing. That suppressed aspiration needs resolution. I want to see its reflection throughout the reform of the constitution and the state. Let binary divisions and ethnonational arrogance be culturally dismantled; let the state, like that leafy graffiti tree of the July Uprising, grow inclusive with many branches and leaves.
At the beginning of this essay, I will present some positive examples concerning indigenous issues taken under the interim government. Alongside, I will also remind us of the unresolved injustices, oppressions, coercions, and triumphalist arrogance that continue. Unless the binary and authoritarian narratives of the state and its agencies are transformed, someone or another will always continue the fascism of tearing away leaves from the graffiti of the people’s aspirations.
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Pluralism and indigenous identity
IN INDEPENDENT Bangladesh, the first to raise the question of nationality in a political context was Manabendra Narayan Larma, during the Constituent Assembly debates in 1972. He articulated in various ways why not all peoples of Bangladesh are ethnically ‘Bengali.’ Since the British colonial period, Indigenous peoples have been struggling for recognition of their self-determination. Yet, no regime has ever officially recognised indigenous self-determination. Even after the July Uprising, the state has failed to take a clear position on this issue. In the early days of the post-uprising interim government, the chief adviser used the term ‘Adivasi’ in his speeches, but in the subsequent months, he refrained from using the term. Nevertheless, several advisers in the interim government still use the word ‘Adivasi’ in their statements, which is somewhat affirming. In the Bangla New Year’s procession following the uprising, attempts were made to ensure the representation of indigenous communities, which I would say is a meaningful inclusion despite various controversies.
The Bangla Academy has begun working on the literature written in the mother tongues of the country’s indigenous communities. As part of the July Renaissance (July Punargaron) programme, Bangla Academy celebrated a Day of Ethnic Diversity not `small ethnic communities’. Talented and creative indigenous youths have been appointed to leadership roles in the country’s `Small Ethnic Group Cultural Institutions’. In collaboration with indigenous peoples of Madhupur and along the Sherpur border, the state has pledged to restore the sal forests and improve wildlife management. The Constitution Reform Commission has proposed equality, human dignity, social justice, pluralism, and democracy as fundamental principles of the constitution. It has also proposed that Bangladesh be defined as a pluralistic, multi-national, multi-religious, multi-lingual, and multi-cultural country. However, the problem is that the Constitution Reform Commission has not unpacked the binaries inherited from the previous regime, nor has it made even a symbolic challenge to the colonial legacy. The Commission too has failed to recognise the indigenous peoples’ right to self-determination. Instead, it has masked the issue with populist terminology such as ‘multi-national/ethnic.’ The Fifteenth Amendment of the Constitution states that ‘The State shall take steps to protect and develop the unique local cultures and traditions of different tribes, minor races, ethnic sects, and communities.’ Yet even in the post-uprising state, colonial, binary, and discriminatory identifiers such as ‘tribe’ and ‘small ethnic group’ remain in official use. Then what did the shedding of blood during the uprising accomplish, if the fascism of Bengali chauvinism still remains deeply embedded in our collective psyche? Although the term ‘small ethnic group’ does not appear in the constitution, it continues to exist in the titles of state-run cultural institutions and in at least one law — an ‘unconstitutional’ usage that persists.
The Small Ethnic Group Cultural Institutions Act 2010 defines ‘small ethnic group’ as referring to the indigenous peoples (Adivasi) and communities listed in the Act’s schedule. In other words, the law itself acknowledges that these ‘small ethnic groups’ are in fact `Adivasi (indigenous peoples)’. The July Uprising painted walls across the country with graffiti asserting indigenous self-determination — this was the people’s aspiration. Why and how accepting that aspiration is seen as a problem — the interim government has yet to explain clearly.
We hope that resolving this long-standing debate over indigenous people’s right to self-determination, continuing since 1972, will become one of the core questions in the process of state reform. We also expect that the election manifestos and political activities of parties seeking power will clearly and respectfully include indigenous self-determination. I began this discussion by highlighting some positive initiatives of the interim government concerning indigenous issues. At this stage, I will bring forward certain unresolved issues and questions from indigenous lives and regions — the very questions that the July Uprising had raised but that still remain unanswered.
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No answers yet over Bawm prison deaths
MOST people in Bangladesh know little about the Bawm community. For many, the name ‘Bawm’ evokes nothing beyond a woven shawl or a traditional blanket. Yet, far away in the hills of Bandarban, fear and uncertainty have taken over Bawm villages. Men, women, and even children have been rounded up and detained. The question remains — what crime has the Bawm people committed? Neither the state nor civil society has raised its voice against this systemic oppression. Those arrested are dying inside prisons before they ever see a courtroom. A carefully manufactured narrative has been deployed to justify their arbitrary arrests — one that echoes the old colonial binaries of suspicion and control. The Kuki Chin National Front, branded by the state as a ‘Bawm party,’ has become the pretext for persecution. The authorities claim that those detained are linked to this outlawed group. Yet, rather than ensuring legal trials and accountability, the state’s response has resulted in suffering and death in custody. Such a continuation of deaths in jail custody should have been unthinkable after the July Uprising — a moment that promised renewal, justice, and the restoration of people’s rights. But reality tells another story. Since the uprising, three Bawm men have died under tragic circumstances inside Chattogram Central Jail: Lal Thleng Kim Bawm (30) on May 15, Lalsang Moy Bawm (55) on June 1, and Van Lal Roel Bawm (35) on July 24. These deaths demand answers. They are not isolated tragedies — they are indictments of a justice system that continues to fail the most vulnerable. The deaths of these three men remain a haunting question mark over the government’s promises of judicial reform and human rights protection in post-uprising Bangladesh. If the new order born from the uprising cannot stop such silent killings — if it cannot guarantee even the right to life for those on the margins — then what has truly changed?
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They feed the nation, yet face violence
IN BANGLADESH, most indigenous women who have been assaulted or raped were working to grow food when the attacks took place. They were sowing seeds in jum fields, gathering wild edibles from the forest, transplanting paddy, or managing food production. Gidita Rema and Shishilia Snal of Madhupur, Ponemala Tripura of Khagrachari, and Bichitra Tirka of Chapainawabganj — all were attacked while engaged in agricultural work on their land and forests. Even after the July Uprising, sexual violence against indigenous women has not stopped. On May 5, 2025, Chingma Khiang of Thanchi, Bandarban, was sowing paddy seeds in her jhum field. When she did not return home, her family went to look for her and found her lifeless body, brutally crushed. Around her, they found scattered seeds, bamboo baskets (thurung), a water bottle, and torn pieces of clothing. Drag marks were visible on the ground — signs of how she had been pulled away. Her head was smashed with a heavy object, perhaps a rock.
Earlier, on March 5, 2025, in the cluster village of Companiganj, Sylhet, two Bengali men — Pradip Das and Alauddin — raped an indigenous woman. They abducted her and took her to the Kalairag forest by the Dhalai River. When she reported the crime, police arrested the two perpetrators. More recently, on October 19, 2024, an indigenous woman from Nonapukur village in Tanore, Rajshahi, was attacked while cutting firewood after finishing her day’s work in the field. A local man named Aminul Islam dragged and sexually assaulted her. Since filing a case, her family has received death threats. Despite their written appeals for protection, the authorities have taken no action. The victim remains confined at home, living in fear. In Rajarhat village of Ramgarh, Khagrachari, three Bengali settlers raped an indigenous woman. Although police later arrested the accused, none of these cases — not this one, not the earlier ones — have seen justice.
These women, who cultivate the food that sustains us, continue to face violence and silenced. The fields and forests where they labour — spaces of life and sustenance — have become sites of terror.
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Ancestral land and the price of protest
DESPITE a change in regime, oppression of indigenous communities has not ceased. Mega development projects, multinational mining operations, eco-parks, and entertainment centers have fractured indigenous territories.
In Madhupur’s sal forest, Piren Snal was killed in the name of an eco-park. From the hills, Kalpana Chakma disappeared. In Dinajpur, indigenous people were evicted for the construction of the Swapnapuri amusement park, while in Sherpur, the Gozani Leisure Center displaced local communities. Plans have been made to build a Marriott Hotel on Chimbuk Hill. On the coast, Rakhine indigenous areas have been destroyed in multiple ways. Land grabs have led to murder: Alfred Soren was killed in Naogaon, Satyaban Hajong in Netrokona, Nitai Tanti and Avinash Mura in tea gardens, and Narendra Munda in Satkhira’s Sundarbans. These ruthless acts of oppression were organised under authoritarian regimes. Immediately following the uprising:
In Jhajhira village, Niamatpur Union, Naogaon, Bengalis burned homes and looted the rice granaries of Oraon communities.
In Sindukai Santali Para, Tanore, Rajshahi, houses were demolished and people were intimidated to vacate their land.
From Idolpur village, Godagari, criminals stole cattle — cows, goats, and sheep.
In Tongpara, Amanur, Chapainawabganj, 12 ponds full of fish owned by Indigenous families were looted.
In Pipalla cluster village, Dhamair Union, Dinajpur, home to 50 Santali families, criminals destroyed the land and houses of Indigenous people.
In Kauwakuri village, Dhamaeirhat, Naogaon, Indigenous Munda and Oraon villages were attacked. In the Champaray tea garden of Moulvibazar, also witnessed violent attacks.
Across Bangladesh, indigenous communities continue to face systematic violence, eviction, and resource theft — even under a new regime that promised change.
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The persistence of authoritarianism
IN THE 1960s, the then East Pakistan government seized 1,842.30 acres of land across the villages of Rampur, Sapmara, Madarpur, Narengabad, and Chokrhimapur under Sapmara Union in Gobindaganj upazila of Gaibandha district. The land was acquired in the name of setting up the ‘Rangpur (Mohimaganj) Sugar Mill.’ The area, now known as Sahebganj–Bagda Farm, saw the eviction of 15 indigenous and five Bengali villages as a result.
When the terms of acquisition were later violated, the heirs of the displaced landowners began demanding the return of their land. Over successive governments, the area became a site of exploitation under different forms of authoritarian control. On May 10, 2016, the Gaibandha district administration proposed establishing a special economic zone on this land. Months later, on November 6, 2016, the sugar mill authorities and police, in the presence of local representatives, attacked the indigenous community — looting homes, setting them on fire, and shooting indiscriminately. Three indigenous Santal farmer — Ramesh Tudu, Mangal Mardi, and Shyamal Hembram — were killed. The Bagda Farm Land Protection Movement played an active role in the July uprising. Yet even after that popular movement, the state has failed to settle the land dispute. Instead, it continues to fuel new forms of authoritarian control. Under the pretext of developing an export processing zone on fertile, three-crop land, fear and unrest persist in Bagda Farm.
A historic psychological distance continues to separate the indigenous peoples from Bengali moneylenders, power brokers, and elite civil society. In the Bengali national imagination, the indigenous remain the ‘other,’ always marginal. This binary division is a legacy of colonialism. Such deeply rooted inequality cannot be undone through a single uprising — it requires a transformation of the Bengali political and moral consciousness itself. At university, I often witnessed bitter quarrels between indigenous and Bengali students over a dish called nappi, a fermented dry fish. Many Bengalis found its smell intolerable and often humiliated their indigenous classmates for it. Yet, in markets across regions inhabited by Bishnupriya Manipuri, Meitei Manipuri, Hajong, Koch, Kol, Munda, Laleng, Santal, Hadi, Banai, and Dalu communities, Bengalis routinely slaughter and display beef in public — forcing indigenous vegetarians or non-beef eaters to endure it silently. This colonial arrogance and racial hierarchy follow us beyond the campus, shaping the very fabric of national life. Perhaps that is why the same ‘educated’ Bengalis still allow school textbooks to describe Santals’ main food as ‘rice, ants, and liquor.’
The July uprising demanded an end to such racist injustice. Recently, in Dhaka, a Chakma-owned restaurant named Hebang, popular among both Bengalis and indigenous diners, faced pressure from certain Bengalis to shut down — again blaming the ‘smell of nappi.’ The same binaries, the same colonial legacies, and the same authoritarian mindset endure. This geography — its people, its economy, and its culture — thrive on diversity: on nappi, shutki, sidol, and even the absence of them. The state’s duty is to protect and nurture this diversity, not suppress it. By forcefully erasing the story of the July uprising from textbooks, the state has symbolically torn off a living leaf from a growing tree. Why, even now, does the state refuse to let that leaf regrow? The tree of pluralism that the July uprising once nurtured — its message painted across the city’s walls — is trembling, drying up. The interim government, at the very least, ought to have the conscience and empathy to recognize this slow decay. l
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Pavel Partha is a writer and researcher.
