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THE July uprising in Bangladesh marked a dramatic rupture in the political landscape. At first glance, it signalled a resounding victory: the collapse of a long-entrenched fascist regime. Yet beneath the euphoria lies a more complex and unsettling reality — one that demands sober reflection.

Evaluating an uprising is never straightforward. What some hail as triumph, others interpret as disaster. Success, after all, depends on one’s political and ideological vantage point. What is seen as a victory by one group may be perceived as a catastrophe by another. The July uprising is no exception — it has become a contested event, with interpretations shaped by ideology, power and narrative interests.

What, then, should be the criteria for judging such an event? Key indicators include the intent and aspirations of the masses, the alignment of post-uprising governance with those aspirations, and whether tangible political, social and economic reforms have followed. On all three counts, the current outcomes remain deeply troubling.

There is often a wide gap between what people expect during an uprising and what they actually receive. Every uprising contains an elusive, impossible reality. The July uprising is no exception. It shattered the existing Awami fascist order and created a new situation — a moment when everything seemed possible. Yet the politics and objectives of the uprising were frighteningly undefined. It was not guided by any clear program or roadmap. It created a moment in which all rules were broken and the ‘impossible’ became possible.

From our historical experience, we know that the people’s hopes in 1971 were not fulfilled in post-war Bangladesh; the 1990 student uprising was hijacked by the ruling class. Yet, we do not say that the Liberation War, the 1969 movement, or the 1990 uprising were mistakes. Thus, we must remember the distinction between the July student uprising and the subsequent period of power and governance. Otherwise, we risk falling prey to the aggressive Awami narrative of regime change and conspiracy theories involving American interference.

The core slogans of the movement — opposing inequality and restoring democracy — remain unrealised. Violence and political division continue unchecked. Peace has not prevailed. And most glaringly, the governance that followed has deceived the very spirit of the uprising. Muhammad Yunus, installed in power after the uprising, had no real connection to the struggle itself. Since assuming office, his policies have failed to address inequality or social justice. His budget included no measures for the poor or vulnerable. Extreme poverty has risen from 7.7 per cent to 9.3 per cent, pushing nearly three million more people into destitution. Income inequality has widened — today, the richest 5 per cent households hold 30 per cent of national wealth while the bottom 5 per cent households hold only 0.37 per cent.

Empty slogans have replaced real reform. Workers demanding overdue wages have been gunned down. Indigenous communities face attacks. More than a hundred religious shrines have been destroyed. Violence against women has increased. The government denies sectarian violence, fosters mob rule and sells out national security under the guise of trade deals. The country is being pushed towards religious fascism.

The ruling elite have responded not with transformation, but with paper reforms — token gestures such as commission reports on labour and women’s rights that gather dust on bureaucratic shelves. No steps have been taken to implement universal minimum wages, digital registration or worker protections. These issues don’t require constitutional change — only political will, which is entirely absent.

Even more alarming is how the political force that emerged from the uprising — the NCP — has doomed itself. Lacking a clear vision, it forged alliances with the religious right and squandered the movement’s gains. It has failed to articulate a positive, inclusive politics. It remains silent on workers, healthcare, education and indigenous rights — and has even opposed women’s equal rights. In every respect, it has abandoned the dream of change.

The tragedy is that Bangladesh’s youth — energised by the uprising — were unable to rise as an alternative political force. With mainstream politics consumed by elite power struggles and constitutional formalities, even sections of the left have allied themselves with the bourgeoisie.

The July uprising’s greatest strength — its openness and lack of pre-defined ideology — was also its downfall. That openness enabled unity across society against an authoritarian regime. But in the absence of political structure and direction, the post-uprising period became rudderless. Without politics and organisation, student groups lost control of unfolding events — and with that, the trust of the people.

Today, Bangladesh faces a deeper crisis than governance alone: it faces a vacuum of political vision. The system is built on exploitative capitalism and late fascism. It cannot be reformed from within. Bourgeois reforms will not suffice. Only the complete dismantling of the current state apparatus and the construction of an egalitarian, democratic society can offer a way forward.

The real crisis lies not only in the state but in the absence of an organised political force capable of confronting it. For that transformation to occur, however, the necessary political party and programme remain missing.

The July uprising brought down a fascist regime — but real change will depend on the mobilisation of the people, especially the working class. The moment of rupture must be carried forward by a new politics — one rooted in equality, justice, and democratic participation.

Let the spirit of July — its defiance of fascism and inequality — live on. And let us prepare for the long, unfinished journey ahead.

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Dr Akhtar Sobhan Masroor is a writer and former student leader of the 1990 mass uprising.