The July-August uprising of Bangladesh, as history will remember it, was not merely a movement—it was a symphony of repression, meticulously orchestrated by none other than the then prime minister and home minister.

On July 18, a core committee meeting convenes. The setting? A conference room where history would be rewritten with the ink of innocent blood. Picture it—a gathering of the highest-ranking officials of security agencies, intelligence officers, and political henchmen, all waiting for the orders. The home minister, a man whose name will forever be whispered with dread, looks around and declares, "More lethal force!" A nod from the prime minister seals the fate of thousands. A moment worthy of Game of Thrones, if only the Red Wedding were stretched over weeks, spilling far more blood.

Imagine the scene: A soldier loads his rifle, a commander nods approvingly, an intelligence officer drafts a list of "targets." The stage is set. The cast is ready. And the audience? Unwilling, unarmed, and unprepared for the brutal show that would unfold.

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A colonial relic in corporate drag

In the days that followed, the streets became rivers of blood. 1,400 dead. Tens of thousands maimed. The government, ever so magnanimous, claimed only 826 casualties as if the dead needed their existence to be validated by a government ledger. Children were not spared, for what is a political massacre without its share of shattered innocence? The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) report details the gruesome reality—kids, mere children, gunned down with precision, their bodies discarded like chess pieces in a game played by hands too cowardly to admit their crimes.

The historical parallels are staggering. If history were to hold a conference, the ghosts of Nanjing (1937) and the victims of the Amritsar massacre (1919) would find familiar company in Bangladesh's martyrs. And yet, in the grand halls of denial, the former state minister for information, Mohammad Ali Arafat, scoffs at the UN report. "A biased fabrication!" he proclaims as if words could scrub the blood off the streets.

Ever watched Narcos? The way the drug cartels operated—extrajudicial killings, arbitrary arrests, brutal torture—all with the wink of an approving state? Turns out, one does not need a drug empire to run a similar operation. Just a government willing to trade morality for power. The OHCHR report painstakingly details the institutionalised human rights abuses: abductions, torture, and disappearances. The intelligence agencies—DGFI, NSI, NTMC, DB, SB, CTTC—became the real-life boogeymen. A dystopian Stranger Things, but here, the monsters weren't hiding in the Upside Down. They wore uniforms, carried badges, and answered directly to their overlords.

One cannot help but be astounded at the crooked efficiency of the previous regime. The opposition crushed, the bodies disposed of, the perpetrators shielded behind the iron walls of state propaganda. If the Reichstag fire of 1933 taught tyrants anything, it is that the illusion of chaos justifies the iron fist. And so, while the citizens wept, the former prime minister took to podiums, delivering grand speeches about "national security" and the need to "defend democracy." Ah, the irony!

The United Nations, in a voice as firm as it was futile, labelled the atrocities as crimes against humanity. But history whispers a cruel lesson—who punishes those who hold power? Not the people who tremble before their rifles. Not the courts, bent to their will. Perhaps, only time, with its unforgiving memory, will hold them accountable.

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Chaos is a ladder

Now, an interim government stands, led by none other than Professor Dr Muhammad Yunus. A Nobel laureate, a man of principles—one might say, a perfect contrast to the monsters who preceded him. But history remains sceptical. The trials of former ministers and MPs have begun. Eighty are already behind bars, yet the stench of injustice still lingers in the air. One must wonder: will these trials serve justice or merely provide the illusion of it?

Meanwhile, the former ruling party cries foul, their voices hoarse with the desperation of the dethroned. "This report is a lie!" they scream, the echoes of their denials drowned by the very evidence they cannot erase. The world watches, some with outrage, some with indifference. But the dead? The dead do not watch. They do not speak. They do not testify. And therein lies the brilliance of the plan—justice denied by the sheer weight of death itself.

From the genocides of Rwanda (1994) to the silent terror of Stalin's purges (1936-38), history teaches that those in power often mask mass murders under the guise of "national security." Bangladesh's own 1971 Liberation War was fought to resist such tyranny. And yet, half a century later, another generation bled for daring to dream of justice. The past did not merely repeat—it evolved into a more sinister beast, wielding modern surveillance and propaganda like never before.

The real question is: what now? Will this cycle break, or will future leaders, emboldened by impunity, craft an even darker chapter?

As the dust settles and the interim government claims its moral high ground, one thing remains certain—some wounds never heal, and some blood never washes away. The question is, will the future be written in justice or in more blood?

History books will one day recount the July-August massacre, though perhaps not with the gravity it deserves. The blood of the innocent will dry, and their cries will fade, but their stories must remain. For in every tale of oppression, there lies a warning: power unchecked is power unhinged.

For now, let us weep, let us rage, and let us remember. Because forgetting would be the greatest crime of all.

H.M. Nazmul Alam is an academic, journalist, and political analyst. He can be reached at nazmulalam.rijohn@gmail.com.

Views expressed in this article are the author's own. 

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