Slogans, graffiti and resistance: Culture of protest in July uprising

Al Mamun Harun Ur Rashid :

In July 2024, the streets of Dhaka, Chattogram, Rajshahi, and other cities across Bangladesh became more than tsunami of dissents as they transformed into breathing canvases of resistance by students and masses shouting slogans and drawing graffiti against fascist government of Sheikh Hasina.
Streets, walls, metro-rail pillars, sidewalks, and even the facades of public buildings were turned into expressions of rage, grief, satire, and hope as students drew graffiti and arts to manifest the oppressions of the past government that unleashed the state machinery to suppress their just demand by bullets and baton charging.
What began as a protest against a discriminatory quota system erupted into something far larger: a cultural movement powered by a generation demanding to be heard, seen, and remembered as lessons from Tiananmen and Tahrir Squares.
Here from Dhaka University to Jatrabari, from Jahangirnagar to Sylhet, the uprising unfolded as both a political act and a cultural awakening. It wasn’t just a rebellion against a particular policy of quota system – it was a revolt against a political system that felt calcified, disconnected, and unaccountable. And as history has shown across the world, when institutions falter, art rushes in to speak to express unjust and demand for just.
Graffiti became the visual heartbeat of the movement. Pillars of the metro rail bore bold, defiant words: “The spirit of ’52, the inspiration of ’24.” “Down with dictatorship-leave Bangladesh immediately!” “A country bought with the blood of martyrs does not belong to any one person.”
Across university campuses, posters and murals featured symbolic coffins for justice, crumbling thrones, and masked faces of corruption. The walls asked unsettling questions: “Why did they kill our sons?” “My brother is in the grave – why is the killer free?”
The images of Abu Sayed baring his chest in defiance in Rangpur, ready to take bullets from a tyrannical regime, and the tragic killing of Mugdha – a young boy distributing water to protesting students in Dhaka- have become enduring symbols of sacrifice in the struggle for a Bangladesh free from discrimination and injustice.
What’s particularly striking during the July uprising is that this creative defiance came not from seasoned activists or professional artists, but from everyday youth. Their brushes, chalk, and chants were tools of political resistance.
In a country where public expression was tightly policed and criticism against government’s misrules were often silenced, the slogans, arts, graffiti marked a quiet revolution.
Some may question the relevance of street art in the face of rubber bullets, arrests, and information blackouts. But protest through arts and culture is not mere decoration – it’s the soul of resistance.
It keeps movements alive when laws don’t change. It educates those who might otherwise look away. And it ensures that even if authorities try to erase history, the walls will still remember.
In the long arc of Bangladesh’s story – from the Language Movement of 1952 to the Liberation War of 1971 – culture and politics have always intertwined.
The July Uprising continues this legacy, not through party slogans, but through grassroots imagination. “Revolution is the awakening of mass consciousness.” “When a nation unites, history paves a new path.” Bangladesh’s July Uprising may not yet have reformed institutions of oppression, but it cracked open the silence. It redefined the meaning of public space. It offered a generation the tools to speak – in ink, on brick, in voice, and in vision to weed out the fear of resistance.
The July uprising has left behind not just slogans and scars, but a vivid, national gallery of courage – open for the world to see, and for history to remember that art and slogans can challenge any tyrant.
(The writer is Diplomatic Correspondent at the New Nation).