"Every anti-Hasina slogan that appeared on campus walls in July was written in a rush, done quickly before anyone from the police, administration, or Chhatra League could arrive. The Chhatra League logo itself was scratched out and painted over with spray. That memory, that act of resistance, has now been erased in many different ways," Nuzia Hasin Rasha, an active protester of the July Uprising, shared her memories of painting graffiti during the uprising.
"The July graffiti was being erased. They were deemed as full of abuse and vulgarity," said Rasha. "Even the wall of the Shaheed Minar was repainted with a portrait of NCP leader Akhtar. But was that done before July? Or during July? That's important to ask. Because that mural was painted four to five months after the uprising. And, on that very wall, on 2 August, during the drohojatra, I spray-painted 'Step down, Hasina' and 'Hasina is a murderer'."
Subculture, as defined by the British cultural theorist Dick Hebdige, essentially differentiates itself from the dominant culture through distinct values, norms, behaviours, symbols, and practices. During the July Uprising, significant elements from subcultures, including memes, rap songs, and graffiti, played an influential role in shaping public political consciousness.
Post the July Uprising, walls with these instant, rushed graffiti made during the movement were whitewashed for new murals, with words, images, and incidents significant to the uprising.
While many call this art form graffiti, others differ.
Shanaj Parvin Jonaki, another activist and theatre artist, shared her understanding of the post-July paintings.
"After 5 August, the paintings are nothing; we could merely call that wall art. But the ones before 5 August, with spelling mistakes, messy handwriting, scribbled in a rush, written in fear for one's life; those were the real ones to me. They gave me courage. And that was something truly extraordinary," she added.
To both Nuzia and Shanaj, these art forms are wall art or murals, as neither challenges the dominant aesthetic norms, nor are they unauthorised or illicit.
Their concern echoes the questions: can something be called graffiti when sponsored by the state, rather than questioning the institutions?
Researcher and writer KM Rakib shared his insights in a conversation with Stream, reflecting on the evolving role of graffiti in post-uprising Bangladesh.
Graffiti, he said, has always existed on the margins, constantly evading state surveillance, and this remains true today. He points to iconic figures like Jean-Michel Basquiat and Banksy, who built their artistic legacies by directly confronting dominant state narratives.
In Rakib's view, graffiti serves as the visual counterpart to rap or hip-hop: subversive, raw, and rooted in resistance.
He believed that the inherently rebellious nature of graffiti had not fundamentally changed after 5 August. At the same time, he observes that institutions and authorities have increasingly sought to co-opt the movement's energy and reshape its narrative to serve their purposes.
Echoing Rakib, author Shuhan Rizwan also mentioned how graffiti has become part of an average Bangladeshi's vocabulary since 5 August 2024, even if they don't quite realise the inherent implications of it.
"Before 5 August, most people did not think of graffiti as a form of political expression. We only saw graffiti in very urban areas, often done by small subcultures, and there was no clear difference between painting and graffiti," said Rizwan.
"In Bangladesh, many artworks have been called graffiti since 5 August 2024. Some of them are very impressive. If they were made in a different time, they would be considered real graffiti. But I feel that most of these pieces were made in places that were safe and allowed. And that goes against the true nature of graffiti," he added.
As Rakib noted, many original pieces of graffiti have been erased and replaced with new ones.
Some of these newer works were privately commissioned, while state-affiliated initiatives reportedly backed others. While it may not be entirely accurate to call this a state project, there is a clear attempt to appropriate and redirect the movement's message.
Graffiti or wall art? Who decides?
The boundary between graffiti and wall art is not necessarily an issue of aesthetics or legal status; rather, it's a socially constructed one, rooted in power dynamics and the idea of ownership over urban space.
The answer is not in what is in the art, but in who put it there, why, and who gets to decide what stays.
An easy example is the current graffiti on the metro rail pillar beside the Raju Memorial Sculpture in Dhaka University. Initially, it was a mural of then-prime minister Sheikh Hasina, sponsored by the Bangladesh Chhattra League (BCL), the ruling party's student wing.
During the July Uprising, protesters vandalised it with splashes of red paint, which resembled the horror of the state violence at the time. This act of vandalism transformed a state-sponsored mural into a work of anti-authority graffiti.
"Vandalism feels very subjective to me. I'm not sure who considers what as vandalism. It all depends on the context. Even graffiti is often labelled as vandalism, though I don't see it that way. For me, the intention behind it is what matters. For example, how do we define the destruction of street barricades in July?" Shanaj questioned.
Even though spectators do not know who threw the paint first, they can tell how this act questioned the Hasina regime's power and authority. It interpreted the designed order of the authority by inserting the lived, immediate, and often dissident experience of those excluded from formal power.
Is graffiti more political? Who controls its narratives post the July Uprising?
Graffiti as a subculture has historically always been anti-establishment. Starting from the 1960s in Philadelphia and expanding in the 1970s in New York City, it was used as a tool for promoting an artist's agenda of recognition (tagging on walls to establish supremacy over another group) or surrounding contemporary social concerns. The walls, in the second case, become a site to present the artist's opinion on multiple social and political issues and injustices.
Anthropologist James C Scott observed that power does not necessarily operate only through the dominant group but even through the 'powerless people,' which he addressed as the 'hidden transcript.'
Graffiti can make the hidden transcript visible, a form of everyday resistance painted in plain sight.
"Graffiti, in most parts of the world, is seen as a kind of art that expresses protest or resistance. Often, it is illegal, and many people see it as vandalism. Whether it is the government, a political group, or some other authority, graffiti goes against the institutionally propagated narrative. That is what makes it powerful. It gives a voice to people who are not usually heard," said Rizwan.
Another key feature of graffiti as an unofficial artwork displayed in public spaces is that it is always at risk of being taken down or covered up by officials or even fellow artists. It cannot be owned or purchased.
What people see is a unique piece that will probably not be around for a long time. This fleeting nature gives the work a sense of urgency and energy.
"Real graffiti is made in secret. It is done quickly, often at night, before the police or anyone in power can stop it. Think of what happened during the Subodh graffiti movement. That felt more like real graffiti. But now, most of these works are being made without any risk. Sometimes the authorities even allow them to remain silent. It is starting to feel more like a show," Rizwan added.
Graffiti is often considered more political, not because it uses spray painting, but because it arises from the tension, exclusion, and the emergency.
While it may not always carry an explicit message, its mere presence is a form of disruption.
This presence alone makes it political.
On the contrary, wall art often enjoys status as 'cultural capital,' which aligns with the taste and standards of the dominant social group. This alignment usually tosses out this art form's political agency.
For example, a mural commissioned by the government to celebrate diversity may receive praise, while a spontaneous graffiti piece condemning state violence may be erased as an "eyesore," even if both convey similar messages.
Rakib argues that graffiti, by its very nature, is individualistic, anti-authoritarian, and inherently pluralistic. It provides a shared space where multiple voices coexist. "Even if the interim government or any dominant institution attempts to use graffiti to promote its message, it cannot fully control the medium or reduce it to a single narrative," he added.
Meghmallar Basu, the current president of the Dhaka University Students' Union, expressed his concern in a recent Facebook post, highlighting the removal of murals referencing the blogger killings.
He noted that these removals were carried out by "mobs", who labelled the bloggers as shatim—an Islamic term used to accuse someone of blasphemy.
According to Basu, only the parts referencing the blogger killings under the Awami League regime were targeted, while the other murals, depicting various acts of state repression, including the May 5 crackdown and the arrests of opposition leaders, remained untouched.
Rizwan coined this selective removal of subjects from these state-sponsored "graffiti" as a form of societal censorship.
"In every society, there are usually two types of censorship. The first comes from people with authority, like the government, the state, or even your parents, basically any entity that has power over others. The second kind comes from society itself. Every period in history has groups that try to control what can be said," he said.
"I think after August 5 last year, the second kind grew stronger in Bangladesh than the first one. This kind does not come in any official capacity, yet it carries immense power. This societal censorship is the same force that decides which questions cannot be asked and what type of art must be taken down. And that is quite dangerous," added Rizwan.
The difference between graffiti and wall art is not just about spray paint versus brush or permission versus punishment.
It is about whose voices are heard, whose presence is tolerated, and who gets to shape the visual narrative of a city.
Graffiti and wall art may share the same surface, but they tell very different stories of power, resistance, and the human need to be seen.
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