Eleven-year-old Samir was sitting on his study table by the window on July 19, 2024, in Mirpur, Dhaka. Suddenly, a bullet violated the safety of his own home, pierced his eyes, and exited through his skull. Days later, his father, Sakibur Rahman, stood at a police station not to file a case but to sign a paper stating "no complaints".
"We followed every rule. Stayed inside during curfew. Even voted for AL. Still, my son was not safe in our home," Sakibur said while sobbing.
A thousand tragedies like this wrecked people's hearts. A student protest that emerged from the quota-reform movement became a people's uprising that overthrew Hasina's 16-year regime of oppression.
Hasina fled to India. Outraged people attacked the Gono Bhaban, Hasina's "palace". They uprooted Sheikh Mujibur Rahman's statue, literally and figuratively.
At least 1,400 other citizens like Samir lost their lives in the brutal crackdown on protests by the regime, according to the UN.
Even with such well-documented victimisation and persecution of Bangladeshis, India did not speak out in support of the new Bangladesh and the people's uprising. They sheltered Hasina, which was not that big a surprise, given the long friendship between Hasina's and Modi's regimes.
But what was a bit more surprising was that the Indian state of West Bengal, once united with Bangladesh by common language and culture before the politics of imperialism ripped them apart, did not wholeheartedly welcome the uprising. Even though leftist student organisations, such as SFI, and ordinary students expressed their concern about events in their neighbouring country, major leftist or other political parties neither issued statements nor held rallies to show solidarity with the tumult-hit Bangladesh.
In 1971, West Bengal famously stood for independent Bangladesh, rejoicing in the victory of its twin, which had ripped its umbilical cord at the dawn of 1947.
But why did they fail this time? Did this uprising shatter their perception of the monolithic Bangladesh that they used to romanticise? Or is this a result of the two neighbours' continued cultural and political distance?
Bengal was once among the wealthiest regions in the world. When the East India Company colonised it in 1757 after the Battle of Plassey, it introduced the Permanent Settlement Act in 1793—a revenue system unique to Bengal. This policy gave rise to a new class of beneficiaries: the zamindars. While their estates were largely located in East Bengal (now Bangladesh), many of these zamindars relocated to Calcutta (now Kolkata), then the capital of British India. This spatial and economic disconnect helped establish a lasting, authoritative gaze from West Bengal toward the East.
Following a long anti-imperialist struggle, Bengal gained independence, only to be divided along religious lines. The Muslim-majority eastern half became East Pakistan, eventually breaking away through a bloody war of independence to become Bangladesh. Most Hindu zamindars migrated to West Bengal during and after Partition, carrying with them both nostalgia and a sense of loss for their ancestral lands in East Bengal. Over time, East Bengal transformed in their memory into a place of longing—idealised, romanticised, yet held at a cultural and emotional distance.
This deep sense of longing and cultural connection gave Bangladesh moral support from West Bengal during its war of independence against Pakistan. While Bangladesh had been fighting against the Pakistani oppressors since March 1971, India formally entered the conflict on December 3rd, and Pakistan surrendered in Dhaka on December 16. Although the primary force behind liberation was the will and sacrifice of the Bangladeshi people, India's involvement shaped its, and especially the Delhi establishment's, self-image as a liberator in the aftermath. This eventually led to a "big brother" mentality towards the newly created Bangladesh, one of shared culture yet subtle superiority.
Critics of the Hasina regime reckoned that India's support for Hasina's contentious, uncontested elections gave it leverage over Bangladesh's domestic affairs.
Hasina's government inked several contentious accords with India. Particularly, the Rampal coal-fired power station. Environmentalists say that this project poses a serious threat to the Sundarbans, the world's biggest mangrove forest and a UNESCO World Heritage site. Public protests against Rampal were met with harsh repression. The Hasina dictatorship repressed opposition with an iron fist.
Throughout these undemocratic practices, the Indian government appeared to stand firm behind Hasina. Notably, when Hasina left as a result of the July uprising, she flew to India. And when Bangladesh sought her return to stand trial for atrocities during the July Revolution, India remained silent. Such events have heightened anti-India feelings among many Bangladeshis, fuelling the idea of India as a supporter of authoritarianism in Bangladesh.
After Hasina fled to India and murmurs of her extradition to face trial for her alleged crimes grew louder in Bangladesh, one Indian newscaster implied that Bangladesh was at fault for putting India in an "embarrassing situation," especially as Bangladesh was a "junior partner" in the diplomatic relationship. The notion of a sovereign country being inferior to another is unheard of in diplomatic and international relations discourse, but such condescension abounded in Indian coverage of Bangladesh's revolution.
The two nations signed an extradition deal in 2013, but India did not respond when Bangladesh officially asked for Hasina's return. This fuelled anti-India sentiment among Bangladeshis. Interestingly, fellows from West Bengal cherry-picked Bangladeshi responses while ignoring the Indian government's Bangladesh policy.
The July uprising in Bangladesh broke illusions on both sides of the border, upending long-held beliefs in both Bangladesh and India. The shock was felt not only by political parties but also by West Bengal's cultural establishment, which has long contributed to a subtle sense of cultural superiority in Kolkata via discourse.
There's often a sense that Kolkata sets the tone of what constitutes "true" Bengali high culture, with Bangladesh seen as peripheral or derivative. For example, major Kolkata-based literary festivals disproportionately focus on pre-partition figures and rarely include contemporary Bangladeshi authors.
Sunil Ganguly, Shakti Chatterjee, Satyajit Ray, Suchitra Bhattacharjee, or Samaresh Majumder were among the Kolkata writers we admired as we grew up. But did Dhaka writers receive half the recognition that their Kolkata counterparts enjoyed?
Writers like Taslima Nasreen or Humayun Ahmed have limited visibility, and when they are discussed, it is often through a lens of exile, controversy, or nostalgia, not as equal contributors to a living Bengali literary tradition.
For many Bangladeshis, the strategic quiet of political actors in West Bengal was disappointing. They expected friends from across the border to show solidarity. While social media was flooded with romanticised sentiments of support, these actions lacked monetary or political backing.
Perhaps in the West Bengal psyche, Bangladesh was an uncontroversial place of calm, rustic beauty—the root from which West Bengal reached dizzying heights. But the July uprising was political, enraged, and rebellious, reminding the world that, in the language of the arts, Bangladesh would not be typecast. It called for allyship and empathy from a region they looked to for solidarity, but there was none.
Part of this disconnect may be political caution. India, especially under its current leadership, is increasingly authoritarian and hostile to dissent. Open support for a popular uprising next door could set a dangerous precedent. West Bengal's ruling party, Trinamool Congress (TMC), may have calculated that silence was safer than solidarity, especially when India's central government maintains strategic ties with Hasina's Awami League. It becomes clear when India shows concern for the recent ban on AL, or when they don't clarify Hasina's status in India.
The new democratic journey of Bangladesh has begun with a new chapter. People on both sides of the border must determine if they wish to stand in solidarity with their twin. Only time will tell if the common grounds historically cherished will be enough to muster the unpleasant self-reflection and systemic engagement that would be required.
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