Recall one of the most memorable posters from our Liberation War: "Banglar Hindu, Banglar Christian, Banglar Buddho, Banglar Musolman, Amra Shobai Bangali". Widely shared even today, especially during important junctures in our political history, the poster testifies to the secular foundational principles of Bangladesh on one hand and erases the non-Bangali identity from the nationalist movement on the other; the latter remains a phenomenon that is persistent even during our present moment.

All this and more were discussed at a panel titled "Language Matters" at the Gulshan Society Bhasha Utshob on February 22. Featuring linguists, activists, academics, and artists including Manosh Chowdhury, Naira Khan, Sharmee Hossain, Reng Young Mro, and Ruphoshree Hajong, and moderated by Nazia Manzoor, the panel supplied a critical as well as emotional commentary on the issues of linguistic hegemonisation, power imbalances, the marginalisation of non-Bangali languages and identities, and the aftermath of the revolutionary spirit of July 2024. Below is an excerpt from the hour-long conversation that encapsulates the dichotomies characterising Bangladesh's independence struggle and its relationship with its own language.

Nazia Manzoor: Good afternoon. I hope everyone is doing well. To begin, I would like to properly introduce our panelists to everyone. Seated next to me is Sharmee Hossain. Sharmee Hossain is a linguist, a musician, a social justice activist, and a natural farming enthusiast. She teaches English at North South University. Next to me is Ruposhree Hajong. She is an artist, designer, and activist with a Master's in Fine Arts. Our next speaker, Naira Khan, is an associate professor in the Department of Linguistics at the University of Dhaka, with a research focus on syntax and computational linguistics. She is currently working on Bangla computation, cognitive processing of syntax, and grammar engineering tools for the digitised documentation of endangered languages. Next, we have Manosh Chowdhury who teaches Anthropology at Jahangirnagar University. And finally, Reng Young Mro is a young indigenous rights activist from Bandarban, Chittagong Hill Tracts, Bangladesh. Since his student years, Reng has been working within indigenous communities to advocate for their land rights. He also works as a researcher at Drik.

And this is "Language Matters."

When Sadaf Saaz, the curator of this festival and I first discussed this panel last week, the entire event came together within just five days' notice. We began by reflecting on what the core questions, primary ideas, and fundamental concepts of a discussion on language at a Bhasha Utshob should be. And time and again, we kept returning to the same point—whenever we think about language, we do so with a deeply Bangali-centric perspective.

So, the question we want to raise here is: Is there room to step away from this Bangali-centric viewpoint and reconsider our approach to language? And if so, how does this panel engage with that idea? That is my first question. Do we have the space to move beyond—or even challenge—this Bangali-centric lens in the Bangladesh of 2025, particularly, in light of the events of July's uprising?

Anyone can start. There are several microphones available.

Reng Young Mro: I extend my greetings to everyone. I must admit, I'm feeling a bit nervous—sitting here among such esteemed individuals, I don't quite feel like I belong on this stage just yet. My name is Reng Young Mro, and I grew up speaking Mro at home, in a Mro-language environment. But since Bangla is the state language of this country, and since we need it to secure food, clothing, decent wages, and livelihoods, I had to learn Bangla, though it wasn't easy for us to acquire it.

So, I would like to begin by sharing my experience of how I learned Bangla.

The first school I attended was a village school named Ronjupara Registered Beshorkari Prathomik Biddaloy. It has now become a government school. Back then, all of our teachers were Bangali or Bangla-speaking, which made communication very difficult for us. We struggled to understand most of what they were saying. As a result, our foundational primary education remained weak. I studied in that village school until class five, but because of this struggle, when I later enrolled in a school in Rangamati, I was demoted from class five to class three. Since I wasn't fluent in Bangla—or English, for that matter, as both are dominant, state-endorsed languages—I had to start over from class three. 

Gradually, I continued my education through school and college and eventually had the fortune—or misfortune—to study Bangla Literature at Jahangirnagar University. That journey has led me here today.

Earlier, while sitting in the audience, I was listening to another discussion panel where people were speaking so fluently in English and Bangla. And inside me, my nervousness was only growing—because I have struggled under the weight of these two colonial languages, and yet here I am, sitting on a red-carpeted panel, breaking through those barriers to participate in this discussion. That contradiction within me is unsettling, yet at the same time, it feels significant.

I don't know… Even in school and college, I remember facing similar struggles. When representing our school in competitions, we often failed to properly present ourselves in Bangla. Because of that, we were made to feel as though we had somehow disrespected the dignity of the Bangla language. We had also committed the grave mistake of failing to represent our school as the best in front of a large audience. It was, normatively speaking, a sin. 

I remember in college, during a Bangla class, there was a debate about whether Bangladesh's national language should be considered one's mother tongue or whether one's first language should be the language learned at home. Our teacher concluded that since all residents of this country live within its borders, Bangla is the mother tongue of all of us.

That statement unsettled me. I wasn't sure if it was right or wrong—I couldn't say for certain; maybe those who study language at a deeper, more theoretical level can answer that better. But from where I stand, it didn't feel entirely right. I still believe that statement was not correct.

Recently, I read a Facebook post where someone shared an experience that was almost identical to an incident that had happened to me at university. It reminded me of my own. A few friends and I had gone to the Ekushey Boi Mela. While we were there, I got a call from home. Since my friends were with me, I stepped aside to take the call. As I spoke in Mro, I noticed two police officers standing nearby. This was around 2016.

As soon as they heard me speaking in Mro, they started mocking me, imitating the sounds in a stereotypical and offensive way—saying things like "ching chong" in an attempt to ridicule my language. I felt extremely irritated but also fearful at the same time. These were armed law enforcement officers; would it be wise to confront them?

Despite my fear, I ended the call and asked them directly, "Is there a problem?" Their response was, "What are you even saying? We don't understand a word." After that, I said, "Why do you need to understand? I'm just talking at home." But of course, after a while, I could feel the tension growing. I didn't have the courage to argue further, so I left. I told my friends about it, and they were very upset. They tried to look for the police officers, but by the time they went to search for them, the officers had already left.

Such incidents keep happening, and it feels like this is what life is always going to be like.

Nazia Manzoor: Everything always revolves around this Bangali-centric mindset, right?

Reng Young Mro: Yes, that's how it is. Now, others will start talking about the matter—how it's being treated, and what the issue really is.

Nazia Manzoor: Now, let us listen to what others have to say.

Manosh Chowdhury: I can offer a perspective here. Thanks to Reng, as I was not familiar with his wit before, but his three-minute speech effectively conveyed the challenges faced in Bangladesh, particularly in relation to the grand nationalistic pride that sometimes leads to cultural suppression. It's difficult to argue against the dominance of Bangla language, especially in a place like Gulshan, where such nationalist rhetoric is typically favoured over recognising the multilingual reality of the country. These authorities don't even own the Bangla language the way they claim to. However, what I wanted to discuss was the following: for those who are here, please take notes, especially those who will speak after me.

One point to keep in mind is that many of us who are genuine Bangla speakers often forget that in Bangladesh, other ethnic groups who, as recently as under the previous Prime Minister, were labeled as "minorities" or even derogatorily called "khudro nri goshthi," are still fighting for their rights. The new government still has not fully lifted this stigma, and many of those who go to school or college today are, in fact, trilingual. But this trilingualism is often dismissed, ridiculed, or misunderstood as something unnecessary or forced, just as it was in the case Reng mentioned. 

About 20 years ago, the Santal community opened a mother-tongue school that was ultimately demolished. On one hand, Bangali apologists argued that there was no real need for a Santal language school. This is a crucial question, but those of you who live here in Gulshan also question whether everyone must learn Bangla. These two issues are, in fact, intertwined, but the key point is that the value of establishing a Santal language school in Bangladesh was undermined before it could even begin, and the people in the region destroyed the school before it could come under the attention of government officials. This is the language-political reality we live in.  

I will add something here: Anyone who follows the news knows that the ethnic dynamics around the Chattogram Hill Tracts are very diverse. The Mro ethnic group and the Marma people, for example, have their own scripts, but there are no opportunities to practice those scripts. These issues are part of a complex dynamic, and after the 1997 peace treaty—which in my view was defrauding in nature, and some of us who criticised the treaty were condemned as well—I believe some people supported the government at the time, singing its praises, hoping that the Prime Minister wins the Nobel Peace Prize. I think I can even see some of those individuals among the audience. 

The challenge is that when the state and its language policy are at odds, our policymakers have never taken a sensible stance. What did our former Prime Minister do? She used to claim that vocational education would be necessary. But have we ever asked: Who do we need the training for? For the ministers? Or is it for their children?

Nazia Manzoor: It was for the poor children.

Manosh Chowdhury: Exactly. It was the responsibility of the teachers to speak about the rest of the matter. And no one is more timid, selfish, or higher-positioned professionals than those who teach. So, in such a situation, when the government has high praise, it is the duty of the educators to speak out. I acknowledge that in the job I do—teaching—there has been limitless misconduct, with the first instance of misconduct being the failure to raise our voices. This peace agreement, which was supposed to be preventive, was known by many people in Bangladesh's civil society, but they did not speak out. 

Why am I bringing this up? In truth, it was an opportunity in the language debate, where the suffering caused by the events of 1971 could have been addressed through the upright implementation of the peace agreement in 1997. While Bangalis may not have been particularly concerned with this issue, non-Bangali communities had the opportunity to learn the languages of their neighbours, for instance, the Mro learning Chakma. I, too, could have learned Marma or Chakma. At the very least, basic conversational language learning could have been made accessible in Bangladesh. The reflective note for Reng's speech might sound a bit harsh, but this was just the extent to which I wanted to engage with him. 

Nazia Manzoor: Ruposhree, would you like to add something to this matter? I would like to ask you about your experience. 

Ruposhree Hajong: Thank you, I am Ruposhree Hajong. I am a member of the Hajong community. It is estimated that there are about 15,000 Hajongs in Bangladesh, but the actual number is likely less. We, the Hajong community, primarily reside in areas such as Sherpur, Netrokona, Mymensingh, and Sunamganj. The language we speak is the Hajong language, and we call it by this name. The Hajong language does not have a written script, that is, it has no alphabet of its own. Over time, the language has been passed down orally. 

With the increase of the population, the language itself has become limited within that community. Since my childhood, I have lived in a village, and if I have to share my experience, I would say a similar incident happened when I was in class six. At that time, my grip of Bangla was not that strong, and since we lived alongside Bangali families, we interacted quite a bit. The way we learned or attempted to learn Bangla was by speaking it during playtime with others [...] in an impure form of Bangla. It wasn't fluent or "pure"; it was merely the way we could express ourselves at the time. 

So in class six, when I moved to the upazila, I often saw that when I spoke in Bangla, the other students would laugh. Maybe the teacher had asked something, and I was answering in Bangla, but everyone would just laugh at me. In those moments, I would immediately fall silent. I endured a lot of pain during classes six and seven because of this. However, when I joined the missionary school in class eight, I noticed that there, I was the only one who could speak a little Bangla, while others couldn't. At that point, I felt like no one would mock me anymore, and I had survived. 

In this way, gradually, my sense of Bangla language developed. One of my biggest struggles is that, since the Hajong language doesn't have alphabets, I, as an artist (I have completed my honours and masters in Fine Arts from Jahangirnagar University), cannot preserve any written symbols of our Hajong language. So, what I do is incorporate elements of the Hajong culture into the corners of my canvas, based on my compositions. For example, I might include something like our traditional weaving patterns, or our traditional dress, or even some songs from the Hajong language, subtly woven into the artwork. Today, I should have worn our traditional Hajong dress, Pathin, but many people are not familiar with it, and normally when it's seen on the streets, people stare incessantly, which makes me feel uneasy. 

What I mean is that no one else knows my language except me. So, I write songs or poems in [Bangla script], but in the Hajong language. People then try to read and recite those songs, poems, and pronunciations. Even when the pronunciation is incorrect, it doesn't bother me because it feels good to hear. Now, if I were to speak in Hajong, I would say [speaks in Hajong language], and you would notice that it closely resembles Bangla. These were the highs and lows of my language journey. 

Sharmee Hossain: This is a very interesting discussion, and I would like to add something to it. As Nazia was saying–how do we move beyond Bangla-centeredness? In reality, this question brings up another question as well. Even if we set aside other languages, which Bangla are we referring to here? The Bangla I speak while living in Gulshan or the one spoken by a farmer in Baghmara? There is a power relation even within this. For instance, here I am saying "achhe" instead of "ase" even though at home, I always say "ase". 

The way we wear different masks of language—how we choose which language to use depending on whom we are speaking to—is something we need to reflect on. This is a significant aspect of Bangla that deserves our attention. We must also consider the power dynamics that exist within Bangla itself, across its various dialects.

When I teach in class, I tell my students that if two people can understand each other's speech, then we consider it the same language. When Ruposhree was speaking, I understood her. Yet, whether for political reasons or other factors, these two languages are still regarded as separate. If we consider the language of Chattogram, its syntax and morphology have far fewer similarities with standardised Bangla. Yet, it is still regarded as a form of Bangla. The way we categorise languages—what we call a language; what we call a dialect, which form is considered standard; which is "Bangla"; which is "semi-Bangla"; which is "rustic-Bangla" and which is "elite-Bangla"—is all a political construct. And whether we realise it or not, we all subscribe to this construct. 

Nazia Manzoor: My next question actually relates to Naira Apa and Sharmee Apu. Both of you are linguists—and I know that Naira Apa works with endangered languages and Sharmee apu has a particular interest in sociolinguistics, which she approaches both academically and through custom—discussions around this topic have been ongoing for a long time: the complexities of language, especially in the context you both raised before us where our relationship with language is one of both domination and survival. How can we address this relationship of domination and survival within our linguistics practice, particularly in academic settings like classrooms? There are four educators present here, and among them, three work with language. This might be a biased question, but still, I feel compelled to ask it.

Naira Apa, could you share your insights on this matter? The linguistic tension that we experience in terms of the power hierarchy: how we understand what language is, which languages get spoken, which are prioritised, and how the classroom either challenges or reinforces these dynamics? 

Naira Khan: What we heard from Reng and Ruposhree highlights that even in establishing Bangla identity, there was a struggle. And in the process of doing so, we ended up at the other extreme—marginalised languages.

When I work in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, we are often asked, "Do you have a script?" And I always ask in return, "Why are you asking that?". There is this perception that if a language doesn't have a script, then it is not a separate language. So, I respond by saying, "If I create a script for the Noakhali dialect right now, would you then consider it a separate language?"

Nazia Manzoor: Would you accept it as one?

Naira Khan: Exactly. So, what we do is analyse linguistic structures. And I would argue that Chattogram has the same linguistic structure as Bangla. It exists on a continuum—it has more distance from the central dialect, but linguistically, it is still Bangla. There is very little syntactic deviation. This is what makes language so fascinating.

At that moment, everyone comes forward as if to save Bangla. And that's when I want to ask, "What do you mean by that? Save Bangla?" There are about 6,000 to 7,000 languages in the world, and Bangla ranks sixth or seventh among the most spoken languages. It is one of the largest languages in the world. So, when people tell me to save Bangla from extinction, I ask, "What do you mean by that?" So, first, they talk about distortion– that the language is being distorted. One aspect of this is the issue of regional influence, where dialectal elements or regional pronunciations come into play. The other aspect is my use of code-mixing and code-switching—that is, I am drawing on my full linguistic repertoire to communicate.

When people talk about language distortion, I always ask, "Then what is the pure form?" And when they refer to a pure form, they mention Promito Bangla. Previously, it was called Shuddho Bangla, but now we prefer the term Promito Bangla (Standard Bangla). Then I ask, "What is Standard Bangla?" What is it really? It's just another dialect. And which dialect is it? The Kolkata dialect.

At this point, we now have a distinct Dhaka dialect that differs from the Kolkata dialect. Why was the Dhaka dialect originally chosen? Because the political seat of power was there.

If the political seat of power had been in Chittagong or Noakhali, I would have had to learn the Noakhali dialect. Why? Because when people adopt the dialect of those in power—it benefits those in power. Now imagine if the Noakhali dialect had been the dominant one. It would have been used in courts, textbooks, and offices—that would have been the standard. Everyone, including me, would have had to learn it. And our social perceptions—when someone cannot speak Standard Bangla—we judge them. We link it to socio-economic status, we associate it with educational background, and based on that, we make certain artificial judgments. And we continue to perpetuate these biases because those of us who can speak Standard Bangla benefit from maintaining these prejudices. It's the same with English as well—when someone can't speak it, they are judged.

And the interesting thing about tensions in the classroom—at Dhaka University, we have a rule that every exam must be followed by a viva. We have purists, those who strictly adhere to Standard Bangla. There are certain skills of usage when it comes to implementing it properly. For example, if I go to an interview, I can't say "Tui kemon achish?" I must use Standard Bangla with appropriate honorifics—there's no room for informal speech.

What I've noticed, though, is that our students deliberately use words like "porsi", "khaisi" even when they are told that they must not. It's their way of saying, "No, I am not subscribing to your norms." 

Nazia Manzoor: A form of resistance.

Naira Khan: Right. And it's ironic because we, as linguists, teach that language isn't meant to be prescribed in rigid forms—it exists for communication. As long as we can communicate, we should be able to use anything, whether it's a regional dialect, a mix of English and Bangla, or even a blend of multiple languages. But breaking out of that mindset is difficult. What's fascinating, though, is that the new generation is consciously and purposefully breaking free from it. 

Nazia Manzoor: And now, in 2024, after the recent mass uprisings, we are seeing a resurgence of that nationalist imposition—whether in the online sphere, on the streets, or even in spaces like book fairs, where a police officer might judge you based on your private conversation and attack your personal identity.

So, when we talk about language and its inextricable link to identity, there's a weight of responsibility that comes with it. The identity we inhabit and the language we speak—both shape how we present ourselves. But this also creates fractures. Which identity takes precedence? Which one do we prioritise?

This tension—the clash between language and identity—is something we experience intensely within Bangladesh. But when we step outside the country, into the diaspora, this struggle manifests differently. If you are multilingual, that layered identity reflects in another way.

How does this panel view these dynamics? 

Manosh Chowdhury: First I would like to assert one point—every conflict surrounding identity and language is mediated. No conflict exists in a sovereign, isolated way, not even the post-August 5th conflicts.

Nazia Manzoor: I agree. 

Manosh Chowdhury: Even if we set aside concerns about physical safety, at the very least, there is always an intellectual commotion at play. It may not always happen in the polished drawing rooms of Gulshan society—it can take place anywhere. But the key takeaway here is that if we acknowledge that conflicts are mediated, we cannot erase the role of social actors. That means we can't dismiss or overlook the forces shaping these struggles.

Let me give you two small examples. Now, I see that very few people here are older than me—but anyway, there was a film called Megher Onek Rong, released in 1973. Now, don't assume I was sitting in a cinema hall in '73 watching it! I watched it much later. 

The protagonist there is non-Bangali. The female protagonist was possibly Rakhine. In 1973's Bangladesh, those who gained state power, and even those who controlled para-state organisations like the Film Development Corporation—well, there are rules for calling universities government-run, but now we have sunk to a lower level than the government—made certain choices about representation. 

And yet, even within those structures, even in a simple, straightforward heterosexual love story, we see a Bangali man falling for a Rakhine woman. The narrative even involves a child coming from another family, adding layers to the story. But here's the striking part: it's been 50 years since then. And in all this time, we have not seen another mainstream protagonist, male or female, who is non-Bangali. 

If a non-Bangali character appears, they have always been portrayed as the villain, mind it! Now, this is one perspective. If we look from a second perspective, even if we take an example from a film, you might remember Golam Mostafa and Khalil, they have been playing villainous roles for a long time. I'm not speaking in a binary way; I'm just saying, even in the so-called mainstream cinema of the time, there were characters who portrayed the villain also spoke in "BBC Bangla". 

Nazia Manzoor: Right. 

Manosh Chowdhury: So, what I mean is, at that historical moment, in that historical context, what the state actors wanted to bring forward—that's the issue. My point is not that even villains should speak Standard Bangla, it is that even the villains of the '70s were made to speak Standard Bangla. What I'm trying to say is, if these contemporary or demonstrational or exhibition items are crafted in a certain way, then there is no reason for the conflict not to be crafted as well. 

Now, if we begin to view the conflict as something deliberately constructed, we need to address it in a few more ways than on the surface. There must be more political direction, greater courage, and stronger political will. I believe that most of the conflicts in Bangladesh are fabricated. 

This brings us to the key point—the issue of language, as both of you and Naira have mentioned. The first question is: when and which language is being silenced? Pay attention, it's not as if those who speak so-called Standard Bangla in Bangladesh are living comfortably. They have been raising complaints for at least the past 30 years. Politics in society plays a crucial role here—how it has been dismissed, how it has been used to oppress people. For example, someone who speaks English may be marginalised, or someone who doesn't speak English, or someone who doesn't adhere to rules in Bangla schools, could also be marginalised. 

And Reng mentioned two colonial languages, if you remember, one of them is actually Bangla. So, in such a situation, how is it possible that in society, just through the issue of language, one side is turned into the opposition? That underlying mechanism has been set in motion. I am more interested in governance in this context. If we don't understand governance, we cannot fully grasp the question of language. That is what I wanted to say. I ended up making it quite long. My apologies to the moderator. 

Nazia Manzoor: That was extremely important. Do any of the other panelists want to comment on this topic: on language and identity and their connection?

Reng Young Mro: I'm not sure if what I'm about to say directly answers the question, but based on our lived experiences and what we've read, we know how Bangladesh gained independence. After independence, when everyone gathered in the Constituent Assembly to discuss the formation of new institutions and a new constitution, the atmosphere was almost celebratory—an overwhelming wave of nationalist enthusiasm. In the midst of that, the voices of non-Bangali communities were not even considered.

Nazia Manzoor: They were completely erased.

Reng Young Mro: Exactly, erased. And this act of erasure itself is a kind of criminal offense. During the Constituent Assembly debates, a particular line was said, "The citizens of Bangladesh shall be known as Bangalis." Manobendra Narayan Larma opposed this, saying that his ancestors—who had lived in this land for centuries—never identified as Bangali. And perhaps, from that moment on, this process of othering non-Bangali communities in Bangladesh began. This essentially means rejecting languages, challenging them, or positioning them in a way where no one else will stand in its presence. It says, I will reign, I will rule over the domain of Bangali nationalism. It reflects a mindset that dismisses the presence of other languages in the face of this sovereignty. The process of crafting this ideology began long ago. Even recently, if we look at what happened on January 15 in Dhaka, an organisation called Students for Sovereignty attacked indigenous students. This incident is intrinsically connected to everything we're discussing. 

When these things are brought up, some people get angry, resort to enforced disappearances, or even show up at one's home to issue threats—and they are doing so. Those who are destroying vast lands, forests, stones, and rivers in indigenous regions and ashing them to build their own homes—include the middle class and the upper class.

I believe that erasing a language goes hand in hand with making it easier to carry out aggression against the people who speak it. It is all part of clearing the path for such actions. 

Nazia Manzoor: Erasing a language means erasing the people who speak it as well. 

Reng Young Mro: Yes, that's right. 

Nazia Manzoor: Does Ruposhree want to add anything to this? Or does anyone else have something to add on this matter? 

Naira Khan: I can share my own experience. When I went to work in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, we were engaged in language documentation. Our primary goal was to record endangered languages before they disappear, so that if a community ever wishes to revive its language, there would be a record to support that effort. For example, take the Rengmitca language. I worked with Professor David Peterson from Dartmouth University's Linguistics Department. He has been studying the languages of the Chittagong Hill Tracts since the 1990s. While working with the Mro community, he came across the mention of a dialect that only the elderly spoke. He was mapping dialects at the time. However, when he began recording and analysing it, from a linguistic structural perspective, it turned out to be completely distinct. It could not be classified as a dialect of Mro—it was an entirely different language. It had just been hidden within the Mro community. 

Then, after digging into some literature, we found evidence that at some point, there was a Rengmitca ethnic community in the region. Over time, they got subsumed into the Mro community, and the speakers of Rengmitca began adopting Mro. The younger generation was learning Mro instead, while the remaining speakers of Rengmitca were all aged 70 and above. It became a race against time to document the language before it disappeared completely.

Nazia Manzoor: A particular question has been circling in my mind. When we talk about language and identity—especially within the framework of power dynamics—we recognise that language operates within these dynamics. However, not all mediums available to challenge these power structures are created equal. There are various ways to resist the suppression of language.

One method is research—ensuring that a language does not disappear. Another is preserving its written form, even if there is no established script of its own. Perhaps I do not have my own script, perhaps I do not have my own inscriptions, but at the very least let my language be recorded, even if in Bangla. Resisting linguistic erasure is, in itself, a way of resisting hegemony. 

I believe if we go back to July, one of the most profound things we observed was art. Artistic expression, whether through memes, slogans, murals, or graffiti, became a means of resistance. From there, we saw attempts, however small, to challenge the dichotomy of language and its relationship with our culture. What I am curious about is this: In post-movement Bangladesh, the same forms of expression have, in turn, marginalised us once again. And by "us", I mean those belonging to marginalised identities—this could be an indigenous identity, a female identity, students from private universities, students from outside Dhaka, or anyone other than a select few coordinators.

This new cycle of linguistic visibility leading to renewed marginalisation—of being pushed to the periphery all over again—how do you perceive this shift? 

I'm particularly interested in the gender dichotomy, the gender aspect of marginalising women, and how language is weaponised in this context. It's not just about the Bangla language; can all languages, in general, ever break free from this responsibility?

Sharmee Hossain: I'm not sure if I fully understand the question, but I'll try to answer from my perspective. I'll tell you what I think about the movement and its language. I've been observing the language of the movement very closely. On August 5th, I was primarily in Bashundhara. After that, we went to Shahbagh, a colleague and I. On our way back, when we were in the Farmgate area, we saw people marching in small groups, expressing their excitement. They were even dancing on top of trucks. 

But the language they were using was extremely problematic, especially when viewed from a gender perspective. I recorded the slogans at that time. One of the slogans referred to Hasina as the "bedmate" of someone from a neighbouring country. It was horrific. We've seen this before, where the Awami League itself has used derogatory language, calling a political leader a prostitute. That pattern is continuing.

But just yesterday, I read a Facebook status by someone relatively well-known in Bangladesh—I'm not mentioning names—where they were telling Sheikh Hasina to "open an OnlyFans page." This attack on a woman, yes, and the display of such disrespectful, crude behaviour afflicted a protest where women led from the front. 

Women were at the forefront. We never imagined that we would witness such days again. But, shortly after the movement, female students from North South University were attacked. In front of their campus, they were being harassed in broad daylight. This kind of incident happened.

It's not just about language, but I think overall, the way we are talking about the movement, the way we talk about the Uprising—when we are documenting it, this presence of fearlessness has to be addressed in my view. 

Manosh Chowdhury: It doesn't seem like there is much time. I think I understand your question now, Nazia. Let me try to rephrase it a bit more dramatically. Look, I don't know if anyone has seen a boroi tree or kul tree being shaken, but when the fruits fall later, it depends on the speed of the children to determine who gets which fruit. The same thing happens in political spaces during any movement. I think the first thing we need to realise is that, after the rise of cyberspace—which has been nearly 20 years now, and has been widely used in our country for almost 15 years—this only becomes apparent during moments of protest. 

As Sharmee mentioned, the aggressive language related to gender is rampant. If you read the comments under almost any article in the newspapers, it's easy to see how brutal the language can get, especially in terms of gender. But I would also like to point out something for my feminist friends. Compared to actual violence, what we are seeing is much more structured. It's not just women who are targeted, but also people based on their ethnicity. They're labeled as Pakistani, Bihari, or Indian. You might remember how a trivial cricket match a few years ago escalated to the point where the rivalry between Rupam Islam from India and Bangladesh's Shafin reached such an extreme that a scheduled concert had to be canceled. Images were drawn of Taskin holding Dhoni's head.

What I'm trying to say is, isn't this something that can be attributed to the politics of those who engage in gender or ethnic politics. Because their marginalisation is so multifaceted that there is no space for responsibility. But those who engage in feminist movements in urban spaces often overlook the patterns of hate-trading in these areas. Sometimes, perhaps out of frustration, they fail to notice them. 

But certain structured violences are directed toward specific groups. As I was mentioning about August 5th, you said you weren't prepared, but maybe I am one of those rare people who knows that I must be prepared for everything. One big reason is that, kidding aside, after August 5th—anyone with common sense would know this; we don't need to study political science to understand this—that a vacuum space creates new political situations (I'll call it a situation, not necessarily a party)—it's about creating political action through new forms of organisation, which is just common sense. Signals are needed, especially in social organisations. In the years before, social organisations were so tightly-knit, that if anyone remembers—I often mention Topkhana Road, but I will not mention it today—many organisations in that region, after August 5th, couldn't even issue a statement. But who would they address it to? They do not know.  

There are so many layers to this. What we call "vibration deviation" —a group that might not fully grasp the deeper meaning or the implications—has harmed us. And in the same way, this is true for feminist movements. How do we view Islam? How do we view costumes, language issues, and sexuality? Just 20 years ago, Bangladesh's prominent feminists were busy emphasising that we are not like Taslima Nasreen. 

If you have to say you're not like Manosh Chowdhury, the audience will understand it first and foremost. You're essentially disowning certain aspects of yourself. The opposition clearly understands what you are trying to say. This process of disowning certain things through political movements over the last 20 to 30 years, I believe, is something we are all experiencing in common terms today. This doesn't mean that I believe in divine punishment or that I'm speaking with full faith in it. I just want to say that this was part of our fate. 

This is not my statement; I'm just saying that the social organisations post-August 5th or the irresponsibility and bewilderment in the previous years—this is a consequence of that. I, along with others who are accustomed to doing different kinds of politics or thinking politically, have realised that it's truly noteworthy that we've found ourselves in a situation where, as much as we thought we were prepared, we were not ready for it. The reason is that, after a big jolt, many are scrambling to catch up. We are in that space now, where there are plenty of stubborn people in the political space, myself included, who don't want to let go. As a result, I'm almost certain that in other times, we would have had to do other things. 

Ruposhree Hajong: What I want to say is that, if I refer to a political issue, the one involving the elites, from what I understand or consider, it relates to the Tanka Movement, which I don't know if you are familiar with. The movement started in the Mymensingh region, and I am from that region. If we look at the women leaders of the Hajong community, names like Rashimoni Hajong and Kumudini Hajong come up.

I say that what was the situation before '24, or what I feel is that the same injustice or wrongdoings have remained the same. I don't see any change; it is either increasing or decreasing, moving forward the same way as before. But in this case, if I examine three political or similar issues, our language—well, it exists, but the script does not. So, let me share an incident.

In the Tanka Movement, when the land tax system was introduced, there were women leaders within our community, but there were also men. However, the role of women leaders seemed to be more prominent. If I think about the current situation, the literacy rate in our society is relatively low, but among that, women are making progress. So, from that perspective, what does my Hajong community say about me? They are concerned that this girl (me) is advancing ahead of our community. Therefore, surely, she will go to another community, one that will not have the same educational opportunities. So, I often say that when we add a girl to language, we are adding a new dynamic. Are girls only responsible for preserving the nation while the boys continue to remain behind?

Women are taking on a strong or progressive role, they are the ones holding the community together. But when it comes to action projects, society says, "No, no, no, you can't do it. You're a girl." Why? I feel that if girls advance in education or politically, why is it a problem? Why do boys not want us to progress? The derogatory remarks about women are something we hear constantly in our country. But in this case, there are also men in the Hajong community who are accustomed to making such insults towards women. One issue is that even when there is a movement outside, you still have to hear it, and on top of that, I become accustomed to hearing it from my own community as well. It's like being told, "Don't go out too much. Since you've been going out so many times, it seems you must have gone to another community." 

So, after the Tanka Movement, our habitat has also changed. We frequently talk about going to visit 'China Matir Pahar'. In some areas, where China clay used to exist, Hajongs lived there. But those people were displaced. When I was in high school, the hill next to my school, which was accosted by some company—I was too young to understand it at that time—started being cleared for development. My father and uncles probably tried to protest it with banners in the Durgapur upazila, but it was unsuccessful. The land was cleared, and now, you will see, it is a tourist spot. This is what I mean by our existence being erased—not just in terms of land but also the degradation of our language.

Another example is how, in our own land, even though we build homes, there's a distortion of our identity. Now, when I mention my name, I add 'Hajong' as a title. I am not sure if this is a funny story, but I will share it anyway. In my father's time, or maybe a time before that—since the Hajongs follow the Hindu religion—there was a lot of discussion about why we could not rise in status. People questioned why the last names 'Ray' and/or 'Sarkar' weren't being used for the Hajongs. Some Hajongs have the last name 'Ray' or 'Sarkar,' but how can a Hajong be a 'Ray' or 'Sarkar'? We are Hajongs. Our identity is different. For me, what is the significance of 'Ray' or 'Sarkar' within the Hajong community?

When my father was studying, his birth name 'Rupon' was changed to 'Rupak' after registration, and then his surname 'Hajong' became 'Sarkar.' I remember when I was in class nine, during our registration, I had written 'Hajong' as my last name. It caused a lot of trouble, and eventually, I had to go to the education board to get 'Sarkar' added to my name since it was akin to my father's. 

But why did I have to match my father's name? It's the same old story of patriarchy. Still, after a lot of struggles, I kept my Hajong surname. Because my two grandmothers and my maternal grandmother had kept the name Hajong, thanks to that, I was able to retain it. I couldn't adopt 'Sarkar.' I never wanted 'Sarkar' anyway, I only wanted 'Hajong.' I made sure to speak with the education board and finalise this, ultimately. Politically, or however, it feels like our Hajong community is continuing despite the possibility of disappearing. 

Nazia Manzoor: There could not have been a better example to add to the discussion we were having today about erasure and the concept of extinction. When gender is added to language and the lack of existence, the reflection becomes even more amplified. If you are erased from both the language and land, it creates a third layer of erasure. 

Thank you so much for sharing this experience with us. We have two minutes left. There was a question from the audience, so I would like to take two comments or questions. 

Speaker 1: I actually have a fashion observation and a question. I'll say this quickly: I studied in an English-medium school, and there, we were not allowed to speak Bangla at all during the day. We could only speak Bangla in Bangla class. If we spoke Bangla even in the playground, we would get scolded. This Bangla language was considered Shuddho Bangla. As far as I know, the "shuddho" Bangla that we were supposed to speak was only for this class, and when we came home, we would say things like "korsi", "khaisi", "gesi", and so on. So, we didn't really practice any form of Bangla beyond that. Because I spoke English a lot in school, my English was more developed. 

We used to speak a mix of English and Bangla with my parents. And when you were talking about movies, I remembered when Mostofa Sarwar Farooki made a movie, Bachelor—from then on, suddenly we were seeing a common Bangla film instead of the usual Shuddho Bangla—it was a groundbreaking, modern film. At that time, I felt like my identity was more than just the pure Bangla from school and the Bangla I spoke outside. There was another medium, which was listening to songs, like the Bangla of Sachindev or Bhupen Hazarika. But we never spoke like that naturally. My observation is that not being able to speak exactly Shuddho Bangla doesn't make you any less Bangali. In my schooling, that was not the case. I used to feel bad that I could not speak pure Bangla. But as you said, just because it is not scripted, it does not mean it's not a language.

The last point is the question I'm raising: I've spent 19 years in Bangladesh, but now my children are growing up in the UK, and teaching them Bangla or speaking it. Even though our language movement started in Bangladesh, which spread to many other places, somehow French children speak French and Spanish children speak Spanish, but why can't we make our children speak Bangla? Why can't we explain it to them? Does anyone have the answer?

Speaker 2: I want to ask a controversial question. When the slogan 'Inquilab Zindabad' was raised, this slogan, with its railing around it, we all came to the field. But this actually has historical baggage, and for a moment, many of us ignored that baggage. How right or wrong is it for us to ignore this historical baggage? Should we discuss it, or not? Should we look at it in a new light, or is it just something within me? I think I have some internal conflict about 'Inquilab Zindabad' and about using words like 'Azadi'. 

Nazia Manzoor: Would any of the panelists like to say something about these two questions? 

Sharmee Hossain: I want to speak about both topics. First, let me address you [referring to Speaker 1]. Actually, children cannot pretend like us. So, whatever they think is useful, they learn that. When I make a small observation regarding children in Bangladesh—at least when I was watching during the lockdown in 2021, when everything was closed due to COVID–I would look down from my balcony and see some children playing, and they were only speaking in English among themselves. At that moment, I formed a hypothesis that the children growing up in Dhaka city, especially from upper-middle-class families, only speak in English with everyone except the house-help and grandparents. This is my hypothesis. I have seen many friends, my contemporaries who are parents, and I have observed it in their own practices—they don't speak in Bangla. And it is not just them, children actually gather ideas from various places about which language they ought to speak, and which one has a greater prestige. The school they go to, they were not allowed to speak Bangla there.

At that time, the child subconsciously creates a hierarchy that Bangla is the language of the servants, the rickshaw pullers—something we haven't produced enough cultural value for. The reason why children learn French is because of the amount of French material available, starting from cyberspace to books. We often talk about language movements, the Bangla Language Movement, the saree-draping, etc. But the real issue lies in our attitude. What is your attitude toward the Bangla language? You will see that your attitude towards it is actually not as cool as you might view French. 

Now, you might feel bad because your children in the UK are not learning Bangla. But let me give you some hope. I once taught Bangla at Rutgers University in America, where there were third-generation Bangali children. They would enroll in Bangla classes in search of their roots and would learn it very well. They had a keen interest in it.

And about what [Speaker 2] was saying–Inquilab Zindabad. It is indeed a problem. But politics is very closely related here. Yes, we live in a sphere where various kinds of influence exist. Our language, slogans, and discourse are being constructed from within this. To delegitimise the discourse of "Joy Bangla", it might have been opposed by positioning this as its counterpart. However, we need to think about how these slogans, which have been created in different ways, are being taken, reformed, and presented. 

Manosh Chowdhury: First, I feel that I should talk about the first two points. One is the issue that Sharmee easily mentioned regarding the class formation in Bangladesh. The history of this is very interesting. I mean, this is not often discussed. Look, wherever there were British or French colonies, if you observe any place or community of other nations, you will notice that from the beginning, there has been animosity towards the native language, or the influence of the English language. The issue I am talking about happened around one hundred and fifty years ago, and a parallel example would be Punjab. The reason is that in Punjab many parallel lines were broken. Have you ever noticed any sense of inferiority in any diaspora community regarding Punjabi literature and language? Pay attention, especially those who live abroad, and you will notice that there is a serious mess in the Bengali class formation system.

I often joke in class that the first instance of the British "civilisation mission" story was applied in the Bengal region when they arrived to live here. And the fact that Bengalis began to think and imagine in the language of their "masters". But imagining in the master's language, this shift in consciousness, probably does not happen in any other nation. This incident happened one hundred and fifty years ago. 

A few seconds before this, you or you all spoke about Bangla schooling. Let me ask you, which languages in the world have people, when they go abroad, not translated their own literary works? Think of any nation. Spanish and French speakers are expected to speak their languages; these are colonising nations. Now think about the colonised nation—from Punjabi to Gujarati, it would be difficult to find a language where a generation or two living abroad hasn't translated their own preferred literary works for personal enjoyment, without any financial incentive. 

Among your Bangali people, note this down, and don't misunderstand. Apart from one or two top stories in leading newspapers or top ten stories, there is no translation of Bangla literature by the expatriate Bangalis. If we look closely, the problem might lie here. The upper-class in Bangladesh has not nurtured their own language as a literary asset. I could write this. And then, the sign-in crisis, which other nations haven't experienced, is what I will discuss in my question, that incorporation happens in many ways. I jokingly challenge the side search. I don't like being serious on stage sometimes. I was talking about configuration because "Inquilab Zindabad" and "Azadi Zindabad" are both Communist slogans. The name of Communism is often associated with rebels. 

Communism has now become synonymous with extremism. Now for me, "Inquilab Zindabad", even if I'm about to die, I might say it. Since I have little experience in taking the name of my god, I'm not sure which name I'll take when dying. But I won't say "Inquilab Zindabad" because I know that a hundred years ago, my old comrades used to say it. To be truly honest, it  was the unified slogan across India. At the time we're talking about, Urdu was the language of all of India, and it was a very important language. It was the language of the workers and the Communists. Now, after some time, some groups have inserted new meanings into this phrase, reconfiguring it. And of course, it has been politically financed and altered, as it has with everything else. This has also happened with "Joy Bangla".

Naira Khan: What I'm talking about in terms of schooling is that whatever you're facing with your child, or what you're facing abroad, it's the same thing—the entire masses are facing here with English. It's the flip side. The issue is breaking free from the ideas we have about that language. Actually, the best way to learn a language is immersion. Since you have the opportunity to come here, that's one way. Another thing is, now as I'm seeing with my two nephews who are learning common things in Bangla, they are like a divine revelation to them.

We studied in Bangla medium schools; I can't imagine living in Bangladesh and not being able to speak Bangla. Now, language programs and apps are being made, which are much more accessible for children, and that is one way of going about it. 

Language is like a sport. Football, for example, you show the field, teach the rules, and provide the ball. But you will not learn unless you play it. It's the same thing with language. You won't learn a language until you practice it.

Now, as for the language of protest, what I find intriguing as a linguist is how it's evolving. We're seeing a non-prescriptive shift in how language is coming out. When we were students, we had slogans like "agun jalao, agun jalao" in our protests. This is where the diversity comes in. On the other hand, rock artists, who would always write protest songs in standard Bangla, are now using a different form. When actual movements began, the rap artists were the ones that came into play. They use the street language, which is not the standard Bangla—"awaj uda". My friends from Kolkata were excited about this language movement because the language they are using is the language of the people, the language of the heart.

Every figure is reinterpreted, like how Inquilab Zindabad or Rajakar are being redefined at this point in time. It's very interesting to see how the semantic shifts are happening. This is, of course, connected. Now, our pendulum is swinging the other way.

Nazia Manzoor: I am compelled to stop, and this is a sign of a great panel when the conversation is so engaging that you feel forced to end it even though you want it to continue. I would like to express my gratitude to our panelists: Sharmee, Ruposhree, Naira, Manosh, and Reng. A heartfelt thank you to all of you. Thank you so much!