Inside the July uprising: Women led, the nation followed

With clenched fists and fierce voices, a group of fearless women stood before the locked gates of their residential halls on the night of July 14, 2024. There were no commands, no central leader -- only rage and a deep sense of injustice. They broke through the gates and poured into the streets.

"Tumi ke, ami ke? Rajakar, Rajakar! Ke bolecche, ke bolecche shoirachar! shoirachar!" Their cry ignited a fire that swept across Dhaka University's women's halls. Male students soon followed, rallying at the Raju Memorial Sculpture.

There was no script. Yet from Ruqayyah Hall to Eden College, from garment factories in Gazipur to campuses in Chattogram and Sylhet, women marched, shouted, shielded, bled -- and led.

This was no ordinary student protest. The July 2024 uprising has come to be seen as a landmark in women-led resistance. Across cities, women weren't just present -- they were pivotal.

"When the former prime minister called us -- ordinary students -- traitors, my blood felt like boiling," said Nasrin Akhter, a master's student at Ruqayyah Hall. "That night, we made our own decision. We broke the locks of our hall gate and came out. I felt there was no room for silence anymore."

The breakout unleashed a tidal wave. By dawn, the movement had outgrown campus walls.

On July 15, students from Eden, Badrunnesa, Dhaka College, and City College gathered at the Raju Sculpture. The ruling party's student wing, Bangladesh Chhatra League (BCL), had a separate rally, but the general students stood their ground.

"They came at us with hockey sticks and knives," said Lamia Raihan, a third-year student at Eden. "We were unarmed, but they beat us like animals. One of them said, 'So, you'll protest again, will you?' And then he hit me."

On July 17, Sanjida Anowar Chowdhury, a former DU linguistics student, joined despite growing threats. "If I die, send my body to my family," she said. "But I will not leave the street."

Women weren't just protesting; they were protecting. They formed shields, treated the injured, challenged authority with nothing but resolve. In return, they faced assault, harassment, and online vilification.

Tonni, a DU student, was attacked near the University Club. "Even as we tried to leave, they didn't spare us. I was left bleeding."

The state's response turned increasingly violent. Arrests, torture, and disappearances became daily realities. But fear failed to quell the uprising.

What began as resistance to quota policies in government jobs evolved into a full-scale revolt. "This wasn't about quotas anymore; it was about justice," said Nusrat Jahan, a Stamford University student.

On July 31, Nusrat joined the March for Justice after her senior, Noor Hasan, was arrested outside the High Court. She stood in front of the prison van to block it. Her photo went viral. "I wouldn't let them take him without a fight," she said.

The movement soon rippled across society. Professors, workers, and homemakers stood beside students. In Gazipur, garment workers joined in.

"We saw our younger brothers and sisters shot," said Ambia, a garment worker. "We couldn't stay silent. The police threatened us, but we stood our ground."

At least 26 garment workers were killed, according to Bangladesh Garment Workers Solidarity. "The real number is likely higher," said its president, Taslima Akhter. "We're still verifying."

Dr Chowdhury Saima Ferdous, a Dhaka University professor and member of the Public Service Commission, said, "I had supported the students' demands since the 2018 quota reform protests, but when they were branded as Razakars, something inside me broke. Silence was no longer an option. I had to stand with them."

Saima recounted the days of chaos on the streets. "We witnessed brutal police crackdowns on campuses. Reports poured in of female students being tortured through the night. A small group of us, teachers, marched in protest through campus gates, to the Press Club, anywhere we could raise our voices.

"Nazrul's songs became my armour. I remember singing 'Karar Oi Louho Kopat' and 'Muktir Mandir Sopan Tole' while staring down riot police. We were ready for whatever came," she said.

She received death threats and anonymous calls, even handwritten letters warning she would be abducted. "There were nights I wasn't sure I'd live to see the morning. But after seeing my students' blood spilled on the streets, retreat was no longer possible."

The July uprising was not isolated. According to a cross-national study 'The Women in Resistance (WiRe)' by Erica Chenoweth and Zoe Marks of Harvard's Kennedy School of Government in 2019, women's participation increases the chances that a resistance movement will succeed. This research tracked and documented women's roles in major resistance movements around the world. It includes 338 both violent and nonviolent movements from 1945 to 2014 in every country.

According to a global study on the Implementation of UNSC Resolution 1325 named "preventing conflict transforming justice securing the peace" conducted by Radhika Coomaraswamy in 2015, women's participation not only strengthens humanitarian response and boosts the success of peace negotiations, it also extends the durability of peace, speeds up economic recovery, and serves as a powerful force against violent extremism.

The July uprising also echoes a long and powerful history of women leading from the front in Bangladesh's most defining moments.

From the Language Movement, where figures like Sufia Kamal and Shamsunnahar Mahmud raised their voices, to the Liberation War of 1971, where women like journalist Selina Parveen, guerrilla fighter Krishna Member, and freedom fighter Lutfun Nessa risked everything, women have never stood on the sidelines. Their defiance continued through the anti-Ershad mass movement of the 1980s and resurfaced with renewed force on the streets in July 2024.

Shirin Sultana, a former student leader during the anti-Ershad movement, sees echoes of the past in today's defiance.

"Our movement wasn't spontaneous. It took years—'86, '87, '89—before we forced Ershad out," she recalled. "But this July movement, though sudden, burns with the same fire."

She remembers November 27, 1990 -- hours after Dr Shamsul Alam Milon was murdered. "Curfew was in place, army vehicles surrounded the halls, but we didn't care. When we realised the boys couldn't get out due to the army blockade, we organised the girls. We pushed open the main gates ourselves. We marched toward the boys' hall, hoping our presence would give them the courage to come out. And it worked."

She described how they led the march from the vice chancellor's residence to Mohsin Hall, then toward the Press Club—flouting curfew orders. "That was the point. We wanted to show we didn't acknowledge the regime's authority. The march grew to over 3,000 students. We stayed at the front—to protect the boys from being fired upon. We formed a human shield."

When authorities ordered the evacuation of female dormitories, she and a small group of 12-13 students stayed behind in Ruqayyah Hall for days, coordinating resistance. "One night, the army raided our hall. We hid in the washrooms. The next day, we left the campus and continued the movement from our local areas."

"In Basabo, I led torch processions every night. Soon they became victory marches."

Comparing past and present, she noted, "We were scared too, but we stepped up. Today's young women face a more brutal reality—surveillance, smear campaigns, political violence.

"But when I saw the girls of July 2024 marching out despite brutal attacks, I felt this regime cannot survive. Just like Ershad's couldn't. I knew then, history was repeating."