Tanveer Anoy
I am not writing this out of anger, nor out of hope, perhaps mostly from frustration, a combination of exhaustion and numbness. The past few days and months have not been a sweet honeymoon period for this world. 360-degree changes in people’s lives are visible everywhere. Social change faces a crisis; although the process remains slow, the shocks are no longer surprising. We are living through manufactured fear, where dismissiveness, labeling everything as “too much” or “exaggerated,” and the normalization of gaslighting have reached their peak.
Amidst countless chaotic incidents, let me shed some light on Bangladesh. On August 5, 2024, a new Bangladesh was born. Years of fascism were overthrown with a loud uproar, which gave rise to a profound sense of courage and hope. I truly believed that all the unaddressed and suppressed communities would finally have the right to speak openly. I believed we were entering a new era.
Lies. Lies.
I don’t know why I allowed myself to drown in that disillusionment. One type of fascism was overthrown, but the political structure remains layered and unchanged. The patterns of old Bangladeshi politics have persisted. I thought, somehow, this time would be different, but it shouldn’t have been a surprise. You cannot change a system overnight.
Whenever I speak about injustice today, I am immediately labeled a sympathizer of the previous regime. I hear accusations: “Where were you the last fifteen years? Why now?” These are false assumptions. I have always spoken out against injustice. During the previous regime, I hesitated, thought three times before posting, and weighed the consequences. Now, I don’t feel that fear. Yes, I can write freely even this piece, but that doesn’t mean I treat this freedom as a gift or that I will stop speaking about the injustices happening now.
As a member of a feminist, marginalized gender-diverse group, I never romanticized the previous regime’s so-called protections. That narrative made us believe they were safeguarding us and that the alternative would be worse. I want to say clearly: the political and state-level changes fooled me. I thought this new Bangladesh would embrace feminism and prioritize the neglected queer community, but prejudice-centered ideologies have not changed; they have only adapted.
The messaging against us has become sharper and more deliberate. From high platforms, we are warned that people like us should not lead, should not speak, and should not even exist in public. Our presence is treated as a threat, amplified through moral panic and cultural justifications. When entire communities are marked as dangerous simply for existing, it is not just marginalization; it is a premeditated disappearance.
Individuals are now targeted not for their actions, but for their identities. Public humiliation is disguised as law. Silence is demanded through punishment. Sometimes, it is someone you know—someone who dared to exist too openly, love too freely, who suddenly becomes a headline, a warning, an example. That is how this system works: punish one so the rest disappear quietly.
The rise of extremism and conservatism is happening globally, and Bangladesh is no exception. In the name of cultural and social practices, feminist and gender-diverse individuals are consistently ridiculed, excluded, and sidelined. Our issues are absent from national reform agendas. The people leading reforms know about us, but they remain silent, fearing backlash from the loudest factions, the Tauhidi Janata, or whatever name you choose. The same forces that complain about “cancel culture” are the ones most aggressively canceling anyone who challenges their narratives.
Our supposed allies whisper, “We are with you,” but rarely dare to advocate publicly. I have my critiques of visibility politics too, but that does not mean we should be erased entirely from every social, political, and economic narrative. Erasure is not safety; it is surrender.
This is plain injustice.
So, what is my suggestion? Honestly, in this political climate, I have none. I am tired of screaming into voids. I am tired of being dismissed by extremists and trolls. Regardless of who holds power, our position remains the same. We are always told: “Stay silent. Work quietly. Just survive.”
Perhaps we will, perhaps we won’t. Perhaps we will endure in silence, so quietly that one day, even the memory of our existence will fade away into nothingness.
Maybe that has always been the plan.
Tanveer Anoy is an academic and activist who teaches in Women, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at Oregon State University. They can be reached at tanveeranoy@gmail.com.
Bangladesh Feminist Archives 