Droho Jatra’s lasting legacy on the Uprising
This was not just a march — it was the formation of a people’s parliament on the streets
On the afternoon of 2 August 2024, the sun hung low and heavy over Dhaka, but it did little to slow the rising tide of the uprising that had been gaining momentum since the last month.
Thousands of people — students, teachers, parents, rights activists, and ordinary citizens — began to gather at the heart of the capital, near the National Press Club. Banners fluttered like the wings of resistance. Rhythmic chants rose through the haze of dust and tension. Poetry and protest songs spilled onto the streets, reclaiming public space long surrendered to silence.
The march was called Droho Jatra — the March of Defiance. By the end of the day, it had become one of the most symbolic chapters in Bangladesh's July Uprising. Droho Jatra was a march of public indictment against the state's brutal repression, and a call for a new beginning.
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The call for this programme came the day before, demanding an end to mass arrests, trials for massacre, the release of detained students and the protesters, the lifting of curfew, and the opening of educational institutions.
The procession, scheduled to begin at 3pm, started half an hour late. But the delay did not dampen its spirit. Rather, it allowed the crowd to swell. There was anger and defiance — a harmonious convergence of protest and performance, resistance and remembrance. With each footstep forward, it became clear that this was no ordinary rally.
By 4pm, the crowd had reached the Central Shaheed Minar, where more groups joined in waves, pouring in from university campuses, neighbourhood streets, and underground networks. The Shaheed Minar, a monument built to honour language martyrs of 1952, now witnessed a new generation laying claim to its legacy.
"Those who were involved in the massacre must be brought to justice. The government must resign, taking responsibility for the massacre. Our main issue is to restore democracy. There have been many protests since 1952. But no government committed such atrocities before."
The demands were etched in every placard and echoed through every megaphone: stop mass arrests; ensure justice for the killings in July; release detained students and citizens; lift the curfews; and reopen educational institutions. And most defiantly, the call for the current government's resignation rang louder than ever.
A leftist activist, Afzal Hussain, snatched a mike from another activist and started chanting the slogan, "We have one demand, Sheikh Hasina resign at once"!
"Those who were involved in the massacre must be brought to justice. The government must resign, taking responsibility for the massacre. Our main issue is to restore democracy," declared economist and former Jahangirnagar University professor Anu Muhammad from the steps of a temporary podium. "There have been many protests since 1952. But no government committed such atrocities before."
Anu Muhammad's speech was a defining moment — clear, unflinching, and delivered with the moral clarity of a generation tired of broken promises and bloody mornings.
Alongside him stood Professor Asif Nazrul, Professor C R Abrar, health rights advocate Mushtuq Hossain, and development economist Maha Mirza. For two and a half hours, there were thousands of protesters amidst a downpour.
The name Droho Jatra was not accidental. "Droho" means rebellion, but also defiance of the moral order when that order is violated by those in power. The rhythm of Jatra, or journey, gave it movement and direction — not merely a protest but a pilgrimage for justice.
What made Droho Jatra distinct was not only its political demands but its cultural undertone. Theatre performances and street plays broke out on footpaths; resistance songs were sung with harmoniums and guitars; poets recited verses. The cultural activists and the liberal section of the society declared their support for the movement wholeheartedly from this march.
Droho Jatra, thus, was not just a march — it was the formation of a people's parliament on the streets. Droho Jatra matters because it reminds us that resistance, when grounded in memory and morality, becomes more than a spectacle. It becomes a sacred duty.
And so, in a city where hope was once smothered in tear gas and blood, thousands walked with their heads held high. The shadows of repression trailed behind them, but the light they carried — fragile yet furious — lit the way forward.
