How expatriates powered the July uprising from afar

I was in Kuala Lumpur when the message first came through on our messenger group chat. The internet was down back home. Then came the images—beaten students, blood on campus grounds, and desperate parents waiting outside hospital gates.

I was sitting inside my dorm room with four other Bangladeshi students. We stared at our phones in silence.

I had lived and studied in Malaysia for a few years, and I thought I had understood the distance between "us" and "them"—the expatriates and the people "back home." But that illusion shattered in July 2024.

When the streets of Dhaka and the towns across the country erupted over the quota reform movement, we, the diaspora, did not just watch. We joined. And for many of us, the most powerful weapon we had was our wallets.

Remittance is often described as the fuel of our foreign currency reserves, a lifeline for families, and a vital pillar of the national economy. But this time, it became a form of protest, a weapon of the people.

Abdul Bashir, a construction worker in Malaysia, posted on Facebook, "They [the Hasina government] are using our money to shoot and kill our sons. I will not send a single penny to this country. My brother is a college student, and he has been arrested on a fake case just because he was a part of the protest."

He was angry and frustrated because, after years of being treated as walking ATMs by the state, this is what he got in return for his service to the country.

From Saudi Arabia, Walid Bhuiyan, a businessman, said in a Facebook live, "I know if we do not send remittance, the Bangladeshi economy will get destroyed, but we want this regime to get destroyed too. Then we will work even harder and send even more money to rebuild our nation. But Hasina must go!"

Even in the United Arab Emirates, placards appeared in protest rallies with statements like: "I will throw my money in the water, but I will not send remittance."

This was not hatred for the country—it was radical love. It was a sacrifice.

From 19 to 24 July 2024, Bangladesh received just $78 million in remittances—a shockingly low figure, given the daily average for the first 18 days of the month was $79 million. In other words, six days brought in what was typically sent in just one day.

During that period, the nation was under a total internet blackout. Banking systems collapsed, communication with families was disrupted, and financial transactions were halted. Yet even after the internet was restored and banks reopened, the remittance figures remained far below expectations.

According to Bangladesh Bank, the country received $1.5 billion in remittances in the first 24 days of July. Compare this to the $2.54 billion received in June, the highest monthly figure in 47 months. That is a 10.27% month-to-month drop.

The dip was no technical disruption; it was deliberate, it was coordinated, and it was powerful.

Bangladeshi students studying abroad were among the most vocal supporters of the protest. In Germany, Akash Abdullah and his peers organised solidarity rallies.

"Me and my Bangladeshi friends from Germany will not give anything to the country, because the best thing we can give to our country now is to not give anything!" he said.

Across Europe, the Middle East, the UK, and the US, Bangladeshi expatriates staged rallies under the slogan of "no remittance until reform." In cities like Kuala Lumpur and Abu Dhabi, hundreds marched with flags, banners, and raised fists. Some used the only tool they had access to—money—and shut the flow.

Back in Malaysia, Mehedi Hasan, an expatriate worker, explained his strategy, "If we send money through legal channels or banks, the government will get the remittance. So we will send the money through Hundi. Yes, it costs us more, but the main goal is not to give a single dime to this government."

This was not a risk-free movement. In the UAE, 57 Bangladeshi nationals were sentenced to lengthy prison terms by the Abu Dhabi Federal Court of Appeal for organising protests. Their crime? Daring to care, daring to resist.

Protests in other Middle Eastern nations were muted due to local restrictions, but the spirit was unshakable. Despite warnings from authorities, the protests continued. The remittance shutdown became an act of economic resistance.

Selim Hossain from Oman shared, "In six years, I have always used official channels to send money. But the torture of my brothers and sisters by police, BDR and Army made me stop. This boycott is our answer."

He said at least 150 of his acquaintances had joined the boycott in Oman alone, with up to 300 others shifting to informal channels like Hundi.

"They [the Hasina government] are using our money to shoot and kill our sons. I will not send a single penny to this country. My brother is a college student, and he has been arrested on a fake case just because he was a part of the protest."

Abdul Bashir, a construction worker in Malaysia

The overall impact of the boycott was very visible. Banks and mobile financial service providers struggled. Officials acknowledged that remittance collection had been suspended from 18 July, when the internet outage began, until 23 July, when broadband services resumed.

Even then, the flow did not bounce back on track.

According to Bangladesh Bank, remittances totalled just $1.91 billion in July—a 3.2% year-on-year drop and the lowest in ten months. In July 2023, the figure stood at $1.97 billion.

In April, the figure had been $2.04 billion, in May $2.25 billion, and in June a record $2.54 billion. The trend reversed sharply in July, largely due to the uprising and the boycott.

Year-on-year, July 2024 saw a 5.86% fall from July 2023. The August estimate, at just $1.60 billion, indicated the longer-term effects of the movement.

In the face of this uprising, the government panicked.

Solaiman Sukhon, a PR expert, launched a campaign with Nagad, one of Bangladesh's biggest mobile financial services. Former national cricket captain Tamim Iqbal was brought in to encourage expatriates to send money home.

They were even seen at the airport greeting returning migrants, hoping to appeal to their patriotism. But the campaign flopped. Most expatriates saw through it.

Professor Asad Islam, from Monash Business School, put it plainly, "A vast majority of the expatriates supported the student movement, protested against the government's undemocratic practices and atrocities. There were also campaigns against sending remittances to Bangladesh because of the government's actions."

The call was not about destroying the country—it was about saving it.

There is a cruel irony in how Bangladesh treats its migrant workers and students abroad. They are often neglected, underrepresented in policy decisions, and harassed by embassy officials. And yet, in times of crisis, the country leans on their shoulders.

Their families back home suffered. Bills went unpaid. Children missed tuition fees. But they stood firm.

By the end of July, the total inward remittance stood at $1.9 billion, down from $2.5 billion just a month earlier. The difference of $600 million in just four weeks represented more than a number—it was a statement.

The Bangladesh Bank noted that from 21 to 27 July, remittance inflow dropped to just $138 million. On the final day of the month, only $120 million was sent.

Syed Mahbubur Rahman, Managing Director of Mutual Trust Bank, acknowledged the economic blow in July 2024.

He said, "Financial transactions with the outside world were snapped for five days due to the internet shutdown. If the remittance does not come in the next few days, it would create more pressure on the economy."

Zunaid Ahmed Palak, the then Minister of State for Posts, Telecommunications, and Information Technology, eventually resorted to pleading with migrants to resume sending money. But it was too late. The power dynamics had shifted.

I watched all this from a foreign land. I saw my people stand up with silence of withheld dollars, of paused remittances, of quiet refusal.

They stopped sending money. But they never stopped loving their country.