The Silent Wounds of July: Collective mental trauma after the uprising

Mostafa Mushfiq

Bangladesh’s incredible uprising in July 2024 was a seismic change that rattled the nation to its core. Family homes became horror spaces, vibrant streets became battlefields, and a loud call for justice and equity echoed throughout the country. However, once the chants faded and the tear gas ceased, a new, invisible war broke out—a struggle that happened inside the memory of those who were around.

The events of July 2024 are not merely one story; rather, they are a complex mosaic of many, intensely personal, and particular tragedies.

My mother’s youngest sister, my Chhoto Khala, is one of the most short-tempered people I know. The revolution became a living nightmare for her. With small children at home, she was not in a position to join the protests on the streets. Instead, she lived through those days glued to her phone, calling me daily to share the horrifying stories she encountered on Facebook. “I can’t take this anymore, I’m feeling sick, I can’t do anything. Please don’t go outside!” she would plead to me. Or she’d ask, “Did you see the clip I sent you on Messenger? Is it real!?” I always tried to calm her down, reassuring her with news from my university friends. “Things will be okay soon,” I’d say. “We will settle things down. Please don’t spend so much time on the internet.” But I don’t think I ever truly convinced her. She kept watching those clips, sharing them on her timeline as if she could somehow transfer the burden of her anxiety onto the world.

She never stepped outside before 5 August, kept inside by her family duties and social anxieties. Yet, I see her as one of the biggest victims of the July uprising. The relentless exposure to violence and the fear for her family’s safety took a toll on her mental health—a toll that, like so many others, will be carried long after the protests have ended.

One of the most striking aspects of the July uprising was the internet shutdown. Each day, my phone buzzed with calls, friends and family desperate for news. Yes, I received information, but there was no way to verify it. In most cases, I didn’t pass the news along; instead, I asked them to share their stories with me. They recounted what they had seen, what they had been told by ‘secret officials’ who were their family members. My friends shared their traumatic experiences, each story more harrowing than the last. It was an unprecedented situation.

Being part of Generation Z, I had never experienced life without the internet. Suddenly, I felt crippled in every part of my daily activities. My head felt empty, as if I couldn’t complete any action without a search bar to guide me.

4 August was the D-day of the protest near my home in Khilgaon. Gunshots rang out from 9 AM and continued until 10 PM. In the afternoon, I was also on the streets. I ran back home after being chased by open fire from the police. It was a day of horror. My seven-year-old cousin lay flat on the floor, terrified after hearing that children had been shot through windows in the previous days. My mother, brother, uncle, and aunts were all on the streets at different points that day. Thankfully, no one was injured, but none of us can forget the gunshots, the screams, the wounds, and the blood. I still hear gunshots in my sleep.

During the protest, we heard rumours of DB police conducting raids on the homes of students involved in the movement. My mother panicked whenever she saw a white microbus parked or simply passing by our home. Though we can now sense a newfound freedom in the air, our family has become part of a collective, nationwide trauma that doesn’t seem likely to fade anytime soon.

The question that arises in the face of such widespread trauma is: How can we heal? How does a country start to fix the wounds in its psyche? Though there are no easy answers, history can teach us a few things. Afghanistan was left with a generation of individuals who had only ever experienced conflict following the end of the Soviet-Afghan War. Their trauma was worsened by constant instability, which made access to mental health care most difficult. International organisations were able to assist a small number of people, but for the majority, the trauma was allowed to linger.

Bangladesh has a possibility for improvement. The first step is to recognise the trauma as a shared experience rather than merely a personal source of suffering. It’s critical to provide environments where people feel comfortable talking about their experiences and where their grief and anxieties are acknowledged rather than minimised. The existing inadequate mental health services need to be increased and made available to everyone, particularly those who led the movement.
Possibly above all, though, is the need to promote resilience and a sense of community.

I was really happy with all the graffiti campaigns and traffic campaigns conducted by students. These campaigns followed by flood relief support events, multiplied community feeling in the society. In order to face the past and move past the atrocities of apartheid, South Africa looked to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Allowing people to share their tales, seek justice, and find closure provided a model—albeit an imperfect one—for how a country could start to handle collective trauma. A similar strategy could have a revolutionary effect in Bangladesh. We must listen to the experiences of individuals who were a part of the July movement, feel their suffering, and collaborate to create a future that respects the past without being constrained by it. This means not only addressing the mental health crisis but also tackling the social and political issues that gave rise to the movement in the first place.

For Bangladesh, the July 2024 mass movement was a historic event that will be explored, discussed, and recalled for many years to come. However, we must not overlook the human cost—the silent scars suffered by individuals who were present—as we consider its effects. If these wounds are not listened to, they will continue to bleed, affecting not only the people who experienced the movement but also their offspring and descendants. We won’t forget the fascists, and we won’t pardon those who killed my brothers. I agree with the idea that Ganobhabon should be turned into a museum dedicated to the July 2024 revolution in order for people to never forget the price paid for the new Bangladesh and the ways in which the people of Bangladesh combat fascists. Everything will be remembered by us, but how we will heal from the wounds in our mind?

It is possible to heal, but it takes dedication to understand, compassion, and enforcing actions. It calls for us to view the scars as symbols of our resilience and our humanity rather than as indicators of weakness. Then and only then will we be able to move forward as a collective towards a future in which every Bangladeshi’s hopes of July 2024 come true, not only in the political sphere but also in their hearts and minds.

prothom alo