From Mangal to Muzzled: The Battle for Bangladesh’s Secular Soul

Sanjoy Kumar Barua

In the aftermath of Bangladesh’s student-led uprising, national discourse has been understandably dominated by the pursuit of political stability, economic revitalisation, and the urgency of free and fair elections.

These are undeniably vital undertakings. Yet what is perilously absent from this conversation is an equal commitment to the social and cultural landscape—an arena just as critical, if not more so, in shaping a nation’s destiny.

What we’re witnessing now is a pernicious cultural regression—a subtle but insidious erosion of Bangladesh’s secular fabric and pluralistic ethos.

From the renaming of the Mangal Shobhajatra to the growing attacks on women participating in public and cultural life, the symptoms of a broader malaise are manifesting.

This is not merely a cultural debate—it is a high-stakes battle for the soul of the republic.

The rebranding of Mangal Shobhajatra, a UNESCO-recognised parade born out of resistance to military rule, may appear inconsequential to some.

But in truth, it signals a capitulation to retrogressive forces determined to redraw the boundaries of public life along the lines of religious orthodoxy and patriarchal control.

The term “mangal,” rooted in Sanskrit and carrying connotations of prosperity and auspiciousness, was never about religion—it was about reclaiming public space for art, resistance, and collective joy.

To erase that term under pressure from extremist voices is not an act of cultural restoration—it is an act of surrender. And the pattern doesn’t stop there.

Across the nation, an alarming pattern is gaining momentum—women are facing intensifying hostility.

From banning books written by female authors to vandalising stalls selling sanitary pads at public fairs, from obstructing spring festivals to firebombing the homes of women artists—these acts are not isolated incidents.

They are part of a systematic effort to curtail women’s visibility, agency, and participation in public life.

Let us be clear: these attacks are not about preserving “morality” or defending religion.

They are about power. They represent a calculated attempt to reinforce patriarchal dominance by exploiting the rhetoric of religious piety.

Women in Bangladesh have historically stood at the forefront of every transformative movement—whether cultural, political, or intellectual.

Their growing empowerment is seen as an existential threat to regressive forces who cannot tolerate a society in which women speak, lead, and shape national narratives.

This weaponisation of religion to control gender roles follows a global pattern—one that we must resist with unflinching resolve.

Bangladesh has always prided itself on its cultural vibrancy, its deep-rooted syncretism, and its fierce resistance to authoritarianism.

From the Language Movement of 1952 to the Liberation War of 1971, our history is replete with defiance in the face of repression.

That’s what makes this moment so disquieting. These incremental erosions—of women’s rights, artistic freedoms, and secular expression—are antithetical to the very ethos that has shaped Bangladesh’s cultural and historical identity.

They are unnatural, imported, and incongruent with the values this nation was built upon. And that is precisely why they are so dangerous.

Bangladesh is not a theocracy. It is a democracy—imperfect but aspirational. And while we may not yet resemble theocratic regimes where extremism dominates law and life, the current trajectory should alarm anyone who believes in a free, equitable society.

The irony is grotesque: those who claim to “protect” Bangladesh from cultural contamination are, in fact, its greatest destabilising force.

History has shown us—whether in Iran, Afghanistan, or parts of the Arab world—that when religious extremism infiltrates public life unchecked, the result is not order but chaos.

It fractures institutions, corrodes civil liberties, and precipitates long-term socio-political dysfunction.

Today they attack women and art; tomorrow they will demand constitutional amendments, judicial overhauls, and religious policing of governance itself. The longer we appease these forces, the more emboldened they become.

The fundamental question is this: did we fight for a Bangladesh where women are punished for dancing, where books are banned for “blasphemy,” where parades are stripped of their meaning to placate extremists? Is this the culmination of our democratic struggle?

The 2024 uprising promised a new beginning—an audacious reclamation of the people’s voice.

But revolutions are not secured by ballot boxes alone. If we neglect the cultural and social dimensions of this movement, we risk undermining its very foundation.

Despite the grim tides, there remains cause for hope.

Bangladesh has never accepted authoritarianism—whether military or religious—as its default state.

Our greatest strength has always been our resilience, our poets and artists, our students and reformers who have refused to surrender to fear.

The spirit of resistance that created the Mangal Shobhajatra in 1989 still lives in the hearts of young organisers today.

It lives in the artists who build papier-mâché tigers despite threats, in the women who march through Dhaka with their heads held high, and in every citizen who believes that a pluralistic Bangladesh is worth fighting for.

Let us not delude ourselves into thinking these cultural skirmishes are minor. They are, in truth, the frontlines of a battle that will shape the soul of this nation. If we lose these fights now, we may wake up in a country we no longer recognise.

Bangladesh was not born of submission. It was born of struggle. That spirit is not extinguished—it is embattled. And it will rise again.