This country belongs to women too
Every time I come back from a protest, I feel a deep camaraderie with my fellow protestors, as it should be when you are true to the cause, I suppose. But then as everyone disbands, I am always left with a sense of abandonment. It perhaps reveals my own predilection for rebellion. I end up fantasising all of us heading to a chaa-er-tong afterwards and plotting in hushed tones to overthrow the system. Then overthrow the system.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel. The irony is that, the last time we did end up toppling the regime. It felt like I was fully immersed in the participation, screaming at the top of my lungs for justice, dignity and freedom, driven by the conviction that my voice was being heard, finally. But that fever dream was brief and with a gut-punch I witnessed firsthand how quickly this frail package of dignity, justice and freedom can come under threat again.
Still, I am not the one to get stuck in the gloom and doom. We hop on to the next fight, the next uprising. Because being a woman is, in its true essence, a freedom struggle. One that goes beyond gender—rooted in the liberation of the oppressed, the exploited, the Indigenous, the labouring—anyone whose breath is choked by the leather boots of the patriarchy.
So, on the hideously hot Friday afternoon, I stood smiling, observing a middle-aged woman with a cotton scarf wrapped around her head, holding a banner that read, "I am a "prostitute." So what?" It was not a question, but a dare thrown to the ones who think that morality is theirs to ration out. It was a defiant call to freedom, and Moitree Jatra was just that—the next chapter in that freedom struggle. It was evidence that we will not yield to the same old mania, the bargaining chips and the desperation of searching for control in a machinery that is wired to run with the same old tricks.
Moitree Jatra was not a gathering of any political banner or one social cause. It was a many-threaded march led by those who know: no one is free until all women are free. Those who understand that patriarchy does not boil down to a few individuals, but is a system that draws out power at the cost of someone else's oppression, which is the scaffolding of every structure that exploits labour, land, and life itself. It allows violence to go unlabelled, unpaid labour to go unrecognised and upholds obedience as virtue. It sidelines women once their role has served the function of showcasing inclusivity.
This is why tea garden workers led the banner in this movement. Why Indigenous activists, sex workers, third-gender activists, academics, journalists, artists, including both men and women, participated in full gear, shoulder to shoulder. A religious cleric was seen carrying a placard against sexual harassment in madrasas, a mother holding up her son so he can take a hard-look at a play on sexual abuse being demonstrated on stage, young women with short hair and bold, red tip calling for the rights of garment workers and Dalit women. Indigenous women marched not as tokens, but as leaders, naming land grabs and environmental destruction for what they are—patriarchal tools of control. They were not there for free snacks or party loyalty. They were not there because they were educated, privileged or polished. It was about belief. And the diversity went beyond the aesthetic values.
The demands of the Moitree Jatra reflected that they were not just surface-level calls for reform. It called on the government to uphold its constitutional responsibilities by addressing violence and disinformation targeting women and marginalised groups. It called for stronger protections, better access to education, healthcare, economic opportunities, safety for sex workers, protection of Indigenous land. Systemic failures were pointed out, from the lack of accountability in rape trials to the normalisation of workplace harassment.
It was not just rage that reverberated through the sea of people. There was jubilance in the air because the best thing you can do in the face of oppression is laugh and partake in joy. There was singing and dancing and irony. The most electric performance came from the crowd itself—the chants and the courage to speak hard truths. One slogan rang repeatedly—Cheyechilam hisya, hoye gelam beshya (I had only asked for my share, but they called me a "prostitute").
The weight of that line was crushing. Because isn't this how it goes? You demand your rights; they assassinate your character. A conservative religious commentator recently mocked members of the Women's Affairs Reform Commission for their contradicting reaction of taking offense at the word "prostitute," whilst demanding dignity of sex workers at the same time. That isn't ignorance—it's a deliberate distortion. As if to demand dignity, you must accept humiliation for yourself and the ones you are fighting for. Either way, both are denied agency.
Some political leaders speak of how women will be "allowed" to work if their parties come to power, as if autonomy is a favour, that can only be granted if it is tethered. I assume this is the logic of patriarchy. That women's freedom must be conditional, negotiated, and revoked at will. And it thrives not because women are weak, but because men are too invested in a system that disproportionately benefits them to let go of the reins. A system where women's labour props up the household, the damned GDP, the political movements, but when it's time to inherit the stage, they're dismissed. Women-led last year's revolution from the frontlines. And yet, when it was time to share the spoils, they were gone. The rhetoric of liberation morphed into an all-boys' club. We all know this pattern and Moitree Jatra called out that hypocrisy under the sweltering sun.
Moitree Jatra was not just about the state apparatus and its failures. It showed a window to what standing up for your community means. It was ally-ship. It was protest without a puppeteer with vested interests and the greed for holding the highest seat. Moitree Jatra fully displayed how there can be tact, composure and perseverance in the face of the same brand of paranoia and stupidity, regardless of whichever regime has been dethroned. It took the stage from the macho-fuelled gatekeepers of power and gave it to the ones who could report on oppression directly. As the writer Alice Walker had put it—Hard times require furious dancing. The rhythm was set by the ceaseless drumming of resistance last Friday. And we better get dancing.
Iqra L Qamari is a consultant and a writer. She can be reached at [email protected].
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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