I nearly lost my footing when a group of masked men surrounded me, their eyes burning with anger. They did not see me as a photographer; to them, I was an intruder capturing their atrocities. Shouting accusations, they labeled me a spy for outsiders.
DHAKA, Bangladesh — As a photographer, my lens acts as my voice. A powerful image can change the world. In June 2024, this belief compelled me to travel to Dhaka to capture the chaos as students launched a protest. The unrest erupted after the Supreme Court of Bangladesh reinstated a 30 percent quota, reserving jobs for family members of freedom fighters from the 1971 war for independence from Pakistan.
After two hours, the Bangladesh police arrived on scene. When the police denied protestors the chance to sit and peacefully demand their rights, things escalated. Police mercilessly shot students demonstrating. I photographed the entire event from a distance. As the situation deteriorated, I relocated to the second floor of the university campus, which offered the perfect vantage point to capture the police brutality.
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As a photographer in Bangladesh, I devoted years to capturing the everyday beauty, resilience, and struggles of my homeland. However, in June, nothing prepared me for what I faced in the middle of a protest which turned into a nightmare.
Initially, the protest at Dhaka University unfolded peacefully as students opposed the government’s new law to reenact the quota system. They felt limited in their opportunities based on merit. Even though I supported the government’s decision, I went to the university to capture the protest.
When the police began shooting, I knew things became dangerous, but I continued my work. Soon after, the protest turned ugly, and in one night, everything changed. As unrest spread across the streets of the capital city, I followed the protests to areas where demonstrators clashed with police. Covering violence for the first time, I recalled a senior photographer who covered similar riots in 2018. This photographer faced imprisonment for capturing the atrocities committed by the police and political goons.
The situation in Bangladesh escalated into political and communal riots. At the same time, I realized the opposition party would seize this opportunity to create unrest in the country. On the night of the protest, when I returned home, I anticipated something significant would happen in the following days. As expected, the opposition party seized the situation, and many supporters joined the protest. They turned violent, burned houses, and killed people, causing the protest to lose its peaceful nature.
Panic swept through the streets. Tear gas canisters exploded into the crowd, sending people scattering in all directions. As I stood on the roadside, riot police marched toward me with heavy footsteps, their shields raised and batons drawn.
I nearly lost my footing when a group of masked men surrounded me, their eyes burning with anger. They did not see me as a photographer; to them, I was an intruder capturing their atrocities. Shouting accusations, they labeled me a spy for outsiders. Despite showing my press credentials, I could not convince them. They seized my camera, while one man grabbed my shoulder roughly.
Before I could react, policemen encircled us. They demanded that the men return my camera and insisted I show what I captured. As I complied, a man behind me slapped my head and hurled abuse. They accused me of inciting violence, claiming I intended to tarnish the country’s image. My attempts to explain that I was there to document and bear witness went unheard.
Then, the blows began. In front of the police, the men threw me to the ground and beat me. Eventually, the police dragged me into a van, still holding my camera. While I sat helplessly in the police van, I witnessed people attacking each other outside.
I dedicated my life to photography, but on that day, my countrymen turned against me. They accused and humiliated me. After four hours in custody, the police took me to the hospital and demanded I delete the photographs. Fearing they would break my camera; I reluctantly deleted all the photos. Despite this, they threw my lenses on the floor and broke them. Desperately, I cried, “Will you compensate me for that?” I soon learned they would not, and even if they did, I could never overcome the humiliation I faced from the police and the protesters.
For nearly 13 hours, the police detained me at their station. They relentlessly interrogated me, accusing me of being a provocateur and a spy. Exhausted, I repeatedly explained that I was just a photographer doing my job, but my explanations angered them more. Those hours felt like days in the small police station. Although they did not put me behind bars, I watched as they threw many people into a very small, overcrowded cell. Each time they brought someone in, I feared I would be next.
As the hours dragged on, I questioned how everything turned into such a nightmare. I just wanted to be on the ground to document the events and bring the truth to light through my photos. Instead, my quest for truth turned me into a target. After what felt like an eternity, they released me without filing any charges or offering any explanations. They returned my camera, but they deleted all the photos and broke the lens. Leaving the station, I felt relief mingled with lingering trauma.
Since the police confiscated my phone, I could not tell anyone what happened that night. My mother and brother, who do not live in Dhaka, called repeatedly to check on me. I stayed with friends in a rented apartment, knowing my mother was safe in a nearby village and my brother was studying at a university in another city. I can only imagine my mother’s worry, especially after we recently lost my father.
When I returned home, I lay on the bed, unable to sleep. The chaos outside disturbed me. The riots spread from Dhaka to every city, town, and village in Bangladesh. People ran to attack each other for reasons known only to them. Simultaneously, the rioters targeted the families of freedom fighters first. Rioters killed more than 400 people and thousands sustained injuries. The situation grew so violent, the government imposed a nationwide curfew.
For over a month, I did not see my mother, who lives alone. Every day, I worried about her safety, and she worries about me being attacked. My 19-year-old brother, a university student, lives in a campus hostel. The government shut down all universities and colleges, and when the riots broke out, people fled the country, but my brother got stuck. His campus and hostel closed, so he now stays with a friend. With no internet, I became disconnected from everyone. The curfew and internet ban brought life in Bangladesh to a standstill.
Desperation gripped us as we waited for the chaos to end, and relief remained elusive. Riots escalated further, turning political unrest between students and political parties into communal violence. I never imagined my fellow countrymen could exhibit such violence against one another.
We heard about a mob targeting the house of well-known Bengali folk singer Rahul Ananda who is Hindu. They burned his home and destroyed many artifacts. On the streets, we see people humiliate Hindu girls publicly. [The Centre for Democracy, Pluralism and Human Rights published a report on attacks on minorities in Bangladesh since the riots erupted, also addressing the conflicting narratives coming out of the country.]
Horrified, many Hindus want to leave the country, with India being the nearest haven. However, the Indian government moved to block borders and sea routes from Bangladesh to prevent the immigrants from entering. People remained stranded on boats for days, hoping to sneak into India, but the military sealed all possible routes. At last, they faced a grim choice: return to Bangladesh amidst riots or attempt to enter another country and risk imprisonment.
I made the decision to confine myself to my home. It breaks my heart not to see my mother and to know my brother has no place to stay. These days, I question everything. As a photographer, I experience the harsh reality of being on the other side of the lens. Yet, as a person, rioters captured and humiliated me, while the police warned me to stay home or face imprisonment. As a result, I struggle to balance my job of capturing the truth with the need to stay safe. Many photographers and journalists face such dangers when their truth conflicts with those in power. Yet, no matter how much they try to suppress it, the truth always finds its way through.