By Mohammad Jobair Ahmad –
Featured photo: Mohammad shahnewaz showing his ear holding a bullet
DHAKA, May 19 — The sun had barely begun to set over Dhaka on July 19, 2024, when Mohammad Shahnewaz found himself running from tear gas and bullets near Paltan intersection. Moments earlier, he performed Friday prayers at National Mosque Baitul Mukarram. He was one of the frontliners of a mass uprising that would soon bring down Bangladesh’s longest-serving authoritarian government.
He recalled those struggling days of the movement which could cost his life.
“They were shooting at us from helicopters above. A rubber bullet is still lodged in my ear. Let it stay. It reminds me why we stood up,” touching the scar near his ear, he said.
Shahnewaz was born and raised in the narrow lane of the Millat Camp in Dhaka’s Mirpur which specifically belongs to the country’s Urdu-speaking Bihari minority, descendants of migrants who came from India before and during the 1947 Partition.
For over the last five decades, they have lived in what was originally meant to be temporary refugee camps as neither Pakistan nor independent Bangladesh recognised them fully.
As a result, the Biharis struggle to obtain recognition as citizens and still face barriers in accessing education, employment, and basic public services. Despite have legal status as citizens, they are frequently viewed as outsiders and remain marginalized in society.
Their stories of resilience, hope, and frustration open a deep window into a decades-long struggle for recognition and dignity.
Photo: Mohammad Shahnewaz
Shahnewaz flamboyantly recalls that turbulent time. “When I was shot, the boys around me said, ‘Uncle, you’re bleeding!’
“I told them not to worry, I’m not dead yet. They (Govt. forces) had weapons but we had nothing but bricks”.
When asked why he joined the protests; his voice rises in defiance saying, “This is my country, I was born here. If our youth are being beaten, how can I stand aside?”
In the time between July and August in 2024, a mass uprising knocked down the Sheikh Hasina government, bringing an end to Hasina’s 16 years of authoritarian rule.
Following the deaths of thousands of people since July, on August 5, millions of protesters marched towards Ganabhaban in Capital city Dhaka, the residence of Sheikh Hasina. Despite open gunfire from police and government forces, the movement could not be suppressed.
In the end, the Bangladesh Army refused to intervene, forcing Hasina to relinquish power and flee to India by helicopter. Many of her ministers, Awami League leaders, police officers, and even imams of the National Mosque also fled. Several ministerial residences, including Ganabhaban, were vandalized and some set on fire that day.
According to a fact-finding report by the UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, more than 1,400 people were killed and over 30,000 injured during the protests. People like Shahnewaz took part in the movement risking their lives to topple the Hasina led government.
As the “new Bangladesh” brings a sense of hope to the country after the toppling of Hasina, those within the Bihari community are now also gripped with a renewed sense of hope that their contributions and rights can be recognised by the Bangladesh mainstream. The ones who participated in the protests are bringing back a decades long struggle for equal legal rights and recognition, in the only country that they call home.
Living between borders
In the Bihari camp in Mirpur, situated in the northern part of Dhaka, families live in cramped quarters with rooms not much larger than a small storage. There are 116 such camps across Bangladesh housing hundreds of thousands of Biharis, who are Urdu-speaking Muslims.
Photo: The narrow paths of the camps are muddy due to rain
The camps are overcrowded and poorly serviced with decaying infrastructure, and Bihari residents’ legal identities are suspended between Pakistan and Bangladesh.
In the heart of Mirpur, the Millat Camp houses an estimated 10,000 families in concrete blocks which are no larger than a closet sized 80 square feet
“We’ve been cramped into these rooms for decades. There’s no space, and no future,” said Shahnewaz, who is only able to work one day a week as a butcher outside the city due to limited job access and his deteriorating health.
He lives in a one-room home with his wife and six children at the camp.
When asked about the future, with anxiety he said, “I was raised in the camp, but I don’t want the same life for my children. This is not a good place. My children sleep on the floor. Where will they go when they grow up?”
“If my kids grow up here, they’ll fall into bad company,” he added with a tone of worry.
Hope and hesitation in a new era
With the recent political changes in Bangladesh, hope has been rekindled in long-marginalized communities like Shahnewaz’s.
The interim government, led by Nobel laureate Dr. Muhammad Yunus, has promised reforms and reconciliation. He has formed six commissions to implement institutional reforms in the state, aiming to ensure rights based on equality for all.
“In the past, we had to pay bribes just to get a job or even open a bank account,” Shahnewaz said, “I couldn’t afford that. But now, perhaps it’ll be different and maybe my kids will finally get a chance.”
Chief Advisor Professor Dr. Muhammad Yunus has also promised that jobs will be allocated strictly based on merit and qualifications, without giving any special privileges or preferences to anyone.
A history of displacement
The history of the Biharis in Bangladesh dates back to the colonial era when many people migrated from India to work in British-built railway factories, especially in northern districts like Syedpur.
Later, more arrived during the communal riots of the 1930s and 1940s, believing that the Muslim-majority East Bengal would be a safe place.
After the 1947 Partition, many Biharis settled in what then was East Pakistan. But when Bangladesh fought for independence in 1971, most Biharis remained loyal to West Pakistan, a decision that characterized them as traitors in the eyes of some in the new nation.
Though many Biharis fought for Bangladesh, they are unable to shake off collective blame from the majority Bengali population.
After the independence, international organizations like the Red Cross set up refugee camps, referred to as “Geneva Camps” to house the Urdu-speaking population.
Originally planned to be repatriated to Pakistan, the plan was halted when Islamabad refused to accept them.
Today, generations later, many Biharis no longer want to go to Pakistan, but see Bangladesh as their home “Why would I go?” asked 19-year-old Mohammad Zia, a tailoring apprentice in Mirpur who’s studying in intermediate in higher secondary school.
“I born here and my friends, my life, my home, it’s all here,” he expressed, with firm eyes and a steady voice.
Stuck in legal limbo
Despite a 2008 Supreme Court verdict affirming the citizenship rights of Urdu-speaking residents born in Bangladesh, implementation of the verdict has remained patchy. To access government services like passports, bank accounts, or jobs, they are often require to show additional documents and references from local Bengali Leaders.
“Without a local reference, it’s almost impossible to open a bank account,” said Mohammad Sohel, a 29-year-old factory worker in the camp.
“It’s like we’re second-class citizens,” he added.
Language is another barrier. Although they speak Urdu at home, Bihari children attend Bangla-language schools. There are no provisions for Urdu-language education, and dropout rates are high.
In most camp households, even the basics are a struggle.
Monika Begum, 32, lives in a one-room home with her husband and three children. Her eldest son, Rahim, is in Class 7 at a nearby secondary school, while her youngest, Priya, is just three.
“Two beds in one tiny room for five people,” she said, asking “What happens when the boys grow older? Where will they sleep?”
Invisible losses, daily humiliations
Visiting the Bihari camp in Mirpur, situated in the northern part of Dhaka, residents spoke about their living conditions. Despite the rain and muddy, narrow alleys, I met families living in cramped quarters, each room no larger than a small storage space.
The physical conditions of the camps reflect a deeper neglect. Pathways are barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. During rains, they flood with sewage-laced water. Fires spread quickly through overcrowded homes, and ambulances can’t enter the lanes.
“When someone dies here, we can’t take the body out on a stretcher,” said Shahnaz Begum, an elderly resident. “We carry it in our hands.”
Shahnaz says, She was born in the camp and expects to die here too.
Photo: Congested room of Shahnaz
“Hospitals look at us differently. It’s like we’re not worthy of their time,” Shahnaz added in a heavy voice.
A community split between hope and despair
Despite the younger generation seeing themselves as Bangladeshis, many among the older generation still stick to the hope of repatriation to Pakistan.
In 1978, some formed the Stranded Pakistanis General Repatriation Committee (SPGRC), advocating for their relocation. In 1992, around 300 people were sent to Pakistan in the first phase of a now-defunct agreement. No further repatriations have ever occurred after.
“We were promised a way out, but both governments abandoned us,” said Jabbar Khan, chairman of the SPGRC. “Nobody wants to take responsibility for us,” he added.
Recent diplomatic talks briefly reignited hope. In April, Pakistan’s Foreign Secretary Amna Baloch visited Dhaka and met with Bangladeshi officials. Bangladesh requested that Pakistan take back 325,000 “stranded Pakistanis.” But those conversations have since been derailed by escalating India-Pakistan tensions and armed hostilities..
The New Generation Speaks
Despite the challenges, a growing sense of optimism is rising among the younger generation living in camps.
Many of their youngs envision a future where they are fully integrated into Bangladeshi society, enjoying equal rights and opportunities. They firmly believe this land is their birthplace and motherland.
At the same time, they seek an end to the precarious and harsh living conditions in the camps.
Many hope for a shift in public perception and attitudes toward camp residents, alongside improvements in the camps’ environment and infrastructure.
Mohammad Zia, a young resident who works in the nearby Benarashi Palli fashion market, recently passed his higher secondary exams. He speaks with a clear sense of purpose.
“Those of us who’ve had access to education think beyond these narrow alleys,” Zia said. “We dream of a better life outside the camp and believe that change is possible.”
He added, “Many in the camp still hold on to old ways, but I want to help change that. If given the opportunity, I would work to improve our environment and make sure every child goes to school.”
Ten-year-old Fahim, a fourth-grade student at primary school, said “I want to breathe in open air and live outside the camp. I don’t like this cramped life.”
“I don’t want to leave Bangladesh. This is my home,” he furthered with hope of staying in this land.
For now, Zia and Fahim, along with their generation, continue waiting for justice, dignity, and recognition as citizens born under the same sky—not as outsiders.
All photos from Mohammad Jobair Ahmad. Story edited by Micheal Zhang