A year has passed since the country erupted in protests over the quota-reform movement — a wave of demonstrations that soon snowballed into a nationwide uprising.

I remember—it was late afternoon, the sun leaning westward. From a distance, a soft yet resolute melody drifted through the air. I was just a boy then, curious and drawn by the sound. I approached quietly.

In the shadows of booming remittance flows and the quiet resilience of Bangladesh’s labour diaspora, a disturbing reality persists: numerous Bangladeshi female migrant workers, particularly those employed as domestic help in Gulf countries, are returning home in coffins.

As the climate crisis worsens, its effects in Bangladesh are becoming increasingly visible and destructive.

Under the vast skies of northern Bangladesh, in the corners of Rajshahi, Dinajpur, Rangpur, and the hillier terrains of the Chittagong Hill Tracts, lives a vibrant community whose roots run deep into the soil and soul of the region—the Oraons.

When the traditional haor song Lechur Baganey (“In the litchi orchard…”) was repurposed as an “item song” in a recent Bengali film, it sparked an outpouring of debate among music lovers and across social media platforms.

Tucked away beside a mosque in the quiet village of Tekani in Rangpur’s Mithapukur upazila stands a tree that once changed the course of an entire region’s agricultural history.

In the middle of Farmgate’s frantic rush, where buses roar and buildings crowd the sky, a quiet miracle unfolds each day.

In the lowlands of northern Bangladesh, where the Brahmaputra weaves its ancient path and songs echo across open fields, a quiet fight to preserve cultural memory is underway.

Jaya and Sharmin—a film produced by Jaya Ahsan—is a quiet reminder of who we were and still are, five years after the pandemic struck.  In this quiet, haunting two-woman film, the pandemic is never centerstage—rather the film avoids its dramatization. There are no sirens, no scenes of hospital chaos, no feverish handheld camera work. Instead, the film offers what most pandemic stories avoid: the internal climate of a shared household. Time slows. Fear settles. News flits across the TV, unnoticed. Through understated rhythm, the film accomplishes something powerful—it keeps the focus on the emotional, relational toll of confinement, rather than its spectacle.

Dr Rebecca Prentice, Associate Professor of Anthropology and International Development at the University of Sussex, has studied garment workers’ health and labour rights for over two decades.

When Subahdar of Bengal, Islam Khan Chishti, entered Dhaka in 1608 or 1610, he was accompanied by a diverse group of North and North-West Indians, Afghans, Iranians, Arabs, and other foreign Muslims and Hindus.

“The sun rises, but the light of life seems to be stuck at the gate of the Tinbigha Corridor.”

Mohammed Taher, a young Rohingya poet and teacher from the refugee camp in Ukhia, Cox’s Bazar, uses education and writing as tools for change.

Nine months have passed since the July Uprising, yet its human toll continues to surface—survivors left scarred, jobless, and crushed by mounting debt. Among the most visible yet overlooked are those who lost their eyesight—many now living with permanent disability and fading hope.

There was a time when pens had “health issues” and needed to be taken to the “Pen Hospital.”

Poetry, History, and Caste Struggle

When the cuckoo begins to call from the distant peaks of the hills, and the southern breeze carries the gentle fragrance of newly blossomed wildflowers in vibrant hues, the hills awaken in their own colors—ushering in the celebration of the eternal tradition of welcoming a new year and bidding farewell to the previous year

Exactly 169 years ago, in the jungles of what is now the Indian state of Jharkhand, Bengal Army sepoys fired the final shots in what became known as the ‘Hul’, or uprising, of 1855.

The Blue or Indigo Mutiny of 1861, was an outpouring of anger by Indian peasants coerced into cultivating the unprofitable indigo crop by British planters.