Why do we need to repaint the walls of revolution?
The words on the wall which might seem “vulgar” or “indecent” carry the anger of a nation, a sharpness that cuts deeper because it’s ours. It’s the voice of people who have had enough, who are no longer afraid to speak the truth, no matter how harsh it sounds.
I stumbled across a Facebook post the other day – a call for funds to transform the walls of Dhaka. It was an appeal from a group of artists who wanted to cover the city's walls, now marred by unsightly, crude slogans, impromptu graffiti, and inappropriate content, with something more 'beautiful' and 'meaningful.' They intend to replace the raw expressions of rage and defiance with art dedicated to the martyrs of the movement.
But as I read it, a question gnawed at me – why do we need to repaint the walls of revolution?
The walls of Dhaka tell the story of a nation's fury. They bear the scars of people pushed to the brink, who, in their moment of despair, found their voices and scrawled them across the city. These aren't just scribbles, they are the language of resistance. The raw, unfiltered voice of people demanding to be heard. They capture the essence of the struggle, the passion, the anger, and the desperation of those who fought for change.
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Language plays a crucial role in any revolution. The words on the wall which might seem "vulgar" or "indecent" carry the anger of a nation, a sharpness that cuts deeper because it's ours. It's the voice of people who have had enough, who are no longer afraid to speak the truth, no matter how harsh it sounds.
These phrases are not just words; they are the embodiment of a collective outcry, and of a movement that refuses to be sanitised.
In the aftermath of the recent upheaval, the walls have become a canvas for anger, pain, and a demand for justice. The slogans, profanity, and hastily drawn images are the pulse of a revolution. Slang and impromptu graffiti are everywhere, and while they may not be polite, politically correct, or aesthetically pleasing, they are the rawest expression of people's emotions.
Revolutions are not born out of politeness. They erupt from the depths of frustration and the cries of those who have been silenced for too long.
They're not meant to be polished; they're meant to be felt. And here lies the power of language – Bangla, in all its rawness and richness, carries a depth of emotion that other languages can't replicate.
The slogans scrawled across the walls of Dhaka – "লাখো শহীদের রক্তে কেনা, দেশটা কারো বাপের না!" (A country bought with the blood of millions of martyrs, belongs to no one's father!) and "লাঠি গুলি টিয়ারগ্যাস, জবাব দিবে বাংলাদেশ" (Batons, bullets, tear gas, Bangladesh will answer) and many others are not crafted to be polite or aesthetic, they are cries of resistance, born out of frustration and anger. They are the unvarnished truth of the people who have been pushed too far.
Revolutions are messy, chaotic, and often brutal. They are not beautiful, and they are not meant to be. The walls of Dhaka, covered in impromptu graffiti and slogans, are a reminder of the blood, sweat, and tears that went into this movement.
So why do we feel the need to repaint them? Why sanitise the rawness? Why erase the anger?
Perhaps it's a desire to present a more 'acceptable' face to the world. But in doing so, we risk losing the essence of what this revolution stands for.
The graffiti and slogans, with all their rough edges, are a part of our history. They are the language of the revolution, and they demand to be preserved.
Look at revolutions across the world. The walls of Berlin, still marked by the resistance of a divided city, stand as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.
In Cairo, the graffiti of Tahrir Square remains a reminder of the people's fight for freedom. We saw the backlash in Egypt as the Revolutionary Wall was whitewashed a year later.
These are not just historical artifacts, they are living, breathing pieces of a revolution.
And yet, here we are, contemplating whether to paint over our own history.
We need to ask ourselves what are we trying to erase? The rough edges? The discomfort? The truth that isn't palatable?
The walls of Dhaka are more than just concrete and paint. They are the voice of a generation that refuses to be silenced. They carry the weight of people who have suffered and yet found the strength to speak out. And that voice deserves to be heard in its rawest, most unfiltered form.
In the end, revolutions are about more than just changing the political landscape, they are about giving voice to the voiceless, about breaking down the barriers of oppression, and about creating a new future.
The walls of Dhaka, covered in slogans and graffiti, are a part of that future. They are a reminder that change does not come easily and that the road to freedom is often paved with blood and tears.
Repainting the walls of revolution is not just an act of beautification, it's an act of erasure. It's an attempt to smooth over the roughness, to make the pain more palatable, to present a version of history that is easier to digest. But revolutions are not meant to be easy or convenient. They are messy, they are painful, and they are real.
So, why do we need to repaint the walls of revolution? Perhaps we don't. Perhaps we should let them stand as they are – scarred, raw, and unapologetically honest, unfiltered expression of the people's voice and a reminder of the power of resistance. Let them speak the truth of people who have endured, fought, and will continue to fight.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.
