One year since the mass uprising of 2024, the interim government has finally made public the much-anticipated July Declaration—a document that emerged from a turbulent period of civic mobilisation, relentless demands by various factions, and intense national debate. Long before its publication, the Declaration became a lightning rod for controversy.
Divisions had already formed regarding both its content and its possible inclusion in the constitution. Now, as the country finds itself at a political inflection point, the Declaration’s reception will test the resilience of the very coalition that helped bring it into existence. The coming months will reveal whether this document serves as a roadmap for renewal or descends into another front in the nation’s enduring struggle over identity and governance. To engage meaningfully with the July Declaration, one must first differentiate it from the not-yet-finalized July Charter—a distinction that highlights both the potential and perils of the current political juncture.
Fundamentally, the July Declaration is intended as a historical and political endorsement. It represents formal recognition of the student-led uprising, the establishment of the interim administration, and the transitional governance measures taken thereafter. Symbolically, it serves to legitimize the movement in the national consciousness. However, it is difficult to overlook how the Declaration leans heavily on the past—emphasizing acknowledgement and vindication of grievances—rather than laying out a robust agenda for future governance.
In contrast, the July Charter is envisioned as the functional framework of a so-called “Second Republic.” As a prospective constitutional document, it is expected to propose far-reaching reforms—covering electoral integrity, judicial autonomy, and the restructuring of institutions—to insulate the country from authoritarian relapse. But herein lies a fundamental contradiction. Suppose the Declaration already sanctifies the uprising and demands elevated legal and political status for its architects. What assurances exist that the Charter will advance systemic reforms rather than entrench political exceptionalism?
This concern becomes especially pressing because key stakeholders have refrained from supporting the Charter without a clearly defined legal basis. Their apprehension is not unfounded. Should a future administration—particularly one opposed to the revolutionary agenda—come to power, how would an informal or non-binding Charter impose structural change? More alarmingly, if the Declaration is perceived as an indemnity clause shielding the interim leadership, it could establish a dangerous precedent—where political legitimacy overrides democratic process, and justice becomes subordinate to revolutionary privilege.
Viewed from this perspective, the Declaration’s lack of substantive direction is not merely a lost chance—it is an ominous sign. Rather than focusing on rebuilding the democratic architecture of the state, the document appears preoccupied with consolidating the position of its drafters. The Declaration and Charter were meant to complement one another; instead, the Declaration’s vagueness now risks undermining the Charter’s credibility.
The long-awaited release of the July Declaration could have been an opportunity to chart a bold course for national transformation. Instead, what has been presented is a blend of legitimate grievances and narrowly framed demands—an exercise in political memory-making that veers dangerously toward the institutionalization of privilege for those who led the uprising.
The initial section of the Declaration is devoted almost entirely to cataloguing the transgressions of the previous Awami League regime. It offers a scathing critique—detailing the erosion of democratic norms, the instrumentalization of institutions, and the stifling of dissent. While such an indictment was undoubtedly necessary, the narrative quickly shifts from national reckoning to personal bargaining. The latter portion of the document reads less like a manifesto for reform and more like a request for constitutional immunity and an exalted status for the movement’s leaders. These individuals seek recognition on par with the nation’s liberation war veterans—arguably asking not just for legitimacy, but also legal protection against future scrutiny. I do not oppose such recognition outright. However, its central role in the document raises deep-seated concerns.
And so we are left to ask—if the movement was truly rooted in a desire for democratic renewal, why does its foundational document place such overwhelming emphasis on shielding its actors, rather than building robust institutions?
An actual Declaration of principles would have tackled urgent governance challenges – safeguarding electoral processes, depoliticizing the judiciary and civil service, ensuring parliamentary oversight, and establishing checks on executive power. Yet this document says little about any of these. It pays lip service to democratic ideals, but fails to articulate how these will be embedded in the political structure of a reimagined republic. The call for free and fair elections is made—but with no accompanying mechanism. Civic liberties are mentioned—but without a framework for decentralization or protection. In its current form, the Declaration appears less committed to transformative reform and more intent on securing the political capital amassed during the uprising.
What is perhaps most disquieting is the implicit attempt to place the July uprising on the same pedestal as the 1971 Liberation War—suggesting that its leaders deserve not only recognition, but quasi-sacred legal and social status. The uprising indeed marked a decisive repudiation of authoritarianism. However, conflating this episode with the struggle for national independence risks creating a new political elite beyond reproach. The Liberation War was a fight for the very existence of the nation. The July uprising, though momentous, was a corrective within an existing state framework. To equate the two is not only historically inaccurate—it is politically reckless.
The moral strength of the July movement lay in its bottom-up challenge to autocratic excess. Yet the Declaration reads like a contract for political immunity. If the revolutionaries had truly sought to dismantle authoritarianism, they would have anchored the document in institutional reform, not personal privilege. Instead, the Declaration’s tone and content suggest a disturbing continuity: replacing one power circle with another, under a different banner but with similar dynamics of entitlement.
The failures of the July Declaration—its backward gaze, its rhetorical focus, its reluctance to commit to governance reform—do not erase the importance of the uprising. But they do serve as a red flag. A revolution that forgets its purpose risks becoming indistinguishable from the forces it sought to overcome. The emphasis on personal protections rather than public institutions reveals a dangerous tendency—one that could very well find its way into the Charter if the same logic prevails.
Symbolism, no matter how powerful, cannot substitute for systemic change. Suppose the interim government sincerely hopes to usher in a Second Republic. In that case, the July Charter must resist the Declaration’s temptations. It must eschew self-glorification and deliver enforceable, future-facing reforms: credible electoral processes, a truly independent judiciary, and tangible checks on concentrated power. Otherwise, the Charter, too, will become another elite pact—ready to collapse at the first serious challenge from a future administration.
Lastly, the inordinate delay in releasing the Declaration has already disappointed many involved parties. As we now await the Charter, suspicion grows. It would not be entirely unreasonable if some begin to wonder whether these delays are deliberate—perhaps aimed at pushing back elections. While such concerns deserve scrutiny, they lie outside the scope of this particular analysis. They merit their own time and place in our ongoing national discourse.
