It is often said that Gopalganj is a fortress of Awami League, and that statement holds a grim truth. When I visited recently, I asked a rickshaw puller whom he would vote for. "The leader [Sheikh Hasina]," he replied.

I told him the leader had fled to Delhi. He paused and said simply: "Then I won’t vote."

This, in essence, is the political reality of Bangladesh–where loyalty to personality eclipses political consciousness. Change is not just difficult here; it is structurally strangled.

Gopalganj’s loyalty runs deep, even among the so-called religious class. Take Ruhul Amin–the fugitive Khatib of Baitul Mukarram–himself a son of Gopalganj, son of the esteemed Allama Shamsul Haque Faridpuri, and principal of a local madrasa.

His political sympathies were no secret. Nor were the skullcaps and beards among the attackers in today’s violence–reminders that in Bangladesh, political allegiance transcends ideology. It is tribal. Familial. Territorial.

But this is not uniquely Bangladeshi. History offers parallels. After the collapse of Bashar al-Assad’s rule in parts of Syria, forces led by Al-Joulani couldn’t penetrate Alawite strongholds without slaughter. Even a failed state does not let go of its tribal loyalties so easily.

That’s why any opposition attempt to enter Gopalganj and challenge the League on its own turf is not just brave–it is symbolically significant. It chips at the illusion of invincibility.

But when this act of defiance ends in bloodshed, and the student leaders are seen escorted out safely under state protection, a new myth is born: the myth of martyrdom orchestrated for political theatre. Let’s not romanticize it.

The Awami League is a fascist force. There is no need to mince words. Delivering corpses to their doorstep doesn’t weaken them–it feeds them. It reinforces their narrative of existential siege, of law and order against chaos.

Perhaps, that’s exactly what they wanted today.

And the opposition? The NCP seems to have walked into Gopalganj blind–trapped in a multi-layered, state-enabled game without doing its homework. They became pawns instead of players.

Some celebrated when the Chhatra Dal stormed the BACS JUB branch. Today, others are cheering the League’s retaliation against the NCP. The pattern is clear: in our politics, violence is not tragedy–it is sport. Joy rides on blood.

But those cheers–let’s be honest–are neither innocent nor justifiable. They are symptoms of a culture we built, brick by bloody brick.

We didn’t just inherit this political rot. We cultivated it.

What Gopalganj march ultimately symbolizes?

What unfolded in Gopalganj is not simply a local clash–it is a collective failure.

The attack was enabled by the complacency of the interim government, the recklessness of political actors, and the chronic dysfunction of our law enforcement agencies.

Despite months of arms recovery drives, illegal weapons continue to surface–in Gopalganj and beyond. This is no mystery. Political parties have long cultivated networks of armed loyalists, sheltering them when expedient and turning a blind eye when inconvenient.

The spoils of this arrangement have been shared. The army, granted magistracy powers, largely stood by. The police are predictably ineffective.

The interim government, meanwhile, seems content with a symbolic politics of prohibition–banning party activities while doing little to restore justice or promote reconciliation.

Their inaction has fostered a dangerous vacuum, a creeping lawlessness now visible from Teknaf to Tungipara. Gopalganj is its most violent expression to date.

Let’s be clear: the NCP’s rally was not a provocation in itself. Yes, some young leaders crossed rhetorical lines. But overall, the party leadership showed restraint. They didn’t march into Gopalganj to incite chaos; they were met with it.

The response from the Awami League–and the state's tacit tolerance–tells the real story. This was a premeditated message, not a spontaneous reaction.

Still, the NCP made tactical errors. Their entrance into Gopalganj carried the tone of an invasion rather than a dialogue.

A softer, more reconciliatory tone might not have changed the outcome–let’s not delude ourselves into thinking the League was waiting to be charmed–but it would have given the NCP moral high ground. Instead, the optics have been muddled.

For those arguing that the League responded to provocation, I suggest looking more closely. The attack served their interests: asserting dominance, manufacturing victimhood, and invoking the familiar mythology of existential siege.

Fascist movements thrive not just on blood–but on the story told about whose blood it is, and why it was spilled.

Some now claim this moment as a success for the NCP. But success must be measured.

Zia and Ershad, for all their flaws, never brought corpses to Gopalganj. They lost the narrative battle perhaps–but they didn’t hand the League the ideological fuel of martyrdom.

That restraint, in hindsight, was wisdom.

Had those few lives not been lost this week, the NCP could have claimed a clean political breakthrough. Instead, the theology of blood now looms large–and history has shown how quickly fascist forces can turn graves into monuments.

Lessons for the interim government

The interim government must proceed with precision. In their revolutionary zeal, they risk alienating the very observers–international human rights bodies, diplomatic partners–who are already uneasy about the suspension of due process.

The broader game now unfolding in Bangladeshi politics is not about unity, but annihilation. And in such games, victory is rarely what it seems.

This is not just a battle for territory. It’s a battle over memory, over narrative, over myth. And if we continue on this path, we may all lose–while thinking we’ve won.

In such a volatile landscape, handing the Awami League even a sliver of moral or political advantage would be a grave misstep. That is why every state action in Gopalganj now must meet the highest standards of transparency.

Arrest those responsible for the violence, yes–but prosecute them through open and credible legal processes. Anything less risks repeating the dark playbook of curfews, arbitrary raids, and the forced displacement of men from their homes.

These tactics may offer short-term control, but they breed long-term instability–and embolden impunity within law enforcement ranks.

Let’s also be clear: vilifying Gopalganj as a whole does nothing but sow resentment. Condemning an entire district because of its political identity is a strategic and moral failure.

It will not fracture the League’s support–it will harden it. This is not the way forward.

We must remember that revolution and governance are not the same. One year ago, protesters marched without protection and fell to bullets–yet emerged with moral victory.

Today, with the apparatus of the state partly in your corner, the same sense of clarity seems absent. That internal dissonance is worth examining. The Awami League has gained little from today’s violence–except what they are handed by our own political missteps.

If we continue to center them in the national conversation, we risk preserving them the same way Jamaat-e-Islami lingered—reviled, yet strangely permanent.

What happens now matters. Will NCP leaders or the interim government meet the families of those killed? Will the state compensate the victims’ loved ones? Will there be a real investigation–or only selective memory?

These answers will define not just the narrative of this moment, but the integrity of those who claim to be building a new order.

An independent inquiry must be formed immediately. Publish a complete and transparent report. Name those who died. Identify who killed them and under what circumstances. Build a historical record that stands up to scrutiny–not one that can be mythologized by fascist ideologues.

You don’t fight fascism with fog. You fight it with clarity.

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Tuhin Khan is a writer and activist