‘BE READY, there is a chance that they can take you away any day now.’ This was the warning my editor, Nurul Kabir, gave me after more than two decades of career as editorial cartoonist at the daily ¶¶Òõ¾«Æ·. It was July 23, and by then, the student’s movement for reforms in the quota system in public services had already turned fatal, and the now-deposed Awami League government was using all repressive measures to keep people off the streets. A curfew was imposed. My colleagues came to the office armed with curfew passes, navigating the risk and hostility on the roads. As I was leaving the office after submitting my editorial cartoon for the day, he reminded me of the possibility of being picked up and then added, ‘Who will you call if they take you away?’Ìý
Smiling, I replied, ‘I’ll call you.’
We shared a light moment of laughter before he said, ‘If they take you, there will be no time to make a call, so make a call list in advance.’
Over the past year, people never shied away from reminding me that drawing political cartoons is risky, but I dismissed it. Not because I was unaware of the risks, but because I knew fear was contagious. When you are among the few continuing to work despite the risks, it would not bode well to tell everyone that you are afraid. For the youth aspiring to be cartoonists in the future, I thought facing it all with a smile was crucial. Instead of allowing fear to grow, it’s important to keep drawing. I thought, in the face of fear, putting down my pen is not my option; I may not always be able to draw exactly what I imagined. There are times in an artist’s life when an artist learns to be strategic, but we all know that, equipped with satire and wit, a cartoon is always a playfully strategic form of art. I also know well that the work of an artist is never easy. Artist should, at least that’s what I think, carry some unease within. Let the legal notice keep coming to the artist’s way. Let the rogue and crooks throw swears at the artist for what s/he drew. An artist must wear these threats and swear as their accolade. An artist must also learn to avoid the lure of joining the caravan of luxury and greed. Material gains in exchange for supporting the ruler’s propaganda is a common ploy. Since cartooning as a choice of livelihood is not financially lucrative, rejecting the ‘offers’ is also a challenge, I must admit. However, for me, the joy of drawing an editorial cartoon that truly expresses my view of political reality is not for sale that some ‘offer’ can buy. When I am asked why I draw knowing the risks involved, my answer therefore is quite simple: ‘Brother, in this country, where is it that has no risk? You can die while simply crossing the road. Should I stop going out altogether? Should I stay silent? Instead, we need to learn to speak and to draw, navigating the risks. It is much like learning to cross the road amid the chaotic Dhaka traffic. The work of an artist is not different.’
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Editorial cartooning is a collective effort
It will be mistaken to think that corruption and undemocratic political culture are unique to the Awami League regime (2009-2024), and life was a bed of roses before then. Bangladesh has seen troubled times. During the autocratic rule of General Ershad (1982-1990), when there was a general consensus against the regime, it wasn’t an easy time for cartoonists, journalists, or poets. Yet, artists or the literary community continued to draw, perform, and write plays and poems. The canonical cartoons of Shishir Bhattacharjee were all created during the Ershad regime. There were legendary figures like Asiful Huda, Kuddus, Pankaj Pathak, and Ibrahim Mondol. Even earlier, there were pioneers like Rafiqun Nabi (Ranabi) and Nazrul Islam. None of them ever stopped. Historically speaking, authoritarian rule cannot be the excuse to self-censorship or to subscribe to any form of censorship. We are accountable to our political time. Someone has to pick up the pen and brush in times of repression.
In 2001-2007, when the Bangladesh Nationalist Party was in power, even during the military-backed caretaker government in 2007-2008, political cartoons faced immense pressure. The caretaker government, in its Emergency Power Ordinance, had implicitly discouraged any criticism of the government. I vividly remember the conversation I had with my editor in January 2007. I asked him, ‘What will you do if we can’t publish cartoons anymore?’ Unhesitant, he replied, ‘We’ll keep drawing, more than before.’ It was a brief encounter, but an epic one. I learnt I am among the many, and the battle for truth is constant, not against any specific regime or individual. I come to the table with my pencil and knack for cartooning; the editorial commentary illustrated in cartoons in the ¶¶Òõ¾«Æ· is often a reflection of the discussion we had at the daily 4 pm reporters meeting with the editor. To become a cartoonist, you may need wit and drawing skills, but to become a political cartoonist, at least in Bangladesh, you need a team and a leader. I have both at ¶¶Òõ¾«Æ·.
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Big Mother, her laws, and the larger marketÌý
AS AN artist, I must elaborate on the larger context of our work. During the AL regime, the question of freedom of artistic expression was predominantly discussed in relation to the repressive Digital Security Act, or the more recent Cyber Security Act. The arrest of cartoonist Ahmed Kabir Kishor is a case in point. The torture he endured in custody shocked the national and international artist community. He was, according to media reports, not exclusively targeted for his cartoon or as a cartoonist but accused in a case among 11 others, including Bangladeshi journalists in exile, businessmen, and political activists. The allegation against him was that he was involved in a ‘conspiracy against the state’ and he was doing so through ‘spreading rumour’. The AL regime often read criticism of the government as ‘conspiracy’ or ‘rumour’ and the DSA was a tool to muzzle critiques, so we demanded his immediate release from a protest programme at Shahbagh. Whatever the nature of the allegation, for the cartoonist community in Bangladesh, a community that Kishor has not always been kind to, it was a case of a cartoonist behind bars, and we took a stand against his incarceration.
The fear that you may face legal harassment if you draw political cartoons was reinforced by cartoonist Kishore’s arrest under the DSA. However, this law is intended to govern citizens conduct online. It is not applicable for print media. The argument that the enactment of such a law has contributed to the decline of political cartoons is therefore not fully tenable. There are other contributing factors. Undeniably, some politically targeted arrests of opposition leaders, writers, and journalists under this Act have created a culture of fear and contributed to the tendency of self-censorship. Editorial cartoons are no longer as common.Ìý
The fear of legal harassment and censorship is just part of the story. The particular growth in media industry, through which ownership of media houses, particularly ownership of print media, went to politically and financially influential quarters with no interest in media freedom. They were largely part of the AL government’s propaganda machine and had no room for a political cartoonist in its conventional sense. However, the market for artists as illustrators, animators, or cartoonists has expanded in the digital age. The prospect of a more economically secure career has prompted many to abandon the possibility of becoming a cartoonist for a newspaper or a satire magazine, which is never financially lucrative. Now, a cartoonist or an illustrator can make a good living by producing campaign or communication material for international development or aid organisations and advertising agencies. The animation, gaming, or larger creative industry opened new horizons for cartoonists and illustrators. There is also the international market for artists to work as freelancers. The expansion of the market for artists, its relatively safer work environment, and economic security are undeniable parts of our reality.
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Red July and Generation Z
I BEGAN writing this piece to talk about cartoons and cartoonists during the July mass uprising. The authoritarian Sheikh Hasina regime faced a crushing defeat as students and ordinary citizens defied her brutal killing mission. The ruthless murderous attack on its own citizens left even the most loyal supporters of the AL government to withdraw their moral support. The Awami League, despite its significant contributions to the independence of Bangladesh under Sheikh Hasina’s leadership, had turned the history of 1971 a site of political control. They repeatedly undermined the electoral process, clung to power, and broke records in corruption, money laundering, and major banking sector scams, and they have tried to justify their tyranny, claiming themselves to be the ‘muktijuddher shopokkher shokti’, a pro-liberation war political force. The students, who are known as the Generation Z, broke the moral order and the binary between the pro- and anti-liberation forces, a binary that helped the AL tyranny to perpetuate for over 15 years. The slogans in rallies, graffiti on the walls, and rap songs of today’s youth reminded everyone that freedom is not something that you place on the pedestal of museums, but freedom is a constant struggle. In July, the Gen-Z painted red across the country.Ìý
Speaking strictly about cartoons, the courage of the young cartoonists must be acknowledged. While older folks like me didn’t do much new, the young cartoonists, with their boundless courage, broke taboos and spoke out, drew, and acted in ways that older, more ‘practical/strategic’ minds like mine could never have done. To conclude, I return the question that I mentioned earlier in this piece: why and how do we continue to do political cartooning in an environment of heightened risk, and the Gen-Z cartoonists answered with works in hundreds and posted them on social media, knowing well that the law enforcement agencies in plain clothes could knock at their doors any moment. They drew bullets when live bullets were fired, killing more than a thousand. This has always been the case — people rise to the occasion when necessary. Hail to the youth, and long live Generation Z.  
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Mehedi Haque is senior cartoonist at ¶¶Òõ¾«Æ·.
