On the first anniversary of the fall of the authoritarian regime on August 5, 2024, memories of fear, threats, and the brink of death continue to haunt actress Azmeri Haque Badhon and popular young singer Tasrif Khan. Both were prominent voices in support of the quota reform movement, a youth-led uprising that shook the nation and exposed the brutal suppression by the then-government. As the crackdown escalated, many from the entertainment industry stood in solidarity with the protesting students—risking careers, freedom, and even their lives.
Actress Badhon recalls those days with deep anxiety. “It was terrifying,” she said in a reflective conversation. “That regime was obsessed with power. Despite their threats, we stood with the students. Their sincerity gave us courage. But once I raised my voice, the government started calling us traitors. I received threats of abduction, murder—even acid attacks—through phone calls, messages, and social media. Yet I didn’t back down.”
According to Badhon, she and several others publicly demanded the fall of the government on August 1. After that, the threat of enforced disappearance loomed large. “If August 5 hadn’t come, if that regime hadn’t fallen, I would have been abducted for sure,” she said. “We were all on a hit list. The only reason I am standing here alive today is because of the victory of the people. You’ll notice, I received the most threats on Facebook during that period. That hatred was proof I was on the right path. And when I saw audiences embrace my film Esha Murder during Eid, I felt reassured—reminded that I wasn’t alone, and that public love isn’t false.”
Similarly, Tasrif Khan—whose music echoed the voice of the resistance—was also targeted. He became a youth icon when his protest song “Rajar Rajje Shobai Golam” resonated across campuses. But with fame came danger. “I was constantly on the run. They tried to trap me with offers—money, proximity to power. They told me I’d get to work closely with Sheikh Hasina if I helped make propaganda videos. They even assaulted my bandmate Shanto. But I refused. I chose to stand by the students.”
On the morning of August 5, 2024, Tasrif published three Facebook posts—rallying working people to the streets, calling on police officers to remember their own children, and urging ruling party members to reject violence. “Those posts could’ve gotten me killed,” he said. “If that day hadn’t ended in victory, I would’ve been a dead man. The regime was furious with me. I was on their radar. They would’ve found me and finished me off. Even now, I shudder thinking about it.”
Reflecting on the perilous journey, he shared how a government liaison once approached him with an offer to collaborate in exchange for influence and wealth. When he refused, intimidation followed. “They beat up Shanto. They threatened me relentlessly. But I stayed put. I waited for the day we would win.”
Both Badhon and Tasrif agree that August 5 marks not only a political turning point but a deeply personal one. It was the day they were spared from disappearance, imprisonment, or death. Their testimonies paint a chilling picture of a time when dissent was criminalized, and courage came at a steep price.
As Tasrif made his way to Tangail for a concert, he offered a closing thought: “We stood against a broken system. If it ever rises again, we will protest again. We’ll still stand with the people. Because the revolution isn’t over. It never really was.”