An interview with photojournalist Jibon Ahmed on the July Revolution and Elections in Bangladesh
John Quinley, Director at Fortify Rights interviews Bangladeshi photojournalist Jibon Ahmed, who documented the July Revolution in 2024. Jibon Ahmed speaks about his experience of personally witnessing and photographing the uprising, surviving gunfire while reporting, and the role of photography in revolution. Fortify Rights spoke to Jibon Ahmed in the lead up to the national elections on February 12, 2026.
When you were capturing the scenes of the July Revolution in 2024, what was that experience like? How did you feel in those moments, and what goes through your mind now when you look back at those images?
When I think back to those days of the July Revolution, a strange feeling still stirs inside me. The simple fact that I am still alive feels like a miracle.
It was the morning of July 17, 2024. I left home with my camera and reached Rampura junction. Even from a distance, the sound of gunfire echoed through the streets. The main road had turned into a battlefield. Standing in front of BRAC University, I saw police firing indiscriminately. Right before my eyes, a middle-aged man was shot and fell to the ground, his white shirt stained in a deep red colour. A few people ran to carry him away. Moments later, I saw a boy, no older than eleven or twelve, blood streaming from under his eye. He was running aimlessly, terrified, not understanding what had happened. Soon, some people rushed him away for help.
That night I witnessed even more horrifying scenes inside the morgue of Dhaka Medical College. Thousands of people crowded outside the hospital. The wounded kept arriving. The morgue overflowed with bodies. The emergency ward was packed, and outside, there were wailing relatives, desperate crowds, and people calling for blood donors. I saw citizens lining up to donate blood; others brought in the injured on pickups, rickshaws, even on makeshift trolleys.
There is one image I can never forget: a young man, his hands soaked in blood, clutching his friend’s identification card and screaming, “They shot him right in front of me! The doctors can’t save him!” His shirt and the card were covered in blood. Another man staggered in with a blade or machete still lodged in his head and yet he managed to walk into the hospital by himself.
That was when I realized journalism isn’t only about recording facts. Sometimes it means brushing against death itself. During those days, we journalists were risking our lives. Police blocked us, protesters distrusted us, and ruling Awami League party men surrounded and threatened us. I was attacked multiple times while covering the protest. I saw my colleague Raju, a photojournalist from the daily Banik Barta newspaper, being beaten right before my eyes.
One of the most heartbreaking moments came when I met the father of little Riya Ghop, a six-year-old who was shot dead while playing on her rooftop, hit by a bullet fired from a helicopter during the protest crackdown. I saw him in the morgue. The father of Riya Ghop looked at me and said, “You are taking pictures … but can you bring my daughter back?” That was one moment when my camera froze. His question still haunts me.
At the start of July, I thought this was just another protest like many before. But after Abu Sayed was shot dead in broad daylight, everything changed. I saw ordinary people flooding the streets, unarmed, facing the full force of the state’s machinery. Through my lens, I captured protestors shot and carried away by rickshaw, protestors both men and women beaten in the streets.
You were shot while covering the protests in Rampura in Dhaka. How did that experience reshape your understanding of reporting on state violence?
Being shot during the Monsoon revolution was one of the most intense and terrifying moments of my life. On the July 17, 2024, we journalists had been working nonstop. I was exhausted. Around noon that day, a few of us sat down on a corner of the pavement to have some tea and water, taking a short break. We thought the day’s violence had subsided. But suddenly, we saw a group of police advancing toward us, firing their weapons.
At first, they paused when they saw us. I was standing at the entrance of Hatirjheel near Rampura bridge. Realizing the danger, I raised both hands and said, “We are journalists. Please, don’t shoot.”
Before I could even finish the sentence, I heard gunfire. My bag was hit by fourteen birdshot pellets, and three struck my body. In that instant, I knew that wasn’t a warning. It was a direct attack. I counted the birdshots later.
The other journalists and I all began to run. But after only a few steps, I fell face down on the street. Some protesters nearby saw me and, misunderstanding the situation, started shouting at us, “Traitor journalists!” I explained that we were not their enemies, that I was injured.
I was taken to Dhaka Medical College Hospital where I was treated. That scene still haunts me. There was no space left to stand in the emergency ward, just bodies of people everywhere. People were shot in the legs, in the head. A doctor gave me basic first aid. That was all they could do under such chaotic circumstances. Later, I received further treatment at a private hospital. But after that day, my life changed completely.
I had covered many violent protests before, but never did I imagine that the police would deliberately target journalists. After August 5, 2024, when Sheikh Hasina fled it became clear to me that photojournalism in Bangladesh had become more dangerous than ever before. Once, we feared only state forces. Now, the threats came from every direction including from members of the former ruling party Awami League.
I continued to take photographs. I want my photographs to bear witness to the truth of the revolution.
Tell us about your book and the story behind its creation.
Witness to the Uprising is my first published documentary book, a visual archive of truth. The primary purpose behind this book is to show the history as I witnessed. If someone, fifty or even a hundred years from now, wants to know what really happened during the July Uprising, they can see the real-life scenes captured in these photographs.
This book attempts to document not only the July Uprising itself but also the events that unfolded afterwards, especially after August 5 when Sheikh Hasina resigned and fled into exile to India. In short, it stands as a visual testimony of the entire movement. It is a living document of record. Each page reveals the extraordinary resistance of ordinary people, citizens who stood unarmed against state oppression, who embraced death but refused to surrender.
Even for 1971, our Liberation War, we mostly know the stories through the words of freedom fighters. But the perspectives of the photographers who risked their lives, the moments captured through their lenses, the context of those images, we rarely see or know about them. Over time, even the Liberation War itself has been politically reframed to fit a narrative congenial to the ruling authorities.
That realization gave birth to Witness to the Uprising. I wanted to create something that would allow future generations to confront the truth, to see, not through the lens of power, but through the eyes of those who were there.
You have often said that photography is a form of archiving. In your view, what is the role of visual storytelling in protecting and promoting human rights, particularly in a context like Bangladesh?
To me, photography is not just an art form or a profession. It is a powerful medium for preserving the documentation of our times.
In 2015, when blogger and free-thinker Avijit Roy was brutally murdered near the book fair, I was present there on assignment. I photographed the moments after the attack and helped carry him to the hospital. Imagine if there had been no visual evidence that day, would people ever have truly known what happened?
Contrast that with the killing of journalists Sagar Sarowar and Meherun Runi a married journalist couple who were stabbed to death in 2012 inside their home]. More than a decade has passed, but there has been no justice. Why? Because there was no visual record, no CCTV footage, no photographic evidence. If there had been, perhaps the perpetrators could have been identified. In many cases of murder, enforced disappearance, or torture, justice remains incomplete precisely because of this lack of evidence.
For instance, during the monsoon revolution, the image of Golam Nafiz, hanging body on the back of a rickshaw, can be seen not merely as news photograph, but a chilling piece of evidence of the violence the state was deploying. I took it during the protest crackdown on August 4, 2024, the day before Hasina fled to India.
This is why I believe in photography.
Despite facing violence and trauma, how do you keep your creativity alive and stay dedicated to your work? What inspires you to continue despite the risks?
Trauma has become an inseparable part of my life, and over time I have learned to coexist with it. In the past decade, I have faced countless risks.
For the past six years, I’ve been working with Netra News. Much of that time under Hasina, I had to operate underground, particularly when covering sensitive issues like enforced disappearances, extrajudicial killings, abuse of power, and human rights violations. While working on our documentary Aynaghorer Bondi a 32-minute investigative film, I faced severe psychological stress. It was dangerous work, and I knew I could be abducted or killed at any moment.
Working on Aynaghorer Bondi remains one of the most significant experiences of my life. We collected testimonies from the families of the disappeared and exposed the evidence of state terror. That work later contributed to international actions, including sanctions against the Rapid Action Battalion. Knowing that investigative journalism can create tangible impact has been a powerful source of inspiration for me.
After August 5, when Hassina resigned and fled the country, several disappeared individuals were released and returned home. It gave me renewed hope. With my camera, I can question the state. When I see that my photographs or reports compel authorities to act or give hope to victims’ families, my own traumatic experience feel small in comparison.
In your opinion, what changes are still needed in Bangladesh?
Every institution, administrative process, and policy framework must be restructured to build a truly people-centred Bangladesh.
The political class who decide policies and hold power must fundamentally change their way of thinking. Bangladesh has transformed in many ways over the past fifty years, especially through technology. Our political culture and mindset remain stuck in the past. Politicians have grown distant from the people; they speak in grand meetings, but they no longer listen to the struggles and realities of ordinary citizens.
Real change will come only when politicians return to the people, listen to them, and understand them.
When you think about the future of Bangladesh, what gives you hope?
The current political situation in Bangladesh is undeniably unstable. Years of authoritarian and one-party rule have created a centralized, undemocratic system that will take time to dismantle and rebuild. We’ve seen that necessary reforms have been delayed by political chaos, bureaucratic stagnation, and the leadership’s unwillingness or incompetence.
I believe that the people of Bangladesh are deeply committed to democracy and justice. Time and again, they have risen in defence of truth, freedom, and human dignity. That history itself gives me hope.
I believe there is still a chance to reform and rebuild the nation. If future leaders can learn from past mistakes and work with sincerity and competence, Bangladesh can renew itself once again.
