Trigger Warning: This article contains references to suicide, mob violence, and hate speech targeting LGBT+ individuals in Bangladesh.

“I am not an atheist. The villagers are calling me one. I know—and my Allah knows—that I never slandered the Prophet Muhammad… Suicide is a grave sin; I know that. I have committed many sins. Today, I prepare for the last one.”

These were the final words left by Shakil Ahmed, a final-year student at the Faculty of Fine Arts, University of Dhaka. On 10 June 2025, Shakil died by suicide in his home village of Jamsha, Manikganj, following months of targeted harassment by religious hardliners. Shakil, a gay man, had been falsely accused of blasphemy after a Facebook comment, deleted shortly after it was posted.

That comment was later screenshotted and circulated by a college peer, igniting a wave of online accusations branding Shakil as an apostate and blasphemer. By the first week of June 2025, he was receiving direct death threats. Though he issued a public apology, it was not enough. Soon after, a post was shared online announcing a public “Shariah-based” trial the next morning. A friend of Shakil’s shared the announcement with me that evening. I tried to reach him, but it was too late.

Shakil’s death is not an isolated act. It reflects the consequences of state silence, social hostility, and the absence of legal protection. To describe it as suicide alone would ignore the collective violence that preceded it. In reality, it was a killing through incitement and abandonment.

A Pride Month Without Safety

This year, Pride Month in Bangladesh is marked for many in the community not by celebration but by fear. Across the world, LGBT+ communities are facing mounting threats. In Bangladesh too, the crisis has deepened. State inaction has emboldened hate speech, and community infrastructures have been dismantled. With fewer safe spaces, legal protections, or support systems, queer individuals are increasingly vulnerable to violence in both the public and private spheres.

The government has made no statement on Shakil’s death. No arrests were made. Law enforcement continues to treat such incidents as cases of unnatural death rather than recognising the organised patterns of incitement, harassment, and targeted violence that precede them and recording them as cases of abetment of suicide. This classification matters because acknowledging abetment demands investigation, identifies those responsible, and begins to hold them legally accountable.

Erased from the Movement They Helped Build

In August 2024, Bangladesh’s fifteen-year authoritarian regime came to an end, driven by a mass protest known as the Baisommo Birodhi Chatra Andolon (Anti-Discrimination Student Movement). Students, activists, workers, and other communities participated. LGBT+ activists were among those who provided critical support, offering safe shelter, medical aid, and logistical coordination during the peak of the unrest.

From 18 to 28 July 2024, the government shut down the internet in an attempt to curb dissent and control the flow of information. The blackout made it nearly impossible to communicate safely or warn others about ongoing police actions. During this time, Muntasir Rahman, an LGBT+ activist, offered refuge to student leaders during the protests. Similar acts of solidarity were seen across the city. Yet in the months that followed, as political power began to consolidate under a new interim government and the newly formed National Citizens Party (NCP), queer organisers were systematically excluded from recognition and decision-making spaces.

In February 2025, when a group of student leaders formed a new political party, namely “National Citizen Party (NCP)”, Muntasir was appointed Joint Secretary of the NCP. But within hours, his name and sexual identity were publicly exposed online, and his appointment was revoked. His expulsion marked a new wave of anti-LGBT+ mobilisation. Posts targeting queer activists and organisations flooded social media. Names and home addresses of many such persons were shared online. In response, many LGBT+ organisations were forced to take down their websites and close community Facebook groups that had existed for years.

Public Humiliation and Violence

Beyond digital spaces, public violence against hijra communities has increased in both frequency and brutality. In September 2024, a hijra individual in Cox’s Bazar was physically assaulted by a mob led by a group of men; they were beaten with sticks and forced to squat in public while others watched and filmed the assault. Several women were also sexually harassed during the incident. Similar events have been reported in rural areas, where hijra individuals were stripped, humiliated, and paraded through villages by a group known as ‘Tawhidi Janata’. Again, it would be a mistake to view these acts as isolated events. Rather, they reflect an emboldened, coordinated campaign of public violence and moral policing.

Hate Speech and Political Legitimacy

Compounding these challenges is the increasingly visible alignment between Islamist groups and political actors within the NCP. The anti-LGBT+ movement in Bangladesh gained traction in 2023 following the introduction of a textbook chapter on hijra and gender diversity. Since then, its influence has expanded both online and offline.

Just months after the new government took office, hate speech against queer communities had not only increased; it had become politically mainstream. Social media posts by public figures echo dangerous rhetoric, framing LGBTQ+ identities as a threat to national values and calling for their active exclusion. 

These statements  go beyond bigotry; they contribute to an environment where violence is accepted. 

A Record of What Remains

What we are witnessing is an  attack not only on the LGBT+ community but also on queer memory. The 2016 murder of LGBT+ rights activist Xulhaz Mannan marked a watershed moment in Bangladesh’s human rights landscape. It was a brutal warning directed at the progressive sections of our society. Nearly a decade later, Shakil’s death signals that the same forces remain intact; only now, they operate with greater coordination, technological reach, and state apathy.

Remembering these names is essential to confronting the violence that continues today. Learning from this difficult history is key to building a future where vulnerable communities can access justice and realise their rights.