Body and the Map is a contemporary visual art exhibition exploring the collective psyche of society in the wake of a transformative youth-led uprising of July-August, 2024 sparking a sense of freedom and the promise of change. Ten artists, many of whom actively participated in the protests, come together through a multidisciplinary approach to address the social climate and realities following this momentous shift.
The exhibition examines the body—personal and collective—as both a site of resistance and a vessel of trauma, bearing the weight of political brutality and generational scars. This body, deeply entangled with the land it occupies, reflects the struggle for belonging within a fractured territorial political system— symbolized by the map. Body and the Map invites viewers to contemplate the dialectics of oppression and renewal as the body becomes a canvas for evolving identities and shifting paradigms, redefining the map it inhabits, propelled by the shared memory of sacrifice and resilience. The exhibition encourages engagement with themes of identity, power, and transformation as society reclaims its place and voice in a fragile, yet steadfast pursuit of ‘equality, justice and human dignity’.

Presented by the Bengal Arts Programme, the exhibition Body and the Map opened to the public on Friday 15 November 2024, at Level 4, Bengal Shilpalay (House 42, Road 27, Dhanmondi, Dhaka 1209). Professor Firdous Azim, Chair of the department of English and Humanities at BRAC University and member Naripokkho, and Mr. Mustafa Zaman, Director, Bangladesh Shilpakala Academy, jointly inaugurated the exhibition.

The exhibition Body and the Map is curated by Sharmillie Rahman. The participating artists are –
A Asan
Afsana Sharmin
Ashang Mong
Farzana Ahmed
Mong Mong Shay
Niazuddin Ahmmed
Palash Bhattacharjee
RaselRana
Razib Datta
Ripon Saha

15 November – 28 December 2024
4 – 8 PM, except on Sundays
Bengal Shilpalay Level 4 House 42 Road 27 Dhanmondi Dhaka

A Asan
Human hubris drives us to believe we sit at the apex of intelligence, our nature unique, our norms set apart from all other life forms. We deem ourselves singular, wielding power at the center of existence. But what, truly, is this power?
To me, power is a riddle, circling itself like the sun, moon, and earth in their celestial dance. Perhaps it is the ouroboros—the serpent devouring its own tail—or even a small round tablet swallowed with water, reacting within our bodies in ways beyond our knowing. This indispensable yet potent “medicine” subtly stirs our existence, setting a pressure upon body, mind, and soul that could snap our very spine, disrupting the delicate harmony of our being and pushing us toward a condition of estrangement, as in tragedy or conflict.
Breaking through this mounting discord, we encounter only the deep, resonant wail of the soul—a cry that overtakes our lived experiences. This precarious state awakens within us a restless urge to revolt, an instinct that emerges time and again across generations. We feel it especially in those charged moments of February, March, and December, marked indelibly in 1952, 1971, and now, 2024. Each wave reminds us of a primal fear, pulsing through the crises of staying alive even as we overcome death. It is this hope, fierce and enduring, that sees us through rituals, lively gatherings at tea stalls, and the fleeting respite of sleep.
But this fear, unchecked, may sharpen into a perilous force. It is what distills venom in a snake, the drive to survive at all costs. This is why we must soften our animosity through self-reformation, striving for a more natural way of being. To negotiate with oneself, to nurture a consciousness attuned to life’s frailty, is to awaken to an ethics of existence—embracing what enriches our lives and releasing what hinders us.
The language of my work calls for this inner awakening, inviting us to confront ourselves and recognize our fragile place in the unfolding narrative of life.

Afsana Sharmin Zhumpa
A sudden shower threatens to erase history… the cry of victory erodes the depth of our collective memory of self-determination. Who could have foreseen becoming mere foot-soldiers to this victory? A million souls raised torches to pierce the relentless darkness, yet now those flames threaten to singe the wings of emancipation. Questions stack upon questions, forming a mountain of despair, and the answer lies only in molten lead. Blood streams over mountain ridges, flowing into rivers that carry it down to the sea, the waves swollen with cries and laments. This pain belongs to neither you nor me, nor to any single nation; it shadows us along an endless road, without respite, leaving only the agonizing cry of separation. And still, there is a cold comfort in dying together. In this fractured existence, defeat stains the fabric of life with death’s dark mark, watching with an unseeing gaze. Words lie discarded by the roadside, slipping like molten lava into the mind, searing it with an awareness that life is helpless—a lamb to slaughter, valued only for the weight and taste of its flesh. The unreckoned knowledge that lingers behind the glare of power– here is where the songs of victory echo. They sing not of triumph, but of our grief-worn, deadened souls that we struggle to protect —a lament heard across eternity. And so we grow deaf to the cries of the countless souls lost along the way. The air thickens below our hearing, pressing against our breath, until we inhale the fire of a thousand smoldering wounds, reducing us repeatedly to ashes. This is the quiet tragedy of the everyday—a portrait of banal existence, where even the bones of our being languish under the shadow of longing, awaiting mercy from an omnipotent hand. In the end, there is only the flickering hope of freedom, or the silent, inevitable drift toward extinction.

Ashang Mong
We have witnessed revolutions—and the dark, fearsome shapes they can take. Here, we see the vast, intricate web of control cast by those in power. Yet we also saw, and even kindled, the sparks of people’s yearning and hope to escape this web. Along this path, we received a tremendous gift—a reckoning not to celebrate, but to mourn. This legacy, written in the pages of history, embeds itself deep in the heart of every home .To speak of those times now feels almost impossible; thoughts tangle and fall apart, mirroring the lingering reality of fear, anxiety, and helplessness that endures. The air is thick with wails of grief; the cries of innocent, lost voices echo from the walls. I wish to capture the living memory that ran through these blood-stained events, letting the doors remain open to their tortured imprints. I also hold the hope that efforts to dismantle structures that oppose the welfare of the people continue, unabated. Let this world weave its future in joy, not fear.

Farzana Ahmed
Before the stains of blood are even erased, we forget their cause; just as, regardless of the count, death becomes meaningless. We start seeing death merely as a number. Life becomes unbearably heavy when that death strikes close to home. Until then, we sit with closed eyes, ears, and mouths. This apathetic state gradually numbs us. All doors to thought become shut. We are forced to live in a society where injustice and oppression continuously pile up. It takes us a long time to realize these issues, for when we live within the depths of wrongdoing, even injustice can begin to feel like justice. Then, a point comes when all boundaries are crossed, and only when our backs are against the wall do we express our fierce resistance. This led to the uprising in July—an upheaval that shook me to my very core, forcing me to confront the fact that even those who violate limits have their own limits. And thus, over the past three months, our rage has been expressed in scattered images of protest.

Mong Mong Shay
If it’s true that the course of history can change in a moment, Bangladesh’s recent upheaval has brought this truth vividly and undeniably to life. Through the historic July uprising, our collective consciousness has been altered, reshaped amidst various interpretations, aspirations, and anxieties that shape our daily existence.
We often understand history as a narrative of two opposing forces and the endless conflict of two contrary ideologies, but that’s far from the whole truth. History also weaves frameworks of power built in the name of nationalism, public welfare, political identity, and long-standing cultural traditions. These structures suppress opposing perspectives and impose an oppressive narrative, forcing society into submission, keeping individuals as mere cogs in the machinery of power. The story they leave behind is a history of dominance that erases the individual, reducing human lives, dreams, and sacrifices to silent, shadowed records.
When we look at Bangladesh’s past, this is the view that often emerges. Those marginalized by the history of power remain as the “others.” In reality, we are a part of this “other” — generations of the common people, endlessly subjugated by authoritarian structures. Now, this same people have risen as a counterforce, embodying a consciousness that defies power. In exchange for countless sacrifices, this momentary glimpse of powerlessness stands at a crossroads: Will it veer toward oppressive power or the liberation of the powerless?
In this moment, we face a range of images and reflections that stir us, as we are immersed in these fluid events, trying to make sense of them. My current work seeks to capture this journey — one filled with traces, fragments of events, and the experiences that reveal their deeper truths.
In this uncertain journey, all of us are present, as is the flowing river of life itself. Along the banks of this continuous current, with our individual memories, we may meet again, or we may not.

Niazuddin Ahmmed
After the uprising, as we were running from the looters late at night, it suddenly started to rain heavily. It felt as though the downpour was erasing all traces of the blood-stained streets from the dark asphalt. I was angry at the rain.
The revolution spread like an unstoppable current, carrying the cries of a thousand lost lives. The nation had finally delivered its answer. In the trembling dawn of a new morning, everything around us shivered as if with anticipation, yet chaos engulfed the surroundings. In the victory of evening, we saw memories, pain, and everything that came with it carried away. The struggle wasn’t over. It now stood between violence and silence, while in front of us lay the ghosts of lives lost. They were the true victors.
Is this the nature of a people’s uprising? I, no longer young but still caught in the sentiment of teenage gangs, felt deeply unsettled, seeing everything around me painted with harsh realism. Gradually, I sensed the presence of another faceless force, one that denies everything, determined to crush all — poets against poets, prophets against prophets.
If this is the lesson of our times, then it lies in the silence of despair, punctuated by the occasional screams that break free from it.

Palash Bhattacharjee
I conceptualized the framework for my work based on the experience of two significant events.
The first incident occurred in mid-August when a cultural gathering was disrupted due to an attack by certain individuals. I witnessed this event firsthand. As I attempted to document the scene with my phone camera, my device was destroyed in the ensuing chaos. This confrontation deeply influenced me and became a key element in this body of work, where I integrated both the experience and the broken phone itself.
The second event took place in July during an internet blackout, which left me reliant on limited media sources—primarily newspapers and television—to stay informed. The constraints on communication during that time profoundly impacted my perspective. This work also draws on that experience, exploring the sense of isolation and dependency on specific sources for information amidst restricted access.

Rasel Rana
In search of peace, we venture endlessly. Some look for it in grains of sand, others in the boundless sky, some seek it in a moment of joy, while others pursue a fragment of tranquility amid conflict. Inner peace, personal peace, peace for others, collective peace, peace for the earth—what kind of peace are we really searching for?
What is peace? A period free from conflict, violence, or war. A harmony in which peace exists, undisturbed by any unrest or tension. After the First World War, the League of Nations was established to maintain global peace, yet it could not prevent the Second World War. Later, the United Nations was founded with the same mission, but have we truly managed to sustain peace?
“True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice,” as Martin Luther King Jr. once stated. Mental and spiritual peace signify an inner tranquility. Many consider peace a hallmark of refined, civilized life. Inner peace is often associated with ultimate happiness and a fulfilled life.
In a broader sense, peace generally refers to world peace—a state of harmony and goodwill among all nations, religions, races, and people. In the name of peace, we wage wars, we engage in conflicts, we struggle. Thousands of lives are lost, rivers flow with blood, mounds of bodies pile up, and the dead are discarded like waste.
If our ultimate peace is in death, then how many more corpses must be traded before we find the peace we so desperately seek?

Ripon Saha
What was, what is, and what will be—at one point, everything seemed defined by politics. Yes, it was all politics. But that politics was never meant for me. I may always exist within its scope, yet it will never define my purpose. For me, everything is content. Nothing more, nothing less.
A time will come when love, hate, war, peace, business, literature, governance—all will become mere resources for content creation. Romance, love, hatred, conflict, commerce, economics, the very principles of order and emotion—everything will be drawn into the domain of content creators. In that moment, revolutions and counter-revolutions will all be reduced to content.
At that time, every leader will become a content creator, as will every follower. The opportunists? They will only strive to be more inventive content creators. I wait, with anticipation, my paper, pen, ink, and camera in hand, ready to capture the world that unfolds when that day finally arrives.

Razib Datta
Recently, there was a “July Uprising” in Bangladesh. Although Bangladesh gained independence in 1971, the government that has ruled for the past 15 to 16 years is a ‘fascist’ regime that has turned the symbols of the liberation war, which have developed over time, into symbols of its fascist era. Just as Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, one of the leaders of the 1971 liberation war, stands as a significant figure, so too does the Bengali nationalist icon “Oporajeyo Bangla.” The Bengali nationalism that served as a primary motivation for independence in 1971 has become a direct or indirect weapon of oppression against other language-speaking ethnic groups after the country gained its freedom. Therefore, I have attempted to bring this nationalist icon—one that has emerged as a symbol, either directly or indirectly, during a fascist time—into the language of art. I have also endeavoured to document the state-sponsored organized violence that occurred against students and various social groups during the “July Uprising” in the name of art. I wanted to capture the various uncertainties and insecurities experienced by individuals in a state—or in any state— under the pressure of diverse state and social structures, as well as the ongoing feelings of being cornered. This documentation sometimes takes the form of absurd satire and sometimes emerges directly, not advancing towards traditional aesthetics; it is somewhat like a diary. There is no effort to be politically correct here, nor is there a responsibility to pure art. That is my perspective. The rest will be determined by the audience and readers