I began documenting enforced disappearances in 2018, later joining Maayer Daak in 2021. Around that time, a video footage of secret detention center got released confirming their existence. This marked a critical turning point—transforming what had long been dismissed as rumor into undeniable evidence.

My focus stems from a fundamental conviction that arbitrary detention and leaving individuals to languish on death row for years cannot be called justice. Bangladesh currently holds the world’s second-largest death row population. Capital punishment remains broadly accepted by society, largely out of widespread disillusionment with an already fragile judicial system. At the same time, public sentiment surrounding the death penalty is deeply entangled with historical grievances—rooted in the atrocities of the 1971 Liberation War and enduring cultural attitudes toward retributive justice.

Most people I spoke to do not believe that Bangladesh has a functioning legal system or the right to a fair trial, yet, or maybe because of that, they considered the death penalty to be part of the system. I wanted to understand how people came to this conclusion and more importantly how people who had come in contact with the violence of this system found their way to survive.

I started searching online and found someone who’s name is Zahid Sheikh who had been on death row for 20 years before being acquitted and released after proving his innocence. Through newspapers and lawyers, I found many more people in a similar situation and started to investigate.

My relationship with the uprising is quite complex. I was on the front line of what later came to be called the Monsoon Revolution. At the same time, I was thinking about broader transitional justice processes, considering how this uprising could initiate a different kind of conversation, for example, about the death penalty. These conversations were difficult to have. After Sheik Hasina's regime fell, another government had to be put in place, often building on the very same structures that we had fought against.

Still, the downfall of the Awami League has enabled me to be more open about my work. There is less fear now. I am now willing to publish under my own name, which I did not do before. But since the subject of my work is often the state itself, it is still difficult. There still is no rule of law or working justice system. The institutions that were the source of so much violence still hold most of the power. I still face many obstacles when working towards accountability.

But I believe it is important to have this conversation about the death penalty, both philosophically and legally. Philosophically, we must ask ourselves if we are willing to give the state our mandate to kill in our name and in the name of justice. Legally, the question is who gets to decide. All too often, it is the state that decides, often willingly omitting legal procedures. This is still ongoing, though in a different way, after the uprising.

In my opinion, justice has to happen in two ways. One way is legally, and the other, which is equally important, is socially. Survivors and their families should be dignified. They should have the right and platform to share what happened to them. If people return from death row or enforced disappearance, they are often outcasted from society. They face social death and it is really difficult for them to come back from that. I want to tell their story.

I believe that simply writing or taking pictures is not enough. I try to work multidisciplinary: I engage with the people that I portray in my work on different levels. I listen and speak to people, I take pictures and then try to share their stories during protest to make them visible within the society. At the same time, I try to legally support them and try to analyse the violence they have endured from an anthropological perspective.

When I started talking to people on death row who were wrongfully convicted, I learned about the fear. There is this constant fear that anything can happen. Whenever they eat, they think, “This might be my last meal.” Whenever they went to sleep, they dream that death was coming for them. I want to learn about those lived experiences and feelings and make this reality understood.

I can give you an example in the case of enforced disappearances. When we are archiving people’s stories, we always try to collect all kinds of material. I collect everything, from newspaper articles about the case to personal photographs and stories. For those left behind, disappearance becomes an everyday reality. In the absence of credible answers, family members are forced to act as investigators, archivists and witnesses. They preserve documents, to keep the presence of the missing person alive. The archive embodies the disappeared person because they don't exist physically anymore. I collect all that.

After the uprising, we use this archive to file cases. This is how our anthropological work actually helps us navigate a possible legal justice process. The archival work has legal value, but it is also important for other reasons. These documents help us establish the truth - in relation to the state and in the legal process - but also on a more emotional and personal level.

Yes. Over the years, I have come into contact with many people who were unlawfully detained. Even if you prove your innocence after unlawful detention, that often does not mean that you are free. Due to the legal process, people have to remain in prison until their acquittal, which can take six to eight years. They are innocent, yet they are still in prison. We want to challenge that. Regardless of whether they are convicted or not, they are still citizens and should have basic rights, which currently is not the case.

I now seek to deepen my understanding of the structures. There are around 3000 people in death row at the moment. Yet, from 2009 to 2026, only 57 people were executed. I want to understand. Who are they? How does the state decide who should be executed? Who gets to live?

We actually studied this issue and found that many of those executed come from marginalised communities. Poor people are the most affected. They can't afford a lawyer to help them navigate the legal process if there is a legal process at all. Those with money can more easily afford a fair trial. It is definitely a question of class.

There is a continuity in the way punishment is understood and also in the way the justice system works. During British occupation, the Wahabi were the main victims of the death penalty. The Wahabi used to protest against the colonisers. There are so many stories about national heroes who faced the death penalty because they raised their voice. The death penalty as an instrument of punishment and the fear of it is a legacy of the colonial legal order.

I’m an anthropologist. When I first started, my work wasn't about filing cases and organising protests. But I realized that sometimes you have to push from different directions to establish what happened, to get justice and also to prevent further violence.

That is why I'm trying to do public interest litigation. I have found 56 people and filed 24 cases to advocate for compensation for death row survivors. Some of the fights have to happen on a legal level to reach the institutions.

Currently, I am trying to find out what can be done with the cases I am already working on. I have been in contact with my colleagues and peers here regarding the possibilities for universal jurisdiction cases concerning enforced disappearances, and I have had the opportunity to present my work in different contexts. Being here in Berlin has also enabled me to network with other activists working on similar issues, such as those in Syria.

I am also trying to learn how ECCHR navigates international bodies such as the ICC and ICJ with their cases, and I want to find out more about ECCHR’s multidisciplinary approach and how it can complement my work in developing approaches to fight injustice.