She’s 24, fierce, unapologetically loud, and armed with a guitar and a voice that cuts through the noise like a machete. Meet Ila Lalalala, not just the frontwoman of the underground sensation Democrazy Clowns, but a firebrand who stormed the July Uprising with a protest placard and never looked back. Now running for Literature and Culture Secretary in the Dhaka University Central Students’ Union (DUCSU) elections, Ila isn’t just campaigning, she’s staging a cultural revolution. And in a candid, no-holds-barred interview with Jago News's Moynul Islam, Ila Lalalala pulls no punches about the toxic politics of inclusion, the erasure of women’s labour, and the hypocrisy of a movement that used girls like fuel and then discarded them.
From Faria to Ila Lalalala: A name forged in fire
Her real name? Faria Matin. But after her viral 2023 Mangal Shobhajatra protest sign – “If you can’t get rice, where do you get hilsa?” – triggered a torrent of online abuse from Awami League and Chhatra League loyalists, she was doxxed, trolled, and had her Facebook account destroyed.
“I was just asking a question,” she laughs, eyes flashing. “But the old men in power couldn’t handle a girl speaking truth with a sense of humour. They came for me. So I resurrected myself. Ila. Lalalala. Now I’m Ila Lalalala, louder, prouder, and impossible to delete.”
Music as rebellion: The birth of Democrazy Clowns
Ila’s been singing since she was four. Classical, semi-classical, court songs, but after a five-year silence forced by family pressure, she picked up a guitar with money saved from part-time jobs and borrowed courage.
“I had nothing,” she says. “No plan, no safety net. Just a guitar and rage.”
That rage birthed Democrazy Clowns – a band with no official releases, yet whose songs echo across university campuses like anthems of resistance. “We don’t need Spotify,” she smirks. “We have the streets. We have the marches. We have people singing our lyrics at candlelight vigils.”
Inspired by European buskers and Baul traditions, the band once performed with a box on the ground – not for money, but for books, flowers, letters, and dreams. “We weren’t begging. We were collecting hope,” she says.
And the name? Democrazy Clowns. “Because we’re the fools who believe change is possible. And also, politics here is a circus.”
On the march: Where art meets activism
For Ila, the stage isn’t a spotlight, it’s a battlefield. “The march is my sacred space,” she says. “That’s where I sing ‘We Will Win’ with thousands of voices behind me. That’s where I feel free.”
But freedom, she warns, is fragile, especially for women.
When asked why so many women who led the July Uprising have vanished from the political scene, Ila doesn’t hesitate.
“They used the girls as much as they needed.”
The words land like a slap.
“The boys couldn’t storm the halls. The girls did. We faced the batons, the tear gas, the sexual threats. We were the human shields. We were the ones chanting, organising, bleeding. But when it was time to take power? The girls were not taken anywhere.”
She pauses. “It wasn’t just exclusion. It was betrayal. The post-coup period was painful. Women were sidelined, silenced, and told to go back to being ‘supporters’, not leaders.”
DUCSU elections: A test of fairness and feminism
With DUCSU elections back after five years (and 37 before that), campus buzz is electric. But Ila is wary.
“Forty thousand students. Fifteen thousand polling stations. What about the rest?” she asks. “And more importantly, where are the women in leadership roles?”
If elected, her first mission? Bring culture back to campus and make it inclusive. She wants to sponsor students from every district to bring their folk songs, dances, and stories to DU. “Culture isn’t just Tagore and Nazrul. It’s the fisherwoman’s lullaby from Cox’s Bazar. It’s the Santal drum from Rajshahi.”
And yes, she hasn’t performed in a single campus concert in two years. Why? Because they all had “Chhatra League” stamped on them. “I refused to sing under their banner,” she says. “An artist must be honest. I sing for the exploited. I don’t sell my voice to power.”
Two identities? No. One revolution
“Am I a political activist or an artist?” she repeats, almost amused. “Why choose? My music is my politics. My protest is my poetry.”
She doesn’t take money for performances. In fact, she spends her own. “I sing for free. But the cost? My safety, my peace, my sleep. That’s the price of truth.”
The road ahead: A feminist reckoning
Ila knows the road is long. “Bangladesh is young. We keep having coups, uprisings, resets. But real change? That’s a war of attrition.”
And for women? “We were told we’d be free after July. That we could walk, speak, lead without fear. But the new gatekeepers? They’re still men with old minds.”
So, what’s next?
“More songs. More marches. More girls with guitars and placards.” She grins. “And when they try to erase us again? We’ll just change our names. And come back louder.”
Ila Lalalala isn’t just a candidate. She’s a warning. A revolution with a melody. And if you thought the uprising was over, just wait till the girls start singing again.
And mark her latest statement following mockery and bully in election campaigns. “My father pulled rickshaw for long after we first came to Dhaka, and my mother has long worked at a flower shop in Shahbagh. I am their child, shaped by their struggles and sacrifices. In this university, many students come from backgrounds like mine – families of modest means, hard work, and quiet dignity. I carry the spirit of rural Bengal in my heart, especially the resilience and culture of farmers’ children. Whether I win or not, I will continue my work, God willing. I am committed to fighting not just for myself, but to pave a smoother path for those who follow. No amount of mockery or dismissal will deter me.”