Beyond Protest: The Making of a Colour Revolution
The protests in France—burning barricades, resignations, disorder—are more than political noise. They are another signal that an order long thought durable is creaking. But France is not alone. Across Asia, from Kathmandu to Dhaka, discontent is boiling. The theme is strikingly similar: people are stepping into the streets, demanding not just reform but legitimacy, transparency, and dignity. On the surface, these eruptions look organic; viewed closely, they also bear the fingerprints of a more complicated political theatre — the making of a modern “colour revolution.”
In France, the political centre has become a revolving door. Prime ministers come and go; urban areas are tense with fears over migration, crime, and a perceived loss of state control. Citizens protest not only policy but a sense that the state has become disconnected from daily life. Migration — especially irregular migration — and the challenge of integrating newcomers in cities already strained by inequality have become a political powder keg. Yet the public fury that fills the boulevards does not always spring from empty skies: it is channelled, amplified, and sometimes redirected by actors whose purpose is not to repair the social contract but to exploit it.
In Bangladesh, a movement that began in university halls over job-quota reform swelled into a nationwide revolt. What began as students demanding transparent recruitment rules became a wider challenge to entrenched patronage and elite privilege, drawing thousands to the streets. The state’s heavy-handed response — curfews, internet restrictions, and arrests — fuelled a narrative of victimhood and further mobilised previously ambivalent citizens. Yet the spread, scale, and sustained intensity of the movement cannot be explained by grievance alone; networks of organisers, funding streams, and strategic messaging helped turn episodic anger into sustained political pressure.
Similarly, in Nepal, a spark — restrictions on social media — ignited pent-up frustrations that had been simmering for years. Young protesters, adept at digital organising, occupied symbolic centres of power and forced the political class to scramble. The movement reflected authentic grievances — corruption, nepotism, and joblessness — but it also illustrated how rapidly a local protest can be amplified, coordinated, and steered once digital tools and organisational templates are in place. The result was national upheaval, leadership change, and a political terrain transformed almost overnight.
What binds these cases to the archetype of a “colour revolution” is not merely mass turnout but the anatomy of mobilisation. Historically, colour revolutions were marked by broad civic participation symbolised by colours or flowers; they were also shaped by more than spontaneous outrage. Today’s iterations substitute pamphlets and television with targeted social media campaigns, anonymous funding, diasporic agitation, and professionalised activist networks. These are not inherently sinister: many NGOs and diaspora groups work legitimately for human rights and governance. But when well-resourced networks, partisan organisations or influence operations combine with local grievance, they can pivot protest from complaint to campaign — and campaigns can serve interests other than local reform.
The modern playbook is disturbingly effective. First, identify a palpable, relatable grievance: an unfair quota, a heavy-handed ban, an unpopular policy. Second, use social platforms to amplify and personalise stories, making distant problems immediate and visceral. Third, supply logistical aid — legal support, training in non-violent protest techniques, communications templates — so local organisers can scale actions quickly. Fourth, frame the narrative in moral terms, casting the movement as a fight for dignity and justice. In combination, these steps can transform scattered anger into a sustained political project.
None of this denies the authenticity of grievances. Young people who march in Dhaka, Paris, or Kathmandu are often motivated by very real injustice. But authenticity and instrumentality are not mutually exclusive. A justified protest can be adopted as a means to a different end; anger can be redirected toward institutional collapse rather than constructive reform. Those who stand to gain from an unsettled polity — local powerbrokers eager to displace rivals, political entrepreneurs seeking renewed relevance, and external actors with strategic agendas — all have incentives to fan the flames. The danger is that the original demand for accountability is subsumed by a contest over influence in which ordinary citizens are both the actors and the theatre.
The language of “foreign interference” is charged for good reason. Not every instance of cross-border support or diaspora activism amounts to a covert operation; many acts of solidarity are legitimate expressions of conscience. Yet, historically and contemporarily, there have been well-documented channels of democracy assistance and civic-support funding from Western institutions that can, intentionally or not, play an outsized role in domestic politics. The existence of such funding and programmes — and the debates they provoke about motive and effect — has become part of the narrative around modern uprisings.
The strategic consequence of misreading these movements is perverse. When an upheaval is painted solely as the product of outside meddling, it becomes easier for domestic elites to dismiss legitimate demands and tighten repression. When protests are depicted only as spontaneous outbreaks, governments can be let off the hook for poor governance. Both narratives are convenient illusions. A responsible account lies between them: acknowledge citizens’ agency, insist on accountability from local leaders, and be alert to external actors who might seek to instrumentalise popular anger.
So what should states do? Reopen substantive channels of redress so grievances do not have to find expression exclusively on streets and feeds. Bolster transparency and accountability so the very symbols that fuel outrage — opaque contracts, skewed recruitment, impunity — are rendered less combustible. Invest in civic education and resilient media ecosystems so public discourse is less vulnerable to manipulation. Finally, make a clear distinction between legitimate cooperation with international civil-society actors and covert direction that aims to destabilise: the former can strengthen governance, the latter should be resisted.
For citizens, the lesson is equally stark. Protest is a necessary instrument of democratic life, but not an infallible one. The purity of a cause can be compromised by those who see unrest as a utility rather than a remedy. Naming the instigators overtly is not the point; the point is to recognise them — the networks, the funders, the strategists — and to demand of them the same standards of transparency and accountability we insist upon from our own leaders. In a world where legitimate demands can be turned into geopolitical leverage, vigilance — not cynicism — is the civic obligation of the hour.
When the crowd moves, the political landscape changes. Understanding who lights the flame, who fans it, and to what purpose it is fanned is essential if societies are to distinguish between genuine reform and engineered upheaval. Only then can protests return to their rightful role: as catalysts of renewal rather than instruments of disruption.
