“Tumi ke, Ami ke?Razakar, Razakar.Ke boleche, ke boleche? Sarkar,Sarkar.” If it translated into English,It will be sound like this, “Who are you?who am i? Traitor,Traitor. ” felt like it was boiling over. In mid-July, unrest suddenly erupted, and no one slept through the night. People took to the streets, demanding their rights, protesting against discrimination. Chants of “Razakar, Razakar, Sarkar, Sarkar” echoed everywhere. ‘Razakar’ meant traitor. The entire nation was on edge, and I was no exception. In Rangpur, a movement had gained ground, and suddenly, Saeed collapsed. He was a bright student. but his life ended in an instant. The news of Abu Sayed’s death spread quickly, and students from all over joined the movement in his memory. Parents, fearful of tear gas and rubber bullets, hesitated to send their children into the streets. But after Sayed’s death, the students, enraged by this brutality, threw themselves into the movement over and over again.
Mothers grieved the loss of their children, and the number of injured students grew each day. One day, I went to the hospital to see the wounded. It was heart-wrenching to witness the condition of those hit by rubber bullets, being carried in from ambulances. The entire region of Bengal had become like one large family—everyone helping everyone. I felt a deep sorrow for the families who had sent their children to study with so much hope and sacrifice, only to lose them. And when these young, brilliant minds simply demanded the proper evaluation of their merits and wanted government jobs based on that merit, they were beaten. The fascist regime had committed so many brutal murders.
“Does anyone need water, water?” Even 15 minutes before his death, Mir Mahbubur Rahman Mughdo was still handing out water packets and biscuits to the students. But even he could not escape the violence. The police stormed into the protests with force, and terror spread everywhere.
I was terrified to go outside. The sound of gunfire echoed in the streets. Even a child who had innocently stuck his head out of the window lost his life to a stray bullet. A seven-year-old girl named Riya Gop, who was playing on the roof of her house, wasn’t spared either. Riya’s father, devastated, said, “How can I face her mother now with her body?”
One day, I went to the hospital to see the children of grieving mothers. Parents who had raised their children with so much care had lost them to indiscriminate police violence. They were not my siblings, but it hurt deeply. The movement continued, and more and more students were joining.
Those who had once dreamed of becoming scientists or writers fell like dominos. How many pedestrians lost their lives that July? Mohammad Rinku, a day laborer from the Jatrabari area of Dhaka, was shot while going to the store to buy groceries. “My brother always took the lane to avoid trouble on the main road, but a bullet found him anyway,” said his younger brother, Mohammad Pinku.
Moynal Hossain was left stunned after seeing his son’s lifeless body. His wife collapsed, crying, “Oh Allah! Who killed my boy? Why didn’t you come to me?”
Taim, a college student, left his house in Jatrabari at 11 am on Friday to join the protest demanding quota reforms. The clashes in the area had lasted for three days, but Taim couldn’t be confined to the house. An hour later, his parents got a call saying their son had been shot and was being rushed to Dhaka Medical College Hospital.
“When the quota reform movement began, my younger son joined it. I didn’t let him go from the beginning. I even kept him in during the curfew, but he didn’t listen,” Moynal said.
Then there was Fayyaz, a brilliant and well-mannered boy from our class, who died before he even turned 17. He once said, “One day you will leave this world. Build a life that will make you remembered.” And that’s exactly what happened with Fayyaz. Boys like Fayyaz don’t die; they live on through their actions.
After seeing all this, I couldn’t stay in the house any longer. That day was my first time participating in the quota movement. I felt helpless as I left home without telling my father. Thoughts of “What if something happens to me? What will happen to my parents?” raced through my mind. But the rain suddenly began to pour, and a group of people holding sticks approached us from the right side of the road. It became clear that they were supporters of the regime.
In desperation, I ran to the gates of some houses for shelter, but no one opened their doors. Finally, one aunty let me in. My comrades had to seek refuge in front of a house, fearing police fire. A girl pleaded, “Uncle, please don’t open the gate!” But the man didn’t listen. Many of the girls running from the police fell into the drains, and no one came to help them. That day, a vicious young man beat my sisters with a stick. These memories, these scars, are etched into our souls. The love for this country runs so deep that we didn’t hesitate to lay down our lives for it.
A few days later, the government suddenly shut off the internet across the country so that they could silence the voices of protest. In 1971, the invaders came knocking on doors asking, “Are there any Bengalis here?” In 2024, the police knocked and asked, “Are there any students here?”
I always felt oppressed. Whenever I left the house, the police would check my phone. If I dared to speak about my rights, I knew I could be killed. Thousands of students’ backs and chests were scarred by rubber bullets.
The government expressed sorrow for the damage caused to the country’s metro rail during the clashes, but there was no remorse for the lives lost. Day after day, students were killed. The students put forth their nine demands, but the government refused to accept them. Even a 17-year-old was reprimanded. His only crime was standing up against injustice.
On the night of August 5, at around midnight, my heart raced with anxiety. One question consumed me: “Will the country finally be free tomorrow?” Students from all over Bengal were preparing for the timeless “Long March to Dhaka.” Some would leave their hometowns and villages that night, even as a curfew was in effect across the country. The police warned, “Strict measures will be taken against anyone who defies the curfew.” The internet was down, and it was hard to gather any information, but I knew that the nation was on the verge of something monumental.
Students surrounded Ganabhaban, the seat of power, demanding justice. And the fascist leader, Hasina—whom we had spoken about so much—fled the country. My homeland was finally freed from dictatorship.
When a policeman’s own son died in the clashes, he asked his superior, “How many bullets does it take to kill a man, sir?”
By: Fatematuj Johura Tonni
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