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Days in July

Published : Saturday, 1 February, 2025 at 12:00 AM  Count : 1093
Salman Rahman, a student of sociology department at the University of Dhaka, always thought that life was a race, a linear progression from classroom to career. But what the streets of Dhaka in July made him unlearn was everything. It suffocated him, heavy air with tension, but it wasn't the climate that was choking; it was the realization that no textbook could solve the inequality his generation was suffocating under.

Weeks ago, a movement for the reform of the country's quota system had started, which was sparked by frustration and fanned by years of systemic neglect. Students from all corners of the nation poured into the capital. There's slogan everywhere; "Quota na Medha?

Medha, Medha". (Quota or Merit?, Merit, Merit). Their voices echoed through the streets, "Tumi k? Ami k? Razakar, Razakar!" (Who are you? Who am I? Razakar, Razakar!) and "Chaite gelam odhikar, hoye gelam Razakar." (Demanded rights, only to become Razakar.)

 "That's not the point," Faisal had snapped back. "It's about one voice joining thousands. Silence is complicity.

Salman's silence broke the night he saw a fellow student beaten unconscious by riot police. Something inside him snapped. That night, he picked up a placard, scrawled in his uneven handwriting, 

"Bhoy Pele Tumi Shesh, Rukhe Daraley Bangladesh". (If you're afraid, you're finished, If stands up, you're Bangladesh.) and stepped out into the streets.

Dhaka had changed by mid-July. The green and sprawling campus of Dhaka University was turned into a fortress of rebellion. The students slept on the concrete floors and were chanting slogans in the wee hours of morning. Salman stood with them, unsure no more about which camp he belonged to.

But the authorities had other plans. On July 25th, the government imposed a curfew, cutting off internet access, hoping to suffocate the movement's momentum. But the students adapted. Messages were scribbled on walls, banners unfurled from dormitory windows, and whispered instructions passed from ear to ear. The night was alive with defiance.

Let them cut our internet!" Faisal shouted one evening. "The walls of this city will scream louder than their silence."

The government answered with brutality. Tear gas canisters rained down on peaceful rallies. Protesters were beaten, arrested, and branded as enemies of the state. But the more they tried to crush the movement, the stronger it grew. Salman witnessed how fear turned into resolve.

One evening, when students had collected under the pale light of a flickering streetlamp, Salman overheard an announcement on the TV: "The government assures the public that there is no unrest in the nation. The youth are content."

The irony wasn't lost on any. Under the same announcement, students were bleeding in alleyways and mothers cried while their children were dragged into police vans.

"Content?" Faisal laughed bitterly. "They call this contentment? Perhaps it is time we show them how content we really are."

The irony was taken up by the students as a refrain. They shouted; "Buker vetor onek jhor- buk petechi guli kor." (Lots of storms in the chest, it's open- shoot here.)

The movement culminated on an unprecedented day-July 36th (5th August), a date that existed outside the calendar, as if history itself had bent to accommodate their rebellion. Thousands of students marched toward Shahbagh, a historic site of protests, their placards waving like battle flags.

Salman carried a banner painted in blood-red letters: "1 2 3 4 - Hasina is a Dictator". The crowd roared as they marched, their voices drowning out the chaos of the city.

But as they reached the intersection, the air shifted. Armored vehicles rolled in, flanked by lines of police in riot gear. 

Salman stood upfront, his heart pounding. To his left stood Faisal with a stone in his hand. On his right side, he saw a girl, no bigger than him in height, with a flag trembling in her hands; yet her eyes gleamed bright, resolute like concrete.

The first tear gas canister flew, a bright, starlike thing parabola through the night.

Chaos erupted. Smoke filled the air, making it impossible to see or breathe. Salman felt a baton strike his shoulder, then his legs gave out beneath him. He fell to the ground, the taste of blood filling his mouth.
Through the haze, he saw Faisal standing on top of a burnt-out bus, screaming loudly. "Amar bhaiyer rokto britha jete debo na." (My brother's blood, I will not let go in vain.)

"When Salman regained consciousness, it was dawn. The streets were overloaded, littered with torn placards and burnt tires. The smell of smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the stench of betrayal. 

Then came the announcement. "The dictator has flew away and you're free now."

But Salman did not cheer. He knew it wasn't a victory; instead, this was a well-calculated move to placate them. The real fight-structural change-was far from over.

He turned to Faisal, who sat beside him, face bruised but defiant.

"They think this is over," Faisal said, his voice a whisper.

"It's not," Salman replied, clutching the remains of his placard. "We won't let them write the end of this story. We will."

And as the sun rose over Dhaka, its light cutting through the smoke, Salman felt a strange sense of clarity. This wasn't the end. It was the beginning of a revolution that would outlive them all.

Behind him, a wall was painted with graffiti in bold red letters: "Lakho shohider dame kene, desh ta karo baper na." (Bought at the price of millions of martyrs, the country is not of anyone's father.)

The irony was stark, the satire sharp, but Salman walked forward, his steps steady, knowing the fire they had ignited would continue to burn. But a deep question stuck in his mind. Are we really free yet?

The writer is a poet, columnist and journalist


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