Hasan on 5th August morning joining the march. Photo: Collected
Throughout various chapters of history of this land and people, the title "Gazi" became a significant identity in the struggle for justice and rights against oppression.
The saying "If you die, you become a Shahid (Martyr); if you survive, you become a Gazi" was also prevalent in these struggles. In Bangladesh, during the July-August genocide and student-people uprising against the authoritarian Awami Regime, thousands became either Martyrs or Gazi. This is the story of one such Gazi of our time.
A Morning Turns into a Tragedy
On Monday, August 5, 2024, around 10 am, Hasan, 18, son of a furniture trader Samir Uddin and Housewife Nureja Begum from West Sagardighir Par in Baniachong, Habiganj, joined the student-people uprising march against the Mass killing. Soon after, news spread that several protesters, most of them children, had been martyred and others got wounded with sudden gunshots and teargas by the police.
Hasan’s mother first noticed that her youngest son, Hossain, had returned home, but as noon turned into afternoon and evening, Hasan was still missing. News circulated in the neighborhood "Hasan has been shot," "Hasan is dead." She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Hasan’s uncle Saikat, 30, who had also been injured and was helping the martyrs and wounded protesters till the end, confirmed that he hasn't seen Hasan after the attack. His family along with relatives searched for him at local and district hospital in Habiganj, but no one could find his trace. Their anxiety and horror deepened.
A Father's Desperate Search
Hasan’s father, Samir Uddin, had opened his furniture shop at Ganningganj Bazaar as usual that day. But as evening fell and his wife’s and relatives' cries reached him and their youngest son Hossain urged him to go to the local police station, he realized something was terribly wrong. He quickly locked up his shop, took an auto-rickshaw, and rushed to the Baniachong police station with Hossain to retrieve his other son’s body. When he arrived, he saw that enraged locals had vandalized the police station, demanding justice for their murdered children and relatives. The army was present at the scene. "Upon reaching there, I called out to a soldier, requested him to at least return my son's body," Samir recalls. "Later, I learned that several dead bodies had been left in an office room inside. I hurried towards that room wondering if my son's body is among them. Chairs and tables were overturned. A fire burned on a desk, and the air was thick with smoke and gas. The smell was suffocating.”
For a brief, moment, the thought gripped him—was Hasan among the wreckage, swallowed by the flames? He continues “I kicked the close door, and it collapsed. Covering my face with a cloth, I stepped inside. Several fresh dead bodies lay scattered on the floor. As I checked them one by one, suddenly, a faint voice called out, ‘Abba.’ It was Hasan! I quickly lifted him on my shoulder and carried him home as fast as I could."
Samir still struggles to come to terms with the surreal chain of memories, carrying the weight of trauma with him every day.
A Mother’s Horror and Anguish
Hasan’s mother Nureja Begum recounted, "In the morning, Hasan went to the protest with his younger brother and uncle. Afterward, everyone started returning home one by one. My youngest son came back, but Hasan was nowhere to be seen.,” As noon stretched into afternoon and then into evening, Nureja Begum grew increasingly restless. News spread throughout the neighborhood and bazaar: "Hasan has been shot," "Hasan is dead."
An unsettling discomfort took root in Nureja’s mind. Every passing second felt suffocating. Her breath came in shallow gasps, as if a heavy stone pressed against her chest. Her anxiety turned into full-blown panic.
"Right then, Hasan’s Bibi (grandmother) and I started toward the police station in sheer panic, but our family and relatives brought us back from the street. Later, when our cries of despair reached Hasan’s father, he took our youngest son and rushed to the station. There, he found our son among a pile of dead bodies and brought him home." Nureja wiped her tears with the corner of her veil.
The boy has returned to his mother's arms, but the burden of her son's wounds breaks Nureja down every time she thinks of it.
Left for Dead, Found Alive
Hasan had collapsed during the protest after inhaling excessive tear gas. Mistaken for dead, the police had dragged away and dumped him with the martyrs. Meanwhile, another 12-year-old schoolboy from nearby area called Bhangarpar, Jatrapasha ,son of a vegetable seller also named Hasan who joined the march had been shot and martyrd. When people said, "Hasan has been shot," they were referring to him, not Samir’s son. Months have passed since that horrific day. Before the massacre, Hasan helped his father at the furniture shop. Now, he barely speaks or moves. When asked about his experience, he only says, “I joined the march in the morning. At first, I was at the back of the march. Suddenly, bullets and tear gas filled the air. Then I went ahead. I remember a dead body of a protester lying on the street. Some people were shot in the hands and feet. After that, I blacked out. I cant’t recall what happened then but still now I can’t walk or bend properly. Actually, I don’t want to remember any of these. Let it be bygones. Otherwise the pain resurfaces.”
The pain lingers not just in his body, but in the silence between his words. His fragmented recollection suggests post-traumatic stress, where the mind suppresses painful memories to avoid the horror. His closing statement, “Let it be bygones,” is not just an attempt to move on but a defense mechanism, shielding himself from a painful memory too overwhelming to process.
A family affected
Samir never thought he would see his son alive again. “I thank Allah a million times,” he says, but the relief is laced with sorrow. Hasan is no longer the same. He cannot work, cannot engage, cannot seem to find his way back to the world he left behind. In the first few days, his behavior was unusual—sometimes restless, sometimes eerily silent. His legs remain sore, and Samir suspects he was tortured by the police before being taken to the station. Despite visiting a doctor in the district town, they found no physical issues at first. Recalling the experience, Samir could not hold back his emotions, struggling to describe the pain of watching his son suffering.
Later,In March 2025, Hasan underwent surgery, during which doctors discovered ligament tears and severe bone loss in his legs and backbone, Also he is suffering from calcium deficiency.
Mouno(16), a neighbor of Hasan who also joined the protest, said that after the incident, Hasan’s speech slowed down significantly, and he took time to look around and respond. “He couldn’t walk properly,” Mouno added. He mentioned that the main problem was eating, as Hasan developed allergies due to tear gas exposure and could only consume liquid food and rice. “Not eating properly made him even weaker,” he explained. Mouno further said that Hasan, once a talented football defender, could no longer play.
When asked if Samir Uddin and his family sought government aid for the injured, he scoffs, "Which official should I go to? They’re all thieves." He no longer sees any point in seeking help, certain that the authorities will do nothing. That's why they didn’t enlisted Hasan's name anywhere.
Also, Their eldest son, Rahim, a YouTuber, was falsely accused in a case by local Awami League members. He had filmed the protests, capturing evidence of brutality. In revenge, local Awamileague leaders framed him. The police even tried to arrest him from their house but couldn’t.
The Flag in His Hand and A Demand for Justice
On August 5, when Hasan joined the protest, he held a Bangladeshi flag in his hand. When his father pulled him from the pile of corpses at the police station, Hasan’s fingers were still tightly clenched around that flag. Today, Samir keeps that flag carefully folded in his shop—a memorial of his son’s survival and a symbol of the fight for justice.
Hasan and his parents continue to carry the intense trauma of the July-August massacre. His post-traumatic stress, anxiety, emotional dysregulation, social withdrawal and lingering pain still disrupt his daily life. Since they didn’t receive any help from the government, they had to pay for his surgery on their own, which caused financial difficulties.
Up to now his parents get overwhelmed with these wave of thoughts and emotions every time they recall the massacre.
Yet, the authorities and the political party responsible for the bloodshed still do not seem to be facing fair trials. The proper rehabilitation of martyr families and Gazis who have been blinded, deafened, crippled, or suffer from mental trauma remains a major responsibility of the interim government that has yet lacks concrete plan and action.
