Even the night before, thousands were still on the streets. A brother called and said, curfew has been declared. As soon as I woke up, I went back out again.
And there — defying the curfew — from the TV Centre to Abul Hotel,
still, hundreds of thousands of people filled the streets.
Later, I learned: 53 people killed across the country yesterday.
And in Rampura it was 10!
Traces of the last two days’ clash still scarred the road. I asked someone, “Bro, is the army deployed?” He said, “There’s an army camp at the BTV office.” But no one seemed to care. Even that morning, the slogans kept rolling through the air.
Not long after, an army patrol advanced from the BTV office to Abul Hotel —
blank firing as they went.
One thing I noticed clearly:
“The blind trust of Bangladeshis in the Army.”
As soon as the army fired blanks and advanced, everyone left the main road and retreated into alleys. And as soon as they passed — people flooded right back onto the road again. That’s how the whole day passed.
After lunch, when I went back out, the same burned-out police van was still on the road. They set it ablaze again.
Just ahead, I noticed a gathering — everyone there was over 40 —
chanting, “Jegechhe re, jegechhe, chhatro shomaj jegechhe!” (Awaken, awaken the student has awaken)
Throughout the last two days, everyone in the movement had stopped me from filming — but now these people were recording themselves.
That’s when it clicked.
I knew exactly who they were. The semi-leaders of opposition party.
Maybe, later on, when power changes hands, they’ll show this video to some top leader and say,
“We were part of the movement too — give us a position.”
But just yesterday, at the frontline where students were taking bullets —
none of them were there.
And today, they stand smiling, chanting, laughing.
The perfect example of what in English they call a vulture.
Since the army wasn’t in sight, the streets turned into a cricket field.
Every 100 meters or so — I saw seven different matches happening on both sides of the road, makeshift boundaries set up, boys playing short-pitch cricket.
Photo 10 – Street cricket during curfew defiance
As evening fell, the crowd still held strong on the road. Then again, the sound of tear shells. Seemed like the police were back.
I was in an alley on the phone when it happened — blank fire, tear shells, and sound grenades launched from the APC right into the alley. Luckily, I was deep inside — didn’t get hit this time. Later on the road, we found a spent tear shell.
Photo 11 – Tear shell we picked up from the street
That night, fires lit up on the road once more. Around 8 or 9 PM, I saw a crowd and moved closer. On a bike sat a young man — must’ve been 25 or 26. I overheard that he had zoomed in fast on the bike — The crowd, thinking he was police, beat him up before he could even explain. Afterwards, he took out his phone, wallet, and ID card —
and it turned out he was active-duty Bangladesh Army.
The crowd’s mood flipped instantly. The respect he received at that moment —
I doubt any politician in this country will ever have that.
But Bangladesh is a mine of thieves, and the miners never stop digging.
Even in this disaster, they kept working.
That army brother started shouting,
“Please, return my ID card!”
Because in that chaos —
one had taken his helmet,
another his wallet,
another his phone —
and the ID card was inside the wallet.
He begged,
“Keep the money if you want, I’m begging you — please give me back my ID card.”
An army man — begging.
That struck a nerve in the crowd. Everyone rallied to search for his ID.
Word spread fast: “An Army ID card’s been stolen!” He was set aside with his bike, and the hunt began. But in the end, the thief was never found.
And after witnessing all that —I couldn’t help but feel something break inside me about our army.
Because we all saw it on BBC, on Al Jazeera —
Soldiers in prone position near Mohammadpur, firing live rounds at protesting brothers. It’s hard to believe —
this is the reward for the people’s love and trust in their army.
The next day — The streets had gone cold.
I noticed right away —
the streets were quiet now. No one was out protesting anymore.
For the first time in nearly five days, the Awami Leagues leaders and activists were seen on these roads.
The movement had burned so fiercely that none of them dared step foot here until now — because they knew:
if they had, they may never have returned with their lives.
The rage in the hearts of ordinary people would have burned them to ashes.
And now, nearly five days later, they returned — holding bamboo sticks, patrolling.
When I went out again around noon, I wasn’t even surprised anymore.
Despite the curfew, while the army wasn’t letting anyone walk the streets,
a faction of the ruling party marched straight down the main road with banners and chants.
As per usual, police and army didn’t stop them — just stood and watched. The Chatro Leagues guys passed freely, bamboo sticks in hand.
Because many people were still hiding inside alleyways, the army decided to sweep those too.
In formation: four men standing on the corners, one police in the middle with a shotgun or tear shell launcher.
And like that — blank-firing their way through —they began clearing the streets.
And then came the days that need no telling —
the government’s mass arrest campaign began.
Every night fell under a silent, creeping fear. Each day, we’d hear:
“Last night from these places —
Tonight from there —
Police raided the student messes and picked them up. Some were disappeared. Some arrested.”
My friend joked bitterly:
“Bro, if the police come and you’re in a lungi,
you won’t even have time to put on pants — they’ll just drag you out.”
That night, he didn’t sleep at all and the obvious reason is that he cant sleep without a wearing a lungi and each time the building guard blew his whistle, he thought the police were coming. The tension was too real.
He finally fell asleep at dawn.
By the second night of raids, even I started sleeping in my belt and pants.
The very next day, I saw in the paper —
“Two of the quota movement coordinators were taken.
They were in their lungis.
They weren’t even given time to put on pants!!”
The nightmare joke became reality. Sleeping at night became a war in itself.
Later, I heard from our housemaid that in every flat she works, not a single bachelor is left. The buildings are completely empty.
We made the decision then —We too had to leave Rampura.
And now… we all see for ourselves:
Across Dhaka and the country, innocents are being arrested just for being students. Not only that —anyone and everyone is being picked up. We’ve reached a time where students are afraid to even call themselves students. To cover one sin, this government keeps committing another — just to justify the last. According to a Prothom Alo report, 87% of those arrested have no ties to any political party. Yet, they were arrested.
This brutality…
we must stand against it.
I don’t know when I might be picked up. None of us do.
I heard from my family back home —
they don’t know what’s happening in Dhaka.
How would they?
Internet’s shut down.
Facebook’s blocked.
Not everyone knows how to use a VPN.
Not every home has broadband.
That’s why —
Even as a massacre was carried out in the streets,
a lot of people didn’t rise up. They didn’t even know.
The police, the RAB the BGB —
these brutal forces behaved like occupying armies, gunning down people.
And those of us who saw it with our own eyes —
I believe, we must tell the truth about what happened.
All people, from all walks of life, must rise up and demand justice
against this murderous government.
Let me end with the words of Jahangirnagar University’s Golam Rabbani Sir —
the first words in my life that made me break down and cry. The original poem was written by Nabarun Bhattacharya:
“I despise the father
who fears to identify the corpse of his child.
I despise the brother
who still walks around shamelessly, unaffected.
I despise the teacher,
the intellectual, the poet, and the clerk
who will not walk the streets to demand revenge for this bloodshed.
This valley of death is not my country.
This stage of butcher’s joy is not my country.
This vast crematorium is not my country.
This blood-soaked slaughterhouse is not my country.”
