‘This is not the Bangladesh we fought for’

At 2.00 p.m. on 5 August 2024, Bangladesh was freed from an autocrat. It still baffles me that I can finally use the word ‘autocrat’ in print to describe the former Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina; because our law made sure we couldn’t.

On that momentous afternoon, my brother and I rushed to the streets, unable to hold back our excitement. The atmosphere was electric. I had never seen so many people on the streets with flags in their hands. Families carried children on their shoulders, chanting slogans of victory. Rickshaw pullers saluted students, some giving speeches standing on their rickshaws and declaring that they refuse to live under any tyrant, goons or extortionist chandabaaj (people who use muscle power to extort money).

There was a sigh of relief all around. The enforced disappearances — of students, journalists and activists — police raids in the houses of student protesters, and mindless killing of students by the Bangladesh Chhatra League (BCL) had finally come to a stop. Bangladesh is (for now) a country free of censorship.

Our joy soon turned to horror, though, as we walked from Motijheel to Shahbagh. At Motijheel, a crowd had gathered in front of Sonali Bank and were ripping off posters of Sheikh Hasina. We cheered till we actually overheard some people discussing that we should tear down everything built under the Awami League regime. We did not take it seriously, even thinking that as people revelled in the new-found freedom to speak their mind in public, there would be some extreme views.

As we resumed our walk toward Shahbagh, however, the smiles started fading from our faces. Some people were carrying soldiers on their shoulders, believing that the army had stepped in and brought them freedom. They got on top of the army’s armoured vehicles, raised their flags and danced. I could see several people turning their faces away, visibly uncomfortable by the display; but like us they too shrugged it off because, hey, we were celebrating freedom, after all.

When we crossed Suhrawardy Udyan, we noticed a thick cloud of smoke and walked into the smoke to see what happened. Vandals had set large platforms put up by the Awami League — to observe a day of mourning — on fire.

A statue replicating Bangabandhu’s historical 7 March speech had also been set on fire. We asked people in vain to douse the fire, which would endanger the park if the flames spread to the trees. The vandals were unimpressed and gave us dirty looks. A student with his ID card ran up to us and said, “We have been trying to stop these people from setting things on fire but in vain. Don’t waste your breath, apu (elder sister).”

Now worried, we resumed our walk and went past the burning pandals. The smoke was so thick it became hard to breathe, and we walked into a crowd of people beating up a Chhatra League-affiliated student with whatever they could find. Rods, bricks, bamboo sticks. A few in the mob claimed they had found him with weapons.

There were a few students trying to shield the cowering victim, shouting repeatedly that people should hand him over to the army and not take the law into their hands. We too lent our voice and tried to create a wall around the victim. The mood of the mob was ugly, though, and soon we were under attack, accused of being collaborators of the Chhatra League. We were called razakars (originally used to indicate Pakistani collaborators during the 1971 War of Liberation — ed.).

As protesters, all of us who stood in the line of fire had seen enough people, particularly students, being shot, maimed and killed. It was ironic how we were now taking hits from a mob to save the life of a person we had opposed, and were supposed to hate. The mob outnumbered us, and soon the poor man was dragged away and beaten to death. We failed to retrieve his identity and had to leave, fearing the mob would turn on us next.

Some of us had rushed to plead with soldiers and army officials at the Shahbagh intersection to clear the mob. They said they couldn’t help. That is when we had the dreadful thought that the anarchy we had seen was just the beginning. Being on the move, we hadn’t yet heard of the violence unleashed on Hindu communities, a few temples torched, and continuing attacks on Awami League affiliated members and their families besides policemen and their families.

Around 5.00 p.m., I began walking towards the Daily Star building. Men on bikes were honking, catcalling women. Mobs were targeting offices of TV news channels in Karwan Bazar, which did not telecast the students’ protest, as they feared retribution from authorities. ATN Bangla’s office was completely vandalised up to the fifth floor, while people could be seen walking away with whatever they could pick up from inside the building.

This was a witch-hunt and, yet again, this chilling thought cross my mind: "They’ll kill me if I speak up."

I felt numb at the horror. What was the point of hundreds of student protesters being killed in cold blood and people like Abu Sayeed, Mir Mugdho and Farhan Faiyaz laying down their lives? Was this the freedom they had fought for? During the first hours of ‘independence’, was this the picture of freedom we wanted to witness throughout the country? Were we really free if we didn’t take into consideration the concerns of our minority communities?

We have religious fanatics and radical groups itching to crack down on women with the argument: if you empower women, you will get a tyrant like Sheikh Hasina. The politics of the Awami League regime will be used as justification to channel their hidden agendas. I was even more horrified to hear the mob justify their vandalism with the argument, “They did this to us, so we will do the same to them.”

Students did not sacrifice their lives to establish an order of vigilante justice. They did it so that people, no matter from what background, have the right to speak up, claim justice and call out injustice. The movement is called the ‘Anti-discrimination Movement’ and in no way can we let that rhetoric be politicised or diluted. You can already see how the BNP is trying to climb the bandwagon of the students’ movement as one they’ve always sided with.

I’m proud that the student leaders I put my faith in have called out this mindless violence and set up watch parties. I’m proud they are constantly reiterating that these mindless acts of vandalism are not what we side with. I hope they continue to stand up and ensure that one group of tyrants is not replaced by another.

This is the time for monumental change. We have the opportunity to redefine the Bangladesh we’ve known. Civil society has the biggest role to play now, to draw a line in the sand — and that’s the only thing that gives me hope.

Amid this mindless vandalism, civil society groups made human chains to stop vandals from destroying police stations, they helped to return stolen items from Gono Bhaban, imams from mosques along with students joined the watch parties outside temples to protect them. This is the Bangladesh I dreamt of, my grandfather dreamt of as a student politician during the Liberation War, and countless other freedom fighters who took bullets for freedom.

This is the time to call out all sorts of injustice that hindered our society under an autocracy for so long — not just politicians, but also businessmen who licked the Awami League’s feet and who will now show support for our students, acting like they were supporting them all along.

It’s time for us to be vigilant on all fronts. It’s so much harder to protect freedom than to achieve it. If nothing else, what this protest proved is that students have the power to take down an autocrat everyone feared. We can do it again should anyone stand in the way of building a free Bangladesh for all. Our work has just begun.

Nazifa Raidah is a human rights activist and former journalist who worked at the Daily Star, where this article was first published