When Statues Fall

The protests in Bangladesh were about more than just toppling a regime. It was about reclaiming dignity and humanity in the face of oppression

- Rabiul Alam

THE evening sky hung low over Dhaka, heavy with the weight of impending change. The city was cloaked in a sombre mood, the kind that precedes a storm. It was the final evening of now former Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina's 15-year reign, a regime marked by escalating oppression. The air was thick with tension. At Dhaka's Mirpur-10 roundabout area, an elevated metro station in the national capital, a massive crowd had gathered, their thousands of voices united in a single cry for freedom.

Among them stood Ikramul Haque Shazid, an accounting student from Dhaka's government-run Jagannath University. His face was set with determination, his heart beating in rhythm with the chants that echoed through the streets.

The atmosphere was electric, charged with both hope and fear. As the crowd surged forward, their voices rose higher, challenging the regime. Then, a sharp crack pierced the evening air—a bullet fired into the throng. The world seemed to slow down as Shazid was struck. The bullet entered the back of his head, tore through his brain and exited through his eye. In an instant, the energy of the protest shifted from defiance to panic. Shazid crumpled to the ground, his blood mingling with the dust, as his life ebbed away and fellow protesters looked on in horror.

The chaos that followed was a blur—friends lifting Shazid’s limp body, a frantic rush to the hospital, blood-soaked hands and desperate prayers. In the harsh glare of the emergency room, faces were etched with worry. The doctors’ expressions were grim. The injuries were catastrophic and there was nothing more they could do. Shazid’s life hung by a thread and all that remained was the agonising wait.