“Everything went downhill today,” said Madhurjo Akhter (name changed), a friend I made in Dhaka just last year, who reached out to me, frantic and shocked at what was happening to his country. This conversation happened on July 18, the day before Bangladesh was cut off from the world with a complete internet and cellular mobile shutdown.

"I am completely heartbroken and I don’t know what will happen tonight," he told me, as I assured him we would speak first thing the next day. But when morning came, reaching anyone in Bangladesh was impossible. What began as a peaceful student protest over a contested job quota had erupted into violence.

As of July 20, the official death toll had surpassed 100, with thousands more injured. Educational institutions were closed indefinitely, and the country teetered on the brink of civil war as the government aggressively clamped down on the protests and student groups turned violent among themselves.

Disturbing visuals emerged from the country, including a particularly striking image of a mother crying out for her dead son lying beside her, screaming, "I have no one left." The pain and despair in her voice and face capture the raw and gut-wrenching human suffering that has engulfed the country.

“They are openly firing at protesters. They've even killed school children. Seeing people so close die like this makes me numb," Madhurjo wrote in our last few texts before the blackout.

As I sit here now, unsure how to compile my report, I realise what I need to share is an emotional response instead — a narrative of witnessing a place so dear to my heart descend into chaos, of seeing streets that I once walked upon in celebration of love and language turn into battlegrounds. 

Today, I couldn’t approach this as just a journalist. Today, this is more than a conflict to report on. Today, this political has become intensely personal.

Dhaka: A city so close, yet so distant

In February 2023, when I stepped off the plane in Dhaka, I found myself in a city that felt eerily familiar. Though geographically distant, Dhaka smelled and breathed like an extension of Kolkata, my hometown. The streets, the sounds, the sights all mirrored what I knew so well to the point that it made me wonder why we are set apart when we are practically the same.

At that time, I had been living in Hyderabad for a while — my first experience away from home — and I was struggling with homesickness. So, this trip was not just a visit; it felt like a reunion with something I had long been missing. Additionally, my family history is intertwined with the Partition and the refugee experience, so Bangladesh has always felt linked to me. It seemed closer to home in ways that Hyderabad, never quite did, despite the geopolitical borders that separate us.

Bhasha Dibosh: A history of dissent

When I was in Bangladesh, Bhasha Dibosh or The Language Movement Day (February 21), was around the corner, a significant day for us, Bengalis, and the streets of Dhaka were beginning to fill with the energy of people celebrating the linguistic heritage. And at the heart of this Bhasha Dibosh trip of mine was Dhaka University.

Bhasha Dibosh holds immense significance in the history of both Dhaka University and Bangladesh. It commemorates the 1952 Language Movement and its martyrs, which began on the campus of Dhaka University. Students fought for the right to their language after West Pakistan imposed Urdu as the national language on East Pakistan (now Bangladesh), where the majority spoke Bengali.

The Pakistani army brutally clamped down on the protest, killing several students. This was the first instance where lives were sacrificed for the preservation of a mother tongue—an event that sparked a larger movement that eventually led to the independence of Bangladesh in 1971.

The freedom fighters who fought the Pakistani army and the Razakars (collaborators with the Pakistani forces) in 1971, also known as the Mukti Bahini, were rightly hailed as heroes. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the first Prime Minister of an independent Bangladesh, established a 30% quota for these freedom fighters, which eventually extended to their children and grandchildren.

This law, intended to honour their sacrifice, had become a partisan tool favouring pro-government factions in Civil Service appointments. Critics have long claimed it required reforms and with the rising unemployment in the country, this controversial law felt unfair to most. Though abolished after protests in 2018, it was reinstated by the court this year. This is the same quota that the students have been protesting against, the same movement that has led to the chaos now descending upon the country.

Walking through the city, you could see that this historical backdrop of resistance is imprinted into the very bricks and walls — literally — with graffiti and murals that fill up the entire space. Dhaka University, in particular, stands out as a living, breathing entity of political discourse. The campus walls are alive with witty slogans, portraits of revolutionary icons, and quotes from influential thinkers like Noam Chomsky.

One mural that caught my eye depicted Mahsa Amini, the Iranian girl killed by the moral police for not wearing her hijab properly — an incident that set off one of the largest protests against the Iranian regime in recent years.

This mural seemed to encapsulate the same spirit of resistance that has historically defined the students of Dhaka University and Bangladesh. In hindsight, this mural appears almost prophetic, foreshadowing the rise of the students in Bangladesh today, mobilised in resistance against the fifteen years of unchecked power of a ruling party, which has finally revealed its true authoritarian nature.

Language, love and resistance: The heart of Bangladesh

I remember on February 21, 2023, in Dhaka University as I walked through the university space, I saw it transform into a sprawling celebration of language and revolution. I was there with two friends I had made there: one was Madhurjo and the other Sabbir Khan (name changed), a senior student at the institution.

We wandered through the book fair, the canteen, the graffiti, and found a quiet corner to discuss politics and literature over cups of the famous tea at TSC (Teacher-Student Center, Dhaka University — a popular hub for social gatherings and cultural events) that my friends insisted I try.

The university is a public democratic space, open to all. Not in ways that Jadavpur University or Jawaharlal Nehru University in India is, but a literal public space that every citizen has a claim to. It is the birthplace of their independence movement, after all.

The Bhasha Dibosh finds its spot at the heart of Dhaka University at Shahid Minar, where people gather to pay homage to the martyrs and arrange seminars to promote the Bengali language. That day on February 21, it was almost like a picnic spot where people took their families to commemorate the day. Friends gathered as another occasion to hang out together. Someone else might want to take their date there, as many did.

“This day has become like a Valentine’s Day of sorts,” Sabbir pointed out cheekily, adding, “It is boshonto (spring), after all.” It indeed felt like spring, with couples strolling hand in hand, women draped in cotton sarees, and men in traditional Punjabi pajamas.

But beyond the couples and the festive air, there was another form of romance in the air—one rooted in the passion for revolution and the fight for justice.

The air was filled with political songs, anthems of resistance that had become deeply ingrained in our culture. Lines from "Amar Bhaier Rokte Rangano Ekushey February" were everywhere in Dhaka that day, heard in songs and seen on banners.

Today, those same lines linger in my mind for very different reasons:

“Amar bhaier rokte rangano Ekushey February

Ami ki bhulite pari?”

("Can I forget the twenty-first of February,

Stained by the blood of my brother?")

Today, those same streets are once again stained with the blood of students. History repeats as the cycle of violence and resistance continues.

As I write this, the weight of both the past and present bears down on me. The heartbreak I feel is immense. The city where I spent some of my best moments in recent times now stands as a testament to the unyielding spirit of its people and the brutal forces they confront.

In that moment of pain, I was reminded of what Sabbir had told me that day, "We have always fought for what we believe in, and we always will.” Today, his words resonate more deeply than ever, as students and citizens alike rise against the government's authoritarian measures.

A viral image from July 16 captures the essence of this struggle: 23-year-old protester Abu Sayed standing alone with a stick, his arms outstretched as if to embrace the bullets from the army. This image has become a powerful symbol of the quota reform movement. The video, taken during clashes outside Begum Rokeya University, shows most students fleeing as police fired tear gas and rubber bullets. But Sayed remained. He faced the police with his chest bared, was shot, and died before reaching the hospital.

This visual is not the only striking image that has emerged. Another video shows a dramatic moment where students are seen retreating as a tank advances toward them. However, in a split second, they muster the courage to turn around, confront the tank, and drive it away.

A different scene reveals thousands, including members of the general public, flooding the streets. The front line, hand in hand, forms a human barricade to protect those following behind. They march as if to proclaim they won't be halted by bullets or death. These are the Bangladeshis who have learned from their history what a student protest means. These are the Bangladeshis who won't stand by while another brother's blood is shed. The Bangladesh that is angry, its people screaming for freedom—freedom from any form of oppression.

I think back to my last conversation with Madhurjo and the uncertainty in his voice. “What will happen tonight?” he had asked. As dawn breaks on a new day, the answer remains unclear. But one thing is certain — the spirit of Bangladesh will endure, just as it has through every trial before. Like Mahsa, these students will become a testament to human resistance and resilience. Their images will adorn the walls of university campuses, foreshadowing another movement against authoritarianism.