The July Uprising: Untold Stories and the Fall of the Fascist Power

On the morning of July 16, I arrived about thirty minutes late to a crucial meeting of the central body. By the time I walked in, the meeting was already in full swing. Around the table were familiar faces—then Central President Manjurul Islam, Secretary General Jahidul Islam (now serving as President), Media Secretary Mahadi Al Mahmud, Office Secretary Nurul Islam Saddam, Literature Secretary Sibgatullah Sibga, and all the responsible members from Dhaka branches.

A key decision had already been taken before my arrival: the organization would hold a rally that afternoon in Motijheel under its official banner. The discussion had then shifted to a more urgent matter: the likelihood that public universities across the country would be shut down to stifle the movement. The question before us was immediate and existential—how do we adapt? How do we keep the movement alive if our strongest campuses are forced into silence?

After long and thoughtful deliberation, a multi-phase nationwide strategy was approved. In the first stage, our organizers in prominent National University-affiliated colleges would maintain ground-level momentum. These branches would work hand-in-hand with general students to organize and mobilize protests, resisting closure with presence and persistence.

Simultaneously, we would expand to private universities. Although typically more disconnected from student activism, these institutions had potential. Our plan was to engage our organizers in those universities—many of whom were already active in student clubs, academic platforms, and cultural associations—to influence and mobilize their peers. The aim wasn’t just slogans and presence. It was unity—cross-campus, cross-class, and cross-ideological. And it worked.

By July 18, the fruits of this coordination were visible. Private university students—regardless of religion, political leaning, or social background—stood together in protest. They raised their voices with a kind of unflinching bravery we hadn’t expected, but deeply admired. I had been genuinely concerned when Dhaka University was shut down on July 17. I feared the movement might fragment. But the sacrifice and spontaneous participation of the private university students renewed our spirits and reassured our path forward. They, too, had become the soul of the resistance.

On the evening of July 16, disturbing news reached us: six protestors had reportedly embraced martyrdom. Though confirmation was difficult amidst the chaos, the grief was overwhelming. That night, I sat with Shadik Kayem to discuss our response for the next day. In a moment of solemn determination, we proposed a program that would strike at the heart of national conscience: a Gayebana Janaza (funeral in absentia) and a symbolic coffin procession.

Our original intention was to bring the body of at least one martyr to the janaza prayer. We contacted the family of one of the victims, hoping for their cooperation. But their voices, though filled with grief, also trembled with fear. The administration had threatened them, and they felt unsafe. Their refusal was heartbreaking but understandable.

In response, we decided on symbolic coffins instead. I later spoke to Mahfuz Alam about the proposed program. After several rounds of consultation—first with Shadik and me, then within their own coordination forum—Mahfuz Alam and Nahid Islam convinced the other coordinators to endorse the program. The decision was finalized and publicly announced that night.

Nahid called Jayed and said, "We’ll need seven coffins for the janaza. They must be draped with flags or adorned with flowers." That night and the next morning, I remained in frequent contact with Mahfuz Alam to oversee all necessary preparations.

Support also came from unexpected places. Delwar Hossain, former BICS central president, and Shah Mahfuzul Haque, Ameer of Shahbagh unit of Jamaat-e-Islami, and former DU branch president of Shibir, assisted in procuring the coffins. Despite being watched and obstructed by both police and BCL, our team brought the coffins to campus in stages—using ambulances as cover. A logistical hiccup occurred when the flags meant to drape the coffins were mistakenly left behind. Later, local Jamaat activist Tanvir Hossain smuggled shrouds in, handing them over through the pocket gate of Sheikh Mujib Hall.

The janaza prayer took place with heavy hearts and clenched fists. Hundreds of students stood in rows, not just to mourn the martyrs—but to remind the nation of what this movement had already cost. But even grief wasn’t spared repression. As the janaza ended and the symbolic procession moved toward Raju Sculpture, the police launched a brutal crackdown. Tear gas and smoke grenades were hurled into the crowds near the Institute of Modern Languages (IML). Students fled, some choking, others carrying the injured. The procession, meant to honor the dead, ended in yet another cycle of blood and fear.

After hearing the news of six martyrs on July 16, we knew we had to announce demands that would shake the very foundation of the government. The coordinators were already deep in discussion about this. Meanwhile, on the morning of July 18, a strong wave of resistance emerged from the private universities. The movement spread throughout the country. The resistance led to an explosion—one beyond anything we could have imagined. The sky felt heavy with the news of martyrs everywhere. In the meantime, several sporadic demands were being promoted online in various places.

Shadik Kayem consulted about this in a group of former presidents of the Dhaka University branch of BICS. In that group were Mirza Galib, Sibgatullah Sibga, Mohammad Sharfuddin, Ali Ahsan Zonaed, Rafe Salman Rifat, Shadik Kayem, and many others. Several key points began circulating in our members' group. Shadik Kayem collected all the points and posted them in our group. Seeing the sporadic demands in the group, Mirza Ghalib said---"Instead of sporadic points, the points should be made in such a way that if they are accepted, Hasina's fascist structure will collapse."

Shadik Kayem bhai incorporated the former presidents’ suggestions, synthesized the demands, and shared a draft of 11 points by pinning it in the group. At the same time, even before the shutdown, Shadik Kayem sent several points to coordinator Asif Mahmud and asked them to review and consult among themselves.

On the afternoon of July 19, Shadik Kayem called me and said, "Go to Mahadi bhai's office and write down the demands in the form of a press release." I read through the points several times and reviewed them carefully. Since my phone contained many sensitive branch documents, I left it in the room for security reasons before going out. I took the university branch's bike and went to Mahadi bhai's office at the Bata Signal intersection. In the office, Mahadi bhai, Sibga bhai, Muhtasim Billah bhai, and Musaddiq were already present. Musaddiq and Muhtasim Billah wrote the introduction to the press release. After I arrived, I began writing the points.

While I was working, someone downstairs informed me, "There is a clash with the police in front of the building, they might set the bike on fire." I quickly went downstairs and moved the motorcycle from the road to the garage. After running up and down 12 floors, I sat down to write again. But in the chaos, although I had originally drafted 11 points, I could only recall nine—no matter how hard I tried. These 9 points were then polished and finalized.

After drafting the demands, I couldn't reach any of the top-ranking coordinators. Following Shadik Kayem’s suggestion, I called Abdul Quader—who responded immediately. I told him that, "Since Hasina has killed countless innocent people. We have no chance to back down. Letting her go just like that would be a betrayal of the nation's blood. We have no chance to turn back from the movement. I have drafted 9 demands, I want to send them in your name. You take notes, so that you can give the correct explanation and speak properly if journalists ask questions." 

After sharing all the points with Abdul Quader, I asked him to arrange a separate mobile number and informed him, "The number of yours that I will use in the press release, for the convenience of journalists, you should keep it active for a while a few kilometers away from your home. As a result, the journalists will also cover the news and the police will not be able to understand your location."

It should be mentioned that when the draft of the demands was prepared, the very first point was, "Sheikh Hasina must retract her statement and resign, taking responsibility for the student killings." Subsequently, after discussing with several individuals—including  Sibgatullah and Mahadi—they advised that directly calling for the government's downfall from the 'Anti-discrimination Student Movement' at that moment could make the platform controversial. They warned that, beyond drawing mixed reactions, it could invite unbearable pressure, oppression, and torture against all the leaders involved, especially those issuing the press releases. A very similar analysis emerged from a phone conversation with Abdul Quader.

Therefore, as a strategic move, we framed the demand as, "Sheikh Hasina must publicly apologize before the nation, taking responsibility for the killing of students." The demand was presented in such a way that its acceptance would nullify Sheikh Hasina's moral and constitutional right to remain in power.

Regarding student politics, we kept two options on the table: banning the politics of BCL, or banning all political tailism. This was done so that either option could be announced depending on the circumstances. The students in the halls—who had played a courageous role in driving the terrorist organization BCL out of the halls and off campus—needed to be able to continue their studies. If BCL was allowed to resume its political activities on campus, the education and careers of these students could be threatened. Keeping this in mind, the demand to ban tailism in student politics was included in the nine points, as it had not yet been possible to consolidate the movement into a one-point demand. Including this point was entirely logical to help ensure students’ safety until fascism was fully uprooted. Now, with the uprooting of fascism, that crisis has been resolved; simultaneously, it has created an opportunity for a paradigm shift in the entire system of student politics.

1. Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina must issue a formal and public apology to the nation for the killing of students during the peaceful movement.

2. Home Minister Asaduzzaman Khan Kamal and Road Transport and Bridges Minister Obaidul Quader must resign from both their cabinet positions and the ruling party for unlawfully deploying law enforcement agencies to target and kill students.

3. The Deputy Inspectors General (DIGs), Police Commissioners, and Superintendents of Police (SPs) of Dhaka and other regions where student killings occurred must be dismissed from service without delay.

4. The Vice-Chancellors and Proctors of Dhaka University, Jahangirnagar University, and Rajshahi University must resign immediately for their complicity, silence, or active role in enabling violence against students.

5. All police personnel who opened fire on students and the leaders and activists of BCL, Jubo League, and affiliated terrorist groups who physically attacked or commanded assaults on students must be arrested and formally charged in murder cases.

6. Adequate financial compensation must be provided to the families of all martyrs and injured students and citizens across the country, acknowledging state responsibility.

7. All partisan, appendage-based student political activities—especially those associated with terrorist organizations like BCL—must be permanently banned in all educational institutions, including Dhaka University, Jahangirnagar University, Chittagong University, and Rajshahi University. Democratic student unions must be reinstated.

8. All universities, colleges, and residential halls must be reopened immediately to ensure the continuation of academic activities and prevent the state from using closure as a tool of suppression.

9. A formal undertaking must be given by the state and university administrations that no student involved in the quota reform movement will face academic, legal, or administrative harassment, retaliation, or discrimination.

The call for the government's fall echoed through those nine points. But just as I went to print them, the power in the office went out. We then transferred the files to a pen drive and took them to a DU branch house to print. But as soon as two copies came out, the printer ran out of ink. Later, Shadik Kayem, Sibgatullah Sibga, and Musaddiq took two motorcycles and went to Banglamotor. There, they went to the education department's office and printed enough copies. After printing, they delivered them to the media houses.

While we were in the office, a rumor suddenly spread in the media that the coordinators were withdrawing from the movement and reaching a compromise with the government. In response to the media rumors, I once again called and convinced Abdul Quader, then sent out a short message in his name: "The movement is not being withdrawn, detailed demands are coming soon." This short message was sent to every media outlet. After this, the rumor-mongering stopped. The media houses called Abdul Quader and confirmed the truth.

On the evening we officially announced our 9-point demands, I received a phone call from an unknown number. As soon as I picked up, I recognized the voice—it was Nahid Islam. Before I could ask, he explained, “Brother, I’m calling you from another number.” Understanding the sensitivity of the situation, I immediately called him back using my offline network number for security.

Without delay, Nahid asked me, “Brother, you’ve announced the 9 points! Will you be able to carry the movement forward?” I reassured him, “Insha’Allah, we will. Even if you’re arrested, stay strong. We’ll hold the field. We’re ready.” Then he raised a concern— “Chhatra Dal might object to your point about banning sycophancy-based student politics.” I took a deep breath and tried to clarify the reasoning behind that specific demand.

I told him, “This point is aimed specifically at BCL. Just the day before yesterday, we pushed them out of the campus. The situation is still extremely volatile. We don’t yet know what stance the government will take. God forbid, if the regime survives this wave and BCL returns, they will come back with vengeance. The students who risked their lives to drive them out will be their first targets. Who will protect them then?”

I continued, “We included that point for the safety of general students. If we can at least ban BCL’s politics on campus, it will limit their ability to re-establish control and abuse power. We understand that a complete transformation of Bangladesh’s political culture won’t happen overnight. So, we demanded a ban on all sycophancy-based politics for now. The aim is to block BCL’s access—not to target everyone indiscriminately.”

I explained further, “If we don’t include this point, students will hesitate to join us. They need to feel safe. The campuses must remain free of these political thugs. When we’re in a position to bring about deeper structural changes—after a transition of power—we can then revisit and reimagine the role of student politics as a whole. For now, this point is a necessary step.” I asked Nahid Islam to clearly communicate this to Chhatra Dal—to help them understand the spirit behind the demand. He listened carefully. That night—though I didn’t know it then—would be the last time I’d speak to him for a while. Later, I learned that on that very night—shortly after our conversation—Nahid Islam was abducted. The number he used to call me belonged to his cousin. That call was both a coordination effort and, unknowingly, a farewell before his disappearance into the shadows of state repression.

When Shadik Kayem handed the 9-point demand declaration to media outlets, intelligence agencies—particularly DGFI and NSI—began circling. They were quick to cast doubt and sow confusion. "Where did this come from? Who delivered it? Is this really Abdul Quader’s statement? What proof do you have?" they demanded. Their goal was clear: to discredit the demands by questioning their authenticity, dilute their impact, and delay their spread. Faced with this obstruction, we realized the only way to push back was through undeniable proof. A video from Abdul Quader himself. Not just one, but nine separate clips—each corresponding to one of the nine points. At that time, Abdul Quader was somewhere around Jatrabari.

It was a tense moment. Sibgatullah Sibga coordinated with Amit Hasan, a BICS leader of Narayanganj metropolitan branch, and dispatched him to Kajla. In a high-risk move, Amit reached Abdul Quader, collected the video messages and his used memory card, and navigated his way back to Banglamotor while the city pulsed with unrest. The streets were dangerous, the surveillance was intense, and any mistake could have led to arrest or worse.

Once the videos were in our hands, Mahadi bhai acted swiftly. He purchased 35 pen drives—each one loaded with the video evidence. Those pen drives were then personally delivered to key media outlets across the country. On July 20, what could have been a crisis of legitimacy was turned into a strategic victory—thanks to those 35 pen drives. The regime’s attempt to sever the demands from their source failed.

But the pressure didn’t end there. With the declaration released, the government launched another ploy: twisting the narrative. They tried to edit the 9-point charter, remove or soften parts they couldn’t accept, and even propose alternative points to neutralize the momentum. Their strategy was to confuse the public with a more palatable, manipulated version—turn nine points into eight, or worse, strip them of meaning altogether.

Meanwhile, national media houses had become no-go zones—watched closely by intelligence agents. Enter Mahadi bhai. Thanks to his journalist ID, he could still move in and out of those spaces. That day, he carried the original 9-point draft to a trusted journalist from Prothom Alo, who happened to be working at the AFP office at the time. The reason was strategic: despite the internet blackout that blanketed the country, the AFP office had active internet through secure international links.

The Prothom Alo journalist shared our 9-point document with others in the room. Present at that critical moment were Shahidul Alam, his wife Rahnuma Ahmed, AFP’s Bangladesh Bureau Chief Shafiqul Alam (now the Chief Adviser’s Press Secretary), and several others. Together, they ensured the demands reached international media outlets. Soon, the full and unaltered 9-point charter began reaching international media—AFP, Al Jazeera, Reuters, BBC. The regime could no longer hide, twist, or erase the truth. 

At the beginning of July, as the movement gradually intensified, we understood its direction—it was heading toward conflict. The government had previously shut down the internet during various movements. We guessed that it might happen this time as well. If the movement grew stronger, the government would likely respond by shutting down the internet and unleashing deadly force. It then became clear that we needed to take alternative measures to maintain communication. Without caution, a serious threat could arise at any moment.

I feared they might shut down the internet again, so I kept a few new SIM cards and phones ready. Through a former organizational alumnus of our university, Khalilur Rahman bhai, I arranged to buy some button phones and new SIMs in advance, so that they could be used when needed. He sent the phones to us through his colleague Mamun Abdullah a few days before the internet was shut down. When the internet blackout started on the night of July 18, we put them to use. I activated one phone and SIM and delivered a new SIM and a button phone each to Shadik Kayem, Sibgatullah Sibga, Mahadi, Asif Abdullah, and Rezaul Karim Shakil.

During the turbulent days of the movement, we found ourselves navigating not only external threats but also internal vulnerabilities. At one end, several coordinators had gone missing; on the other, some were being held under strict government surveillance. We later came to know that coordinators Nahid Islam, Asif Mahmud, and Abu Baker Majumder had been abducted, while Hasnat Abdullah, Sarjis Alam, and Hasibul Islam were being held hostage. All six were under various forms of coercion—some detained, others isolated and watched. It was a chilling realization, and one that required urgent strategic thinking.

We understood that if we released a statement or program announcement claiming to represent all 65 coordinators, the government could immediately exploit the situation. They could produce the abducted or controlled individuals, extract public denials from them under force, and cast doubt on the authenticity of our declarations. Such conflicting narratives would quickly damage the trust and cohesion we had built with the public and the student body. In such a sensitive atmosphere, even a single contradiction could turn the tide against us. To guard against this, we made a calculated decision: all press statements and program declarations would be issued in the name of “59 Coordinators.” This allowed us to explain to journalists and sympathizers that three coordinators were missing and three were under pressure, but the remaining fifty-nine stood united and active. More importantly, it created confusion and anxiety within government intelligence agencies. 

They began to assume that all 59 were operating from a single hub, meeting somewhere, coordinating secretly—even while the internet remained shut down across the country. In reality, there was no such centralized operation. The press statements were being composed by a small team, sometimes just one or two of us, working from undisclosed locations. The figure “59” was more myth than logistics—but it gave the movement a coherent face and baffled the authorities. 

As the movement gained momentum, our next hurdle came from the state’s attempt to delegitimize Abdul Quader. For several days, we had been issuing statements in his name. But soon, agencies like DGFI and NSI instructed the media not to broadcast or publish anything associated with him. They labeled him a “militant,” falsely tying him to Hizb-ut-Tahrir, and warned media outlets against giving him a platform. We needed a new voice—someone who could command respect and attention but had not yet drawn the state’s fire.

We found that voice in Abdul Hannan Masud. A trusted connection was established through our Mujib Hall organizer, Abdur Rob Nasim. Nasim had a friend who knew Masud personally. We tasked him with visiting Masud, handing him a newspaper, and updating him on the unfolding events and the dangers we were facing. By then, Masud was unaware of the full scale of operations or Abdul Quader’s actual status. So, during a press conference on July 22 in front of Gonoshasthaya Kendra, Masud spoke from the heart and declared that “my brother Abdul Quader is missing.” Though Quader was under our protection at that time, Masud’s public statement gave us a new advantage.

We quickly adjusted our language again and began issuing statements under “58 Coordinators.” The change was symbolic, but effective. The number gave the illusion of shifting tides and real-time reorganization, when in truth, it was all part of a preemptive media strategy. This numerical adjustment helped us outmaneuver government propaganda. The government couldn’t determine who was writing the statements or where they were coming from. All they could see was a consistently organized, emotionally resonant voice coming from what appeared to be a unified group of leaders—whether 59, 58, or another number.

After the nationwide internet shutdown on July 18, we established an offline mobile network system to keep the movement alive. This was a centrally organized initiative, with Sibgatullah Sibga taking responsibility for managing the entire central network. At each protest hotspot—including Dhaka, Chittagong, Rajshahi, Khulna, Barisal, Rangpur, and Sylhet—a centrally assigned member coordinated the offline communication system. These central points had their own spot networks operating beneath them, which facilitated real-time collection and distribution of essential information.

Even though many of the members involved in this network fell victim to severe state repression—some were martyred, others permanently disabled or gravely injured—we managed to keep the communication channels of the movement functional and responsive during this critical time. The resilience and sacrifice of these members were crucial in maintaining coordination across the country.

As the movement passed through its most challenging phase, we began to notice signs of internal sabotage and withdrawal efforts from various corners. In alliance with the police, the BCL, and sections of the administration, a few individuals started holding press conferences announcing the so-called withdrawal of the movement. Their statements often included phrases like, “We were with the original demands, but we are not with what is being said now. This is no longer our movement; it has now fallen into the hands of Jamaat-Shibir.”

We heard similar rhetoric from different parts of the country. At Rajshahi University, a small group held a press conference to declare the movement over. A few coordinators from Dhaka College followed suit. These attempts at discrediting and derailing the movement continued to emerge in various places. To resist these plots and reassert control, we began forming new committees in key cities and campuses. The objective was not to distribute titles or positions but to protect the structure of the movement and block the state’s efforts to fracture and dissolve it from within.

I took the initiative to identify and connect with individuals who were still active on the ground, particularly those aligned with coordinators Abdul Hannan Masud, Rifat Rashid, Mahin Sarkar, Abdul Quader, and other coordinators in safe houses. At the same time, I worked closely with Amirul Islam, our central student movement secretary, to collect updated lists of student activists across the country. These lists were detailed, encompassing names from all types of institutions and student backgrounds.

Once he sent the lists, we forwarded them to Raihan Uddin, who compiled the data, placed it on a letterhead, and generated a PDF. I then shared the document across journalist circles, the coordinators’ group, and other relevant networks. This process of data collection, validation, and structured communication helped inject new life into the movement. It allowed us to swiftly reorganize the student field by distancing ourselves from those who had abandoned the cause and realigning our efforts with those still active and committed.

As the movement approached its final phase, the situation across the country became increasingly dire. Students everywhere were overwhelmed by mass arrests, fabricated cases, and unrelenting attacks. Hardly anyone was left untouched—almost every participant found themselves facing multiple legal charges, sometimes more than one in a single day. The pressure from the state machinery was immense, and the fear of repression was growing.

In response to this critical state of affairs, we decided to shift our strategy and reduce the intensity of our public programs. Instead of direct confrontations, we designed softer forms of protest—initiatives that could continue the spirit of resistance while minimizing immediate risk. We introduced a series of peaceful actions, including graffiti drawing, wall writing, social media campaigns, and prayer gatherings across various locations. These symbolic programs allowed us to maintain a presence in the public eye while protecting students from further persecution.

This new approach continued for several days. During this period, we were not only changing our activities but also reevaluating and restructuring our internal plans. To avoid targeted repression, we stopped issuing statements under the same names. Each day, a new name was used for the press releases to prevent the government from easily tracking our core leadership. Coordination with those in safe houses remained essential. We stayed in regular contact with the coordinators who had gone underground, working discreetly to ensure their safety and access to information. We also arranged for newspapers to be delivered to them so they could stay informed about both the movement and the government’s propaganda.

In response to growing public outrage, the government declared a national mourning program on July 30. It ordered black flags to be hoisted as a symbolic gesture of mourning for the deceased. But the nation saw through the farce. Sheikh Hasina, having overseen the killing of so many students, had chosen to express grief not for the dead or injured, but over infrastructure damage. Her refusal to visit hospitals or meet with the actual victims fueled even more anger across the country. Later, in a clear attempt at damage control, she staged a meeting with the families of some of the martyrs. But even then, when she finally visited a hospital, she only checked in on injured party members—those hurt while attacking students, not the students themselves. The message was clear to everyone: this was not mourning for the nation’s loss, but a mockery of the blood spilled by the youth of this country.

In light of this, I sat down with Shadik Kayem and Mohiuddin Khan to discuss how we could respond. Shadik Kayem mentioned that Chhatra Dal was planning a mourning procession with black flags, citing how such symbolism was used during the anti-Ershad movement. He asked whether we could organize something similar. I said, “Brother, not black—it has to be red.”

“Hasina is shedding blood,” I replied. “She’s injuring and massacring students. That blood is red. We will protest by tying red cloth over our eyes and mouths.”

Again, he asked, “Why on the eyes and mouth?”

I explained, “Because even after all this killing, they refuse to see the truth. They see the metro rail damage and cry over that instead. And they are continuously lying. So, in protest, we will launch an online campaign with red cloth tied over our eyes and mouths.” He accepted the idea. Then Mohiuddin Khan helped finalize some hashtags for the campaign. A statement was drafted including those hashtags. After the statement was ready, Shadik Kayem shared it in the coordinators' group, and everyone gave their approval. The message was simple yet powerful: red instead of black. That day, people of all ages spontaneously joined in. Within hours, the color red dominated social media. Red banners, red filters, red-tinted profile pictures—the internet turned crimson with outrage and solidarity.

The response was overwhelming. Influential politicians, professors, cultural activists—all joined the movement by changing their profile pictures to red. At that moment, the nation split into two symbolic camps: the general students and the public united under the banner of red, while the ruling fascist-terrorist regime clung to black.

Among the most memorable and distinctive programs we organized during the final phase of the movement, two stood out: March for Justice and Remembering Our Heroes. Each morning, I, Shadik Kayem, and Mohiuddin Khan would sit together to brainstorm the next day’s program. We would prepare a shortlist of possible titles and then reach out to different people in our network for ideas. From there, we would decide which name best captured the spirit and goal of the event.

On one such morning, I explained the nature of the next planned event to Tausiful Islam, former Dhaka University Correspondent of The Daily Observer. I asked him to suggest some compelling names. Among the options he gave, one stood out to all of us: March for Justice. It struck the perfect balance between clarity and power. We agreed on the name, and it was adopted immediately. The overwhelming support we received from people across the country for this program added to our motivation. Their commitment and moral courage were deeply inspiring. In Chittagong, one sister stood defiantly in front of a prison van to protect her classmate. In Dhaka, in front of the High Court, Barrister Mahbub Uddin Khokon stood firm to ensure the safe return of arrested students. 

These were not isolated incidents—they were signs of a growing wave of solidarity. We also began reaching out to our former comrades who had become lawyers, urging them to step forward and lend their voices and legal aid to the movement. Many responded to the call. As we approached August 1—the start of the Awami League’s officially declared month of mourning—we knew that it was imperative to expose the ruling party’s atrocities right from day one. 

It was our responsibility to ensure the country remember who the true martyrs were. At that point, we planned a commemorative program to honour the stories of those who had fallen, those who were injured, and those who had risked everything. The program would feature poetry, monologues, dramatic reenactments, and firsthand narratives of pain, resistance, and loss.

Once again, I shared the idea with Tausiful Islam, who proposed several potential names for the program. After our usual round of consultations, we chose one: Remembering Our Heroes. We announced the name publicly and began preparing. To extend the program’s global reach, we launched a digital campaign using multiple hashtags. The response was incredible—many participated, many shared, and the stories of the martyrs began to spread beyond our borders.

After the six coordinators were released on August 2, we went ahead and announced a program without consulting them. This caused tension—many of them were furious. They questioned, “Why was the program announced without consulting us?” In the internal group, they scolded Abdul Quader, Hannan Masud, and others harshly. One of them eventually informed us about the backlash.

Their sudden reaction worried us. We feared the government might be trying to extract something from the released coordinators—through blackmail, coercion, or psychological pressure. These days, anything felt possible, and we couldn’t afford to take risks. That’s why we had gone ahead and announced the program beforehand. Eventually, we were able to talk it out with them, explain our reasoning, and reach a mutual understanding.

On the following Friday, the crackdown began again. Massacres flared up across the country, reigniting anger and amplifying the call for a one-point movement. We were in agreement that the time had come to declare a single demand that would unite the nation. But pressure was coming from multiple directions. Some factions supported a one-point movement, while others opposed it. There were suggestions to declare it online for safety—but we firmly believed it had to be announced on the ground, from the symbolic and historic space of the Shaheed Minar.

After navigating all this pressure and disagreement, we finally declared the one-point demand from the Shaheed Minar itself. It was a decision made under immense tension but with full conviction.

At the core of this strategy was a Telegram group we had long maintained. We called it Dream Project. Until then, it had served as our secret coordination center, where all central-level decisions and tactical plans were discussed. Within this group, we finalized ten specific locations—ten critical points across Dhaka. These were the points from which we would attempt to secure victory and begin the march to Ganabhaban.

Meanwhile, the coordinators took their own initiative and announced additional programs without consulting us—specifically, a women’s rally and a workers’ rally on August 5, and a long march on August 6. Shadik Kayem responded directly to them: “The long march has to be moved up and held on August 5 at any cost. If we give Hasina more time, she’ll orchestrate another massacre.” To their credit, the coordinators agreed. The final decision was made: “Not the day after tomorrow—the long march is happening tomorrow.”

Internally, we began communicating the 10-spot plan from the Dream Project to all relevant parties: Jamaat, BNP, and their affiliate student and political wings. Although many other groups were announcing various spots online, we stayed focused on the original ten. I personally sent the finalized list of the ten locations to campus journalist Hasan Ali. He coordinated with me and passed the list to BNP and Chhatra Dal leaders, who reviewed the proposal and agreed to align with our plan at those specific spots.

On the morning of the long march, our team reached the Shaheed Minar early—too early, in fact. Before formal instructions were given, they had already assembled, which made them an easy target. They were the first to be shot at, and all of them were our own manpower.

Meanwhile, between 8 and 9 a.m., six or seven of our designated ten spots were already under our control. Shahbag, however, remained a challenge. Despite repeated attempts, it eluded us. At 11:30 a.m., emotionally and physically drained, we returned home. We performed ablution, prayed, and broke down in tears, asking Allah for help. That same day, Sibgatullah Sibga took Miftahul Maruf and returned to the streets. They deployed Shibir organizers through every alley, assigning each team a specific timeframe. When all the teams emerged simultaneously, marching from every direction with unified slogans, Shahbag was finally taken.

Just as Shahbag came under our control, some of the coordinators suggested returning to the Shaheed Minar and marching to Ganabhaban from there. But we disagreed. “No,” we said. “We will not go that way. We will march to Ganabhaban from here.”

We passed that decision down through our chain of command, and our organizers received clear instructions. From Shahbag, we launched the final march. Dhaka transformed. The streets swelled with waves of people. It was no longer a protest—it was a revolution. The city turned into a sea of processions, voices, and unyielding will. And with that march from Shahbag, our victory was sealed.

The 2024 July Revolution was not merely a student movement—it was a bold, nationwide resistance by students and the general public that gave voice to the oppressed in the face of state repression. From the crowded streets of Dhaka to the most remote corners of the country, every step of this growing movement—every coordination, every decision, every poster, every demand, down to the smallest preparations, like purchasing SIM cards and button phones in advance—stood as a testament to the immense mercy of Allah Rabbul Alamin.

After Sheikh Hasina's extremely controversial remarks, the barbaric attacks by BCL, and the government's shameless lies, the fury of general students exploded into a wave of resistance. That anger transformed into a powerful current, and through the articulation of the 9-point demand, it found a destination, a structure, and a historic direction.

In this movement, everyone came together: rickshaw pullers, university professors, mosque khatibs, school teachers, Shaykhul Hadiths from Qawmi madrasas, kindergarten children, students of madrasas, schools, and colleges—teenagers, youth, and the elderly—all rising up for a common demand, risking their lives. To us, every warrior of July is a hero. The cumulative result of this planning, this coordination, this unbreakable determination—and the sacrifices poured out along the way—was the fall of Sheikh Hasina. But this was more than just the end of a ruler. It was a people's victory against a regime of terror, injustice, and systemic discrimination.

This movement proved once again that—with true leadership, courage, strategy, and unwavering faith—the student community has the power to change the course of history. From the blood spilled in July, the tears shed in silence, and the thunderous cries for justice, a new Bangladesh has been born—where the people's rights, dignity, and aspirations will shape the politics of the future.

S M Farhad, President, Dhaka University Chapter, BICS, Bangladesh

Email: [email protected]