On March 18, Friday at midnight, I was in bed trying to fall asleep. But whenever I closed my eyes, I kept seeing Amzad’s face.
I just heard an hour ago the confirmed news of Amzad, Shohag, Miraj, and Yamin not being in this world anymore. They had died around a fortnight ago when a fire suddenly broke out in the go-down they’d been spending the night in. Amzad died on the spot, while Shohag, Yamin, and Mehedi succumbed to their burn injuries in Dhaka Medical College a couple of days later.
Who were Amzad, Shohag, Yamin, and Mehedi?
Technically, the only introduction I can give to them is that they were four street boys that we’ve known for the last five years. I first met Amzad and Shohag in 2012 when I joined the “Bot-tola school” family. “Bot-tola” literally means “under the banyan tree.” It’s not just a school, it’s a family.
Sadly, I don’t remember Mehedi and Yamin very well because they didn’t come to school on a regular basis. But the memories of Amzad and Shohag are vividly alive in my mind. These four boys had nobody to care for them, nobody to think about their safety -- but us. Each of their families had abandoned them, a long time ago, not being able to afford taking care of them.
When they died, their bodies were kept for a few days in the Dhaka Medical College morgue. Shohag’s father, upon hearing the news of his son’s death, took away Shohag’s body for burial. The other three bodies (Amzad, Yamin and Mehedi) weren’t claimed by anyone and were handed over to the philanthropic group Anjuman Mufidul, who fulfills the responsibility of burying unidentified corpses.
It’s still painstakingly hard to accept that we found out about the incident almost two weeks after it had happened. Or else we could’ve, at least, identified our boys and they wouldn’t have had to be buried as lone souls.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to depart, unidentified, as if nobody loved you. But we did love you. We just failed to protect you.
What use was it that we taught these boys to read and write? No use, when their lives had no protection, no security. These children had no home, no shelter, nor guarantee of food. They managed to collect plastic bottles and disposed paper to sell at small shops called “bhangaris.”
There are many such bhangaris all over Dhaka, and it was in one of such bhangaris that our four boys worked. The owner of the bhangari had a go-down near her house. The boys collected their stuff during the day and organised the collectibles. They were paid Tk40 for every 2kg of stuff they could submit.
The owner of that particular bhangari used to give them three meals a day -- it kept the boys from starving. She also allowed the boys to take shelter in the go-down at night, but she locked the door from the outside. Apparently, she started locking it after many boys stole from her. We heard all this from Akash, the only survivor of that horrible fire.
They were all well-mannered, obedient, and kind boys. One may assume that they would be insolent because of their background, but they were kind and amiable. The only bad habit they had was that they were addicted to “daandi.” With drugs like daandi so easily available, and with these children leading such traumatic lives -- they were bound to be victims of drug abuse.
On the night of February 24, Akash had been the only one who hadn’t taken daandi before sleeping. When, at 2am, a fire broke out from the mosquito coil -- Akash was the first and only one to realise it. The heat had awakened him and in his frantic attempt to get out, he didn’t wake the others.
There was a small hole in the exhaust fan hole through which Akash screamed into the night that a fire had started. A man nearby heard him, notified the owner, and soon people started coming to the scene. Amzad, with fire all over his body, died right in front of Akash. Shohag, Yamin, and Mehedi had large parts of their bodies burned and were taken to DMC where they departed.
They died in pain, they died too early. Only Akash lives today, a forlorn soul -- too young to have lost his comrades. His heart-broken face makes me wonder whether he’ll ever be able to laugh the same way again.
They’re gone. Nothing we do will change that. However, somewhere out there more children like them will keep living in great danger. Their deaths were reported in many leading newspapers, but somehow in every report their ages were exaggerated. Amzad was mentioned to be 25 years old in one report.
In truth, all four boys were below the age of 20. Maybe the variance in the reports were due to misinformation or negligence. It just goes to show that, in the end, the boys are just statistics now.
But sometimes even statistics can make a difference. Like how the death of these four boys has robbed our sleep, making us realise that we simply cannot let another child have the same fate.
Whose fault is it that our society is structured in such a way that street children are not given birth certificates and thus, are not even recognised as citizens of this country? Whose fault is it that drugs are so easily available? That something like daandi is so easy to be used by destitute children? Whose fault is it that these children have to resort to labour? Whose fault is it that they have no security, no shelter? Whose fault is it that their families can’t afford to rear them?
We’re all to blame. Because we’ve accepted that in this capitalistic society, some are meant to sail through life, while some are meant to get lost. And such acceptance is what makes me question whether we deserve to be called part of the most civilised race on Earth.
I deserve to lose sleep, because I failed them. We all failed them. If we could’ve made a difference, maybe Amzad, Shohag, Yamin, and Mehedi wouldn’t have suffered like they did.
I don’t want to fail another child. I don’t want Amzad and his friends’ deaths to be in vain. I want to make sure the rest of our street children at Bot-tola school and around stay safe. I don’t know exactly how to do that, or where to start, but I’m going to try. And I invite you to try too. I know you’re in heaven Amzad, all four of you. I know you’ve finally found the peace you deserve, the happiness that this world denied you. Watch over us from above, little brothers. And know that you are loved.
We are holding a milad for Amzad, Shohag, Yamin and Mehedi on March 24, Thursday at 5pm at the bot-tola field (in front of the Arts building of Dhaka University).