Many of us recently came to learn that the quota for the public job sector is so large that it takes up over half the entries, leaving a mere 44% open for qualified candidates.
Then we heard whispers that many people with the Liberation War Veteran certificates were barely children during the war, and some say over 50,000 of these certificates belong to people born after the war. Questions arose whether our martyrs, who fought for equality in our nation, would ever endorse a practice where their lineage gets preferential treatments over half a century after the war had ended.
When the roadblocks began all over the nation, it seemed to be a repeat of 2018, where the movement would eventually become politicized, everything would die down, and nothing would really change. But the road blocks gained in numbers and the students stayed committed to a peaceful protest.
They were successful in getting the attention of the government, but the reaction was perhaps not what anyone was expecting. In an attempt to explain the need of having quotas and giving opportunities to the underrepresented, the prime minister famously remarked: “If the grandchildren of muktijoddhas cannot benefit from the quotas, should the grandchildren of rajakars benefit from them?”
And so, the country was supposedly split into two groups of people -- the certified descendants of muktijoddhas and the uncertified descendants of rajakars. Following that, the students embraced the “rajakar” title, pitching slogans such as “Chaite elam odhikar, hoye gelam rajakar” (I came here for rights, but became named a traitor).
July 16 was a day of many firsts -- students of public and private universities and colleges united over a call for justice, but it was also when we first saw our police aim their guns at unarmed students and fire. Six brave students were murdered that day. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, were injured and were chased around their respective cities by armed police and members of the Chhatra League. Network jammers were placed around major campuses so that students were unable to communicate with each other or seek help.
Chhatra League -- the student wing of the current political party -- did not fare well. They were chased out of the residential halls. But that did not stop them from taking to the streets, armed, ready to take on the massive threat to the nation -- unarmed student protesters.
By the end of this fateful day, most public universities and institutions were closed, and campuses were vacated so they could no longer be a stronghold for any form of protest -- be it the kind you do peacefully, or the kind that takes your life.
July 17 gave us a false sense of hope that it would all be over. It was a public holiday, after all. By this time, everyone and their grandmothers were on social media, voicing their support for the protest and mourning the loss of these young lives. But with agony and rage coursing through their veins, the protestors were not ready to back down.
July 18, 2024. What. A. Day.
The flurry of confusion and violence began early, as students who gathered to protest were chased away. BRAC University became the central fortress for students to take shelter, while other private institutions such as NSU also opened their gates for the injured students. These brave young fools stood against bullets, tear gas, armed police, and blood-thirsty Chhatra League members with nothing but a voice.
The news of fatalities came in before midday and continued as the day progressed. Children as young as 15 were killed. Protesters on-ground reported that dead bodies were not being allowed to be taken and that even hospitals were also unwilling to let them go.
Mass panic set into the city after tanks were photographed in the Cantonment area. Random houses and cafes opened their doors to injured students to offer some water and a moment to catch their breath. But the number of injured and dead students rose.
Violence increased after sundown. Voice messages circulated where worried well-wishers cautioned that more armed forces will descend via helicopters, and urged the protesters to return home by sunset. As the sun touched the horizon, worried posts of missing friends and family flooded the newsfeeds.
The social media feeds were a bloodbath. Videos of violence were everywhere, and people made comment threads to keep track of the death and violence. Just as everyone was ready to show the world what was happening, a nation-wide internet blackout wiped out everyone’s agency.
The voice messages were right. As the night progressed, helicopters descended and patrolled the streets. Many areas including Banasree, Uttara, Mohammadpur, and Dhanmondi progressed into warzones as the sound of bullets and bombs took over the silence of the night. Helicopters and policemen alike seemed to think protecting the nation meant to shoot on sight. The acts of violence were no longer limited to protesters. The nation was waging war, and the people hid in their houses, wondering who the war was for.
Unable to tolerate the death and violence on their children, the parents in Mirpur DOHS took to the streets to protest against the police -- the only senior protest to my knowledge. But that is the funny thing about knowledge. With the very strategic internet blackout, we had to resort back to phone calls and SMS, an old technology, not meant for mass communication, nor the rapid spread of information.
Armed personnel and helicopters shooting and bombing civilians is not a tasteful sight. It is no wonder that there were instances where bullets found themselves on buildings, near windows to ward off watchers recording the scene. One unfortunate uncle caught a bullet in his own home. The word spread, and slowly but surely, the fear of being a mere onlooker settled into the hearts of the public.
The fumes of violence lingered well into the next day, and rivalling political parties -- as if finally awake from a stupor -- declared their positions to protest against the government. Buses, buildings, streets were all on fire. Public infrastructure laid in shambles. Tear gas, sound bombs, bullets, and Lord knows what else rained in every direction. Once again, a protest for a noble cause was twisted into a clash between political parties. The public had their heads in their hands, still not sure what was happening, and most importantly -- why?
The following day, a curfew was announced and the army and law enforcement took over the streets. People were instructed to remain strictly at home or risk being shot. Somewhere within the violence, a call for “discussion” was made to settle the matter, and representatives of the movement have negotiated terms of the agreement.
As I write this, the curfew has been extended. The sound of helicopters hangs in the air, protecting us from the dangerous youth who dared raise their voice. The government has agreed to making the total quota 7% (5% for the lineage of Liberation War veterans, and 2% for others). I suppose, eventually, once the dust settles, the marks of bombs fade away from the streets, and the blood washes off the walls of the universities, we will be expected to return back to our regular lives.
But if the protest that initiated all this could have been solved so easily, why did students have to be killed to be heard?
Why did the people have to cower within their homes?
Why was there a need for an internet blackout?
Why was there any need for violence at all?
What exactly was achieved from this tasteless show of power?
And for how long will we be ok with this?
I write this in hopes that our fallen scholars would not be forgotten. We must hold this dear to our hearts. Let this be a standing testament that our youth will fight for what is right, even if it means standing with open arms against inevitable death.
Nusaiba Mirza is a freelance contributor.
This opinion piece was first published in the print edition of Dhaka Tribune on July 23, 2024.