The Second Firestorm of Independence

 

The Second Firestorm of Independence

By

Arman Rashid

 

 

[This diary blends my personal experiences, real-life incidents I witnessed, and stories I heard from others— woven into a short narrative.]

 

 

📅 July 1, Monday:

I couldn't focus in class today. Around 11 a.m.,

I saw the news on Facebook — the government has reinstated job quotas: 30% for freedom fighters, 10% for women, along with quotas for indigenous and disabled people.

Suddenly, it felt like not 2018, but 1971 had returned. This is not a war of violence, but a stand against injustice.

In the evening, we gathered at the main gate with friends. Some held placards, some tied black cloths around their necks.

Someone said, “Let’s take to the streets—enough of Facebook posts.”

We marched silently. But inside, our hearts were burning.

 

📅 July 2, Tuesday:

The Prime Minister called us “descendants of collaborators.”

We didn’t lower our heads—instead, we raised them with a vow: - “If someone is a freedom fighter’s child, then we are the grandchildren of martyrs!”

Today’s march felt different. The chant roared: “We asked for our rights,

They called us collaborators!”

For the first time, the student wing of the ruling party appeared with sticks. Hatred in their eyes, determination in ours.

Today, we realized—this movement has begun. There's no turning back.

 

📅 July 3, Wednesday:

Last night was a night of war. Armed student cadres stormed the halls of Dhaka University. It felt like March 25, 1971—only the uniforms were different.

My friend Anik was hit on the neck with a stick.

Neera’s phone was snatched and her photos deleted. There were no helicopters in the sky, yet it felt like even the birds were too scared to fly.

 For the first time, I touched a student lying on the road—his name was Sajib, shot and bleeding.

He said, “Brother, please tell my mother—I died loving this country.”

 

📅 July 4–6:

Now the whole of Bangladesh is on the streets.

NUB blocked Shahjalal Airport

NSU, IUB, AIUB spread from Kuril to Malibagh.

BRAC and East West marched through Hatirjheel.

Flights canceled, signals disrupted.

My mother warned, “Son, danger is coming.”

I replied, “If the fathers of '71 were afraid, this country wouldn't exist.”

Today, the first martyr fell—Abu Sayeed.

The sound of gunfire still rings in my ears.

 

📅 July 7, Sunday:

Not just students anymore—now parents joined us.

A mother, draped in a white scarf, said,

“If my son dies a martyr,

I’ll be a proud mother.”

The ruling party's student wing and police attacked.

They touched the girls inappropriately—we tried to record it, but within minutes, everything was deleted. In front of the authorities, a girl named Neela was dragged away.

Her screams broke our silence—we walked through the batons.

Not from fear, but from honor.

 

📅 July 8–10:

Universities shut down.

The ruling student wing refused to leave, but we—the ordinary students—took control. A chant rose like a song:

“This land is mine, this road is mine,

Whoever steals it, their blood is mine!”

Today I saw two leaders from the ruling student wing signing a paper—pledging to quit politics. Perhaps they, too, realized—times have changed.

 

📅 July 11–13:

We entered the television building.

A fire broke out. Some called it extremism.

I said— “In 1971, freedom fighters set fire to telephone offices—because the enemy used them to communicate.”

Today, we burned the lies.

Tanks began to roll in from Mirpur.

But they won’t protect the government—just themselves. That’s becoming clear.

 

📅 July 14–19:

Total blackout. No internet, phones, water, or electricity.

Gunshots echoed inside the halls—no one knows how many died.

Who are we?

How many are we?

No names were written—just like the unnamed martyrs of '71.

 

📅 July 20–24:

Section 144 imposed. Anyone on the streets would be shot.

The military was deployed—shots were fired at students’ heads.

Near New Market, I saw a student raise his hands saying,

“I didn’t do anything”—and still, he fell. Beside him, a woman cried,

"The Pakistanis murdered my brother during the war of 71 and now my son has died from the bullets of his own country’s police.”

 

📅 July 25–30:

As far as the eyes could see—there were bodies.

No one destroyed the monuments, but we ourselves are becoming memories.

Inside the country, no one knows what’s happening.

Outside, the world has no clue. All media is shut down.

"It feels like 1971 once more—when the radio spoke the news, and the rest was written in blood before our eyes."

 

📅 July 31 – August 5:

Funeral prayers held in absentia.

My friend Rashedu’s body was found in an alley in Dhanmondi—his shirt was burnt, a protest banner still in hand.

My father said, “Your friends will live on in history.”

I replied, “Baba, if I survive, I’ll write their names down—so no one ever forgets.”

 

✊ Epilogue:

This country has awakened again.

A new war for independence—where the enemy is not foreign, but the injustice within.

We asked for quota reform.

Now, the people want change. We want a new government.

This isn’t just a student movement— This is the freedom struggle of a generation

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE END