Four hours at the CMM Court premises

A father holds up his son’s employment papers at CMM court premises on 30 July around lunchtime. His son was detained on 19 July. Photo: Mehedi Hasan

It was around 10 am on Tuesday. As we walked down the alley called Court Street towards the Dhaka Bar Association, we came across a woman in her mid-30s, panting heavily. 

Apparently, she had been running around frantically for some time. She seemed flustered, not quite sure what to do. Then, she asked us for directions to the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate (CMM) Court.

"You need to turn right from the Bar Association and then take another right after a while," we informed her before adding, "We're heading there as well." 

It soon became clear that her younger brother, a university student, had been detained from Uttara's Azampur on Monday, and this was her first time to any court. She had contacted a lawyer who asked her to arrive at the CMM Court first thing in the morning. 

Andaleeve Rahman Partha being taken to court. Photo: Mehedi Hasan

As we continued walking, the alley grew narrower yet more crowded. Half of it was filled with mud. Someone in the endless queue, sporting a black gown, said, "This is the biggest crowd I have seen on this road in the last decade at least." 

After much difficulty, we finally managed to cross the gate of the CMM Court. By then, the woman we had earlier been speaking with had disappeared, swallowed by the throngs of other desperate people.

On both sides of the court premises, however, we came across countless similar faces, each etched with fear, frustration and exhaustion. They were men and women, children and the elderly—some stood against the walls, while others sat directly on the ground. 

Photo: Mehedi Hasan

All these people had their loved ones detained in the past 10-12 days due to the quota reform-related violence.

Among them was a woman dressed in a blue salwar kameez, the colour looked worn out. Her eyes were red from excessive crying. She identified herself as Salma but was reluctant to say any further, lest it could be harmful to her.

We ensured her that speaking to journalists wouldn't put her in more trouble than she already was. This remark made her a little less worried, and she told us that her husband Md Masum, a rickshaw puller by profession, was picked up from Mirpur 11 on 19 July. 

She claimed that her husband was arrested alongside three other men, even though he had not been involved in any violence. He had no affiliation with any political party either. 

Masum was simply pulling his rickshaw when he encountered a man wounded by a gunshot and was trying to take him to the nearest hospital. But the police arrested him and others, accusing them of being involved in the violence that had occurred in the Mirpur area that day.

Photo: Mehedi Hasan

Since then, Salma has been coming to the CMM Court daily in search of her husband. "It's only this morning that we saw him being taken to the court jail for five seconds at best. He was still wearing the same clothes," she tried her best to control her tears but failed miserably. 

A housemaid by profession, Salma had very little source of income, and all her savings were spent over the last 11 days. She didn't know how she would sustain in the coming days. 

"Some people advised me to seek assistance from a lawyer. Only then could there be any way to get my husband released. But I don't have any money to afford a lawyer's services," she said, now her eyes vacant and despondent.

Salma has been continuously wearing the same blue salwar kameez for over a week. Suddenly, she fell silent. But the atmosphere in the court premises remained anything but subdued. 

Many other people wailed loudly. A megaphone from the nearby Three Star Hotel and Mini Chinese blared the breakfast and lunch menu on repeat piercing through the sound of the wails.  

No one seemed to care, though. This was a comparatively posh eatery; there was a more modest eatery beside it where most people ate—if they were in the mood.

Of course, eating was the last thing on most people's minds. They waited anxiously for the arrival of prison vans that would bring their loved ones. Between 10 am and 2 pm, we saw around 10 prison vans arriving at the CMM Court premises. 

Each time a van arrived, the crowd desperately tried to catch a glimpse of the detainees, and the detainees, in turn, strained to see their waiting families.

They firmly grasped the ventilator holes with their fingers, as if trying to escape through the narrow openings which were meant to bring in some air or a sliver of light. 

Some even dared to chant various slogans. 

From one van, anti-government political slogans could be heard, while another van echoed chants for the student protests. Others peered out through the ventilators, searching for familiar faces among the crowd. Cries of "Maa" and "Baba" mingled with the names of relatives who had come to see them.

Soon, they were quickly thrown into the court jail. It was a frantic scramble of those precious moments—shouting, calling out, chanting slogans or pleading—before the opportunity to communicate with the 'outside world' was gone.

We met another woman, Tania Akhter, whose husband Farid Ahmed was picked up from Shahjahanpur on Monday evening. 

She had been recounting the same story to anyone who would listen, her voice cracked from the effort. She clung to a sliver of hope that someone might be able to offer her real help.

"My husband is 55-years-old with an extremely feeble heart. How could he retort to any sort of violence?" she said, adding that her husband owns an electronic hardware shop in their neighbourhood.

"We don't have an issue with the police arresting those who were actually involved in the violent activities. But why are they torturing ordinary people like us? 

And if they're intent on doing so, why don't they just take all of us, instead of only the breadwinners of our families?" she said while breaking down in tears. 

Amidst all the cries and chaos in the courtyard, a gentle rain began to pour. Some people took shelter under the overhang on the side of the building. People were looking at the raindrops as if they held the power to wash away their pain and agony. 

Also, it was probably the best time of the year for the vendors in the court premises. While the families of the detainees were too distressed to eat, the journalists and lawyers were more than willing to indulge.

"It's fantastic to see such a crowd today," said a jhal-muri seller with a grin. "My business is really booming."