July extends to 5 August

The morning of 5 August was cold, unusual for an early August morning. The night of 4 August had been liberating and traumatising at the same time. Hundreds of thousands of people had declared their last intention to join the final march to the Ganabhaban the next day. 

My Facebook feed felt like a collection of last wishes and resolutions. I was one of them. I wrote a long post detailing my last wishes, in case I did not come back. Such was the time back then — people were ready to die. 

Everyone was looking at the army's reaction that night. After midnight, I got the news of troop movement in Mirpur Cantonment, and received a call from one of my army contacts. 

"Just try not to die before noon tomorrow," he said, "make sure to wear your press jacket and helmet. And try to stay out of any fight, please." 

"Then what?" I asked. 

"Let's hope that we witness a miracle after noon," the line went dead. 

I did not have a wink of sleep the whole night. As the first light of the dawn coloured the eastern sky, I got up from bed, saying to myself: What a peaceful day to meet my Maker! At 8am, I was ready with my vest and helmet. My sister tied a 'rakhi' on my hand and bid me goodbye, tears in her eyes. 

The streets were unnaturally calm that morning. I knew the protesters would gather near Hope School at Mirpur. I took the back alleys from Pallabi and went there. I was not sure whether people would come pouring into the streets. 

My heart began pounding, what if people get scared? What if only a few protesters come out to the streets and get killed? But, how wrong I was! As the morning passed, people kept pouring out on the alleys from Hope School to Mirpur-13. Soon, around 10am, there were thousands of protesters; all with steely resolve. 

I kept seeing familiar faces. My school friends, my university friends, people I have known for years, their families. The army barricade was covering Mirpur-10 circle with barbed wire and APCs. They were looking at the protesters with no emotions. Somewhere in their eyes, there were glimmers of sympathy.

I murmured to myself, "They will have to be mad to fire upon this sea of people. They will run out of bullets pretty fast." 

Then, I read the news on The Business Standard: Hundreds of thousands of protesters were marching towards Dhaka. The news spread like wildfire. 

"Just try not to die before noon tomorrow," said my army contact. "Make sure to wear your press jacket and helmet. And try to stay out of any fights, please."

All the while, I was in constant contact with our chief reporter. Between 10:30am and 11am, I got the much-awaited call from my army contact, "The army chief will address the nation today at noon. Keep praying. We might get lucky." My heart started pounding. Has the moment arrived? Will we finally be free? 

After the noon prayers, at around 1:30pm, the procession finally began. Through the back alleys, the procession poured onto the main road beside Al-Helal Hospital. Soon, it turned into a sea of people, people kept coming from every alley, every corner. Everyone was chanting slogans, "Step down Hasina!" As I met old friends in the procession, hugs and hopeful cheers followed. 

It didn't take me long to realise that on foot, I was going to miss a lot of the action. So, I hailed a Bangla Tesla, stood on it, and told him to follow the procession. 

At Agargaon, the soldiers were patrolling, their manner, casual. People were cheering for them. Security felt quite loose. The rickshaw whizzed me to Saarc Fountain in no time, and I had to get down from there due to a military cordon. From there, I started to walk towards Shahbagh. There were people all around. The sun was shining bright. No cloud of confusion blocked the sun. A new day, a new hope. 

More known faces, more hugs and cheers. People were cheering, playing music, and chanting slogans. It felt like a carnival, and it indeed was one. I squeezed myself through the crowd and got near the flower shops at Shahbagh. There were fellow journalists, more friends — everyone beaming with joy. 

In the afternoon, I got the news. First from my military contact, then from my chief reporter. Hasina fled. We were finally free. My chief reporter told me to march towards Ganabhaban. 

I remember letting out a cry from deep within my chest, it sounded almost like howling. Thousands of deaths, thousands injured, a bloody, brutal popular uprising — it was finally over. Then began the clumsy dance; fortunately the people around me were just as wild in celebration, so I did not become a viral meme. 

The Army Chief was still scheduled to address the nation, but it was delayed. Once again, I grabbed a Bangla Tesla from Paribagh and rushed towards Gonobhaban. A crowd had blocked Farmgate. The rickshaw moved like an ant, not that I complained. The destination was Ganabhaban, where the looting was on in full swing. 

People were pulling out the bricks from the walls even. Later, I went to the National Parliament Building, overwhelmed by the symbol of democracy, finally freed from fascism. On the green fields I lied down, ran, jumped, cried like a mad man. And got a nice photo clicked — arms wide open, all thirty-two teeth shining. I called my father. They had also received the news and joined the victory march. 

But the bloodshed was far from over; my sister was nearly shot to death by cops near Mirpur Model Police Station that afternoon, where the police fired upon the victory march. The boy shielding her took a bullet; who knows what happened to him. 

As the day waned, I walked out of the Parliament and hailed another Tesla after much trouble. This time, I had to share it with other strangers, who were coming back with loot from the Ganabhaban. 

There were celebrations as far as the eyes could see. Millions came down on the streets that day, creating the liveliest carnival the world had seen. And I looked at the happy faces, for they earned the right to celebrate with blood and sweat.