Khaleda in the memories of the apolitical class

On Wednesday, Bangladesh lost one of its brightest stars, someone who stood above party lines and political divisions.

As I stood among millions at her funeral prayer, it felt less like a political gathering and more like a collective farewell from a grieving family.

When I reached the funeral ground, Dhaka had already surrendered to grief. From Shyamoli to New Market, the queue of mourners stretched endlessly. Roads from Jahangir Gate to Karwan Bazar, from Agargaon Metro Station to Farmgate, and across Manik Mia Avenue were completely packed.

People began gathering from 9am, waiting for hours, some standing, some sitting on the asphalt under the winter sky, united by a single purpose: the chance to raise their hands in prayer for a leader they loved unconditionally.

There was barely space to stand. Yet no one complained. I saw children clinging to their parents, elderly men and women leaning on sticks, workers, students, professionals, people from all classes and backgrounds.

I even noticed police officers and army personnel wiping away tears during the supplication. In that moment, it became clear that Khaleda Zia was not merely the leader of a party; she was a leader of the nation.

As I moved through the crowd, listening to fragments of conversations and whispered prayers, I met Masud Rana, a Pathao ride-sharing driver. He told me he did not belong to any political party. His father, once a BNP activist, had passed away four years ago, leaving him with a final instruction, "Whether you do politics or not, if Madam Zia ever passes away, you must attend her funeral." 

Rana came to fulfil that promise.

"There is nothing to hate about her," he said. "The oppression she endured over the last 17 years no one else has suffered like that. If Bangladesh has any truly great leader, it is she."

He spoke of her imprisonment, public humiliation, and the personal losses she carried silently — losing her husband, losing a son, and living while another son remained in exile. "She had no family left. The people of Bangladesh became her only family," he added.

A bit further, I found Ilias Hossain sitting on the street, crying like a child. A carpenter from Naogaon, he had left home at four in the morning as soon as he heard the news. An orphan, he had grown up seeing Khaleda Zia as his mother.

"When I heard she had passed away," he told me, "I felt orphaned all over again." He brought his son with him so the boy would understand what this loss meant. "My world will never be the same," he said.

Later, I noticed a young boy weaving through the crowd with a flag and a photograph. Shahriar Alam Iman, a sixth grader from Aga Khan School, had travelled from Bashundhara by bus to Agargaon and walked the rest of the way. 

He admitted he did not understand politics. But watching the devotion of others, his uncle, his friend's family, and thousands like them, he wanted to see for himself. "Today I understood why people love her so deeply," he said. "I feel I have witnessed history."

Standing there, amid blocked roads and endless prayers, I realised something. After 17 years of torture and humiliation and, after unimaginable personal loss, Khaleda Zia still belonged to everyone. In death, as in life, she united a nation, heartbroken, grateful, and standing together in farewell.