A school in ruins, young lives maimed as death rained from the sky: What the Milestone crash site looked like

It was a quiet afternoon when I was reading a New York Times article titled "A father braces for life after a plane crash took his 'everything.' 

That's when my phone rang. The call came at 1:36pm. It was Syed Anik, a former journalist.

His voice was tense. "My cousin said a plane crashed onto the roof of a building," he told me. "But we don't know what kind of aircraft it was."

Photo: Mehedi Hasan/TBS

By then, the news had already started spreading on social media. 

I immediately tried to reach Masud Alam, the director of Milestone College. He's from my hometown, and though we hadn't spoken in 2-3 years, I hoped to get some clarity. The call didn't go through. I didn't try again. I suspected something was up.

Instead, I called Uttara Deputy Commissioner Muhidul Islam. He picked up. Behind him, I could hear sirens – loud, constant.

"Brother," he said, "I'm hearing about it just like you. We're reaching the spot. A Bangladesh Air Force fighter jet has crashed – on a building, we're hearing. I'm heading there." 

He gave instructions to his driver and hung up, but the sirens kept ringing in my ears.

Within minutes, I shared a message with our work group – On 21 July, at approximately 13:18 hours, a fighter jet crashed at Milestone College in Diabari, Uttara, Dhaka. Emergency teams arrived at 13:22. Eight fire service units from Uttara, Tongi, Pallabi, Kurmitola, Mirpur, and Purbachal were deployed.

A firefighter involved in the rescue operations confirmed to me that at least six to seven students had been burned.

I immediately began verifying the information, collecting and circulating local video footage, and informing my office. I managed to get a teacher's phone number and spoke with them, along with several students.

One teacher, who was also helping in the rescue, said, "The plane crashed into the primary school building. Students were still inside. They may be seriously injured." 

Both teachers and firefighters feared the worst, casualties were likely.

I reached the scene around 3pm. By then, the area was under strict control. Officials had sealed the perimeter. Still, some in the crowd managed to sneak into the school grounds.

Just through the entrance stood the main college building – a large, two-story structure next to a green field lined with coconut trees. The field was still visible, but it was impossible to fully grasp what had just happened.

More emergency vehicles began to arrive. 

Photo: Syed Zakir Hossain/TBS

Some people, desperate to help, brought water and tried to put out the flames themselves. 

But it was already too late. Everything was charred. Burned debris and bodies lay scattered. 

Those trapped inside had died instantly. Some were unrecognisable.

Photo: Mehedi Hasan

A colleague from Prothom Alo was among those searching. He couldn't find his son.

Later, I learned that the pilot held the same rank as a close friend of mine stationed at Bangladesh Air Force Headquarters. 

Around 1:56pm, a diplomat messaged me. He asked what I knew and mentioned the aircraft was Chinese-made. 

At that point, none of us had confirmed details. But locals began sharing footage from the scene.

In one of the videos, children were visible – clothes burned off or drenched with water. 

Some had skin peeling from their bodies.

Accounts from witnesses began to align. One said the plane first struck part of the college building. Seconds later, it crashed into the two-story primary school. 

Some speculated that if the plane had crashed just meters away, the death toll could've been even higher.

There were also reports that the pilot may have ejected just before impact. By the time the aircraft hit the building, he might've already been tossed off the aircraft. Still, it ultimately smashed into the school.

I spoke with a teacher named Nuruzzaman Mridha, who said the crash likely occurred around 1:17pm, just minutes before the school's 1:30pm lunch break. 

Many parents had already started arriving to pick up their children. Some had taken their kids home. 

Others were rescued by the fire service or military. A few students managed to escape on their own.

In the aftermath, anxious parents scrambled between the school and nearby hospitals, searching for their children. 

According to the fire service, someone had called for help immediately after spotting the fire. They claimed their first unit reached the site within four minutes.

By the time I got there, rescue operations were already underway.

But the crowd made things harder. Many bystanders were blocking the rescue paths. Some even tried to get inside the compound. 

In a disaster zone, that kind of interference is dangerous.

We had to find alternate routes just to keep doing our job.

The scene – children, parents, burning wreckage – brought back painful memories. 

I've seen disasters before. The worst was a factory fire where 52 people died. That day, the building stood like a skeleton under heavy rain. 

Plastic body bags filled with charred bodies lined the ground. 

That was the first time I truly felt like I couldn't continue this work. But I kept going. Maybe it's the rhythm of work that numbs it. Somehow, I cope.

What stays with me, though, is this: even with so many officials on-site, we still lacked central coordination. 

There was no system, no single place to check who had been taken to hospitals, who had been found, where to go for help.

In moments like this, that absence is unacceptable. We need more than a reaction. We need to be prepared.