The day hope marched: Memories from the fall of a tyrant

'36 July' 2024, Mirpur, Dhaka.

I was getting ready to join the march towards the Ganabhaban — Sheikh Hasina's official residence — as protesters vowed to bring an end to her regime.

Only a day earlier, I had narrowly escaped death in Mirpur 10. The streets had been occupied by thousands of protesters throughout the day. Just before sundown, Hasina's forces opened fire — live rounds, indiscriminately — tearing through the crowd. People fell around me. Several were killed just yards away. Many more were wounded. Somehow, I survived.

That morning, as I prepared to head back to Mirpur 10 to rejoin the rallies, a sudden announcement from the army chief gave me pause. He called for patience until 2pm, promising to address the nation.

Hope stirred in me — for the first time in days. Why would the general speak in place of Hasina unless something significant had shifted? I saw two possibilities: either Hasina had lost confidence and asked the general to deliver a speech, or the general was about to announce her resignation. 

Either way, I sensed the status quo was shaken, and that gave me hope. So I decided to wait. 

Then the internet came back on. That alone felt like a sign of change. I went to a friend's house nearby so we could follow the news together.

But 2pm passed. Then 3.. The announcement kept getting pushed back. Meanwhile, the streets surged with people, all moving south, all headed for Ganabhaban.

Then came the news: Hasina had fled the country. The city erupted. I couldn't wait any longer. I took my two young nephews — 12 and 10 — and joined the crowds. What a day for them to remember for the rest of their lives.

As we approached Shewrapara, I saw ambulances racing past. I discovered, gunfire was still being reported in Mirpur 2. Even after the regime collapsed, the violence had not yet stopped.

Later, we learned what happened in Jatrabari. Even after Hasina had fled to India, police gunned down dozens of protesters trying to seize the local police station.

To this day, I wonder if those last deaths could have been avoided. But who am I to judge the rage of a people who had been shot, stabbed, beaten — who had lost brothers and friends?

As we passed Shewrapara, we saw people returning from Ganabhaban carrying fish, chickens, small furniture — whatever they could grab. They were the first to reach the abandoned residence, collecting what they saw as trophies.

The roads were packed with hundreds of thousands of people. Some were marching forward, others walking back. Many were handing out bottles of water, juice, cold drinks.

And I couldn't help but wonder: where were they yesterday? Or the day before?

If so many were celebrating the fall of Hasina's brutal regime, then who had spent the past 16 years praising her every move that weakened democracy and encouraged plunder with impunity?

That question stayed with me as we finally reached the Parliament.

That magnificent structure looked even more beautiful that day. The trees seemed greener. The sky brighter.

Or maybe it was just the joy inside.

The joy of freedom from a tyrant.

The joy of imagining a better Bangladesh.