When General Waker spoke and the nation’s heart stopped
On 5 August 2024, amid an internet blackout and speculations of martial law, a journalist braved a city under curfew to reach her newsroom in Dhaka – just in time to report the army chief’s historic address
"Come what may," I told myself.
On the morning of 5 August 2024, I packed an extra set of clothes—not from habit, but because I truly didn't know if I'd be returning home that night.
Fear had stalked me for weeks, but that morning, exhaustion dulled it. The government cut the internet at dawn. No news. No updates. Dhaka was smothered in silence. Only a handful of us made it to the newsroom.
By noon, a TV scroll flashed: Army Chief General Waker-Uz-Zaman would address the nation at 2 pm. Rumours surged – martial law was coming.
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We scrambled to publish whatever we could. One story quoted Asif Mahmud of the Anti-discrimination Student Movement, declaring they'd reject any army takeover. Another captured the tense calm before the announced 'Long March to Dhaka'.
Around 10am, we accessed Facebook for a bit and posted updates about the march starting from Uttara. People responded instantly, commenting, sharing, and even joining based on our posts. Shortly after, the internet flatlined.
The city's energy faded by midday. Roads emptied. Jatrabari-Shonir Akhra, once a flashpoint, lay abandoned. Farmgate to Banglamotor—silent except for a few army trucks near Hotel Intercontinental. Police ordered residents indoors through loudspeakers. Badda-Rampura saw soldiers chasing away loiterers, while Rampura Bridge bristled with armed troops urging compliance.
Then came my boss's call: "If you're coming in, this is your window."
I hesitated. My younger brother clutched my arm, tears streaking his face.
"We just lost Maa three months ago," he said, trembling. "We can't lose you too."
His words gutted me. But I told him I had a duty, promised I'd be careful, promised I'd come back. I wasn't sure I believed myself.
The night before, I'd worked past midnight. The newsroom buzzed like a war room. Ninety-four dead in a single day—the bloodiest yet. And as a woman, bullets weren't my greatest fear. It was violation. Every late-night commute felt like gambling with danger. Yet silence was not an option.
From Shekertek to Eskaton, Dhaka felt alien. The blazing sun revealed debris from the violence of the night before. Burned-out buses lined the roads, shattered glass glittered on pavements, charred barricades marked battle lines. The CNG driver navigated side streets, weaving past soldiers and abandoned checkpoints.
Near the BICC in Sher-e-Bangla Nagar, we stalled. A crowd swelled—grief carved into faces, fists raised, throats raw from chants.
At noon, the long march had begun.
But among them lurked men with brickbats, waiting for a spark. The air was thick, electric, combustible.
I reached the office just in time. It was around 2pm. Inside, chairs stood empty. Phones silent. The usual newsroom clatter was replaced by an eerie quiet.
Reports trickled in, unverified. One editor heard Hasina was at Bangabhaban. He called to confirm—false. Where was she? Where was our government?
One computer somehow still connected online. Pages loaded slowly, painfully. And then, at 3:05 pm, the headline landed like a bombshell: "Hasina flees."
We broke it on social media. Sheikh Hasina had resigned. She was gone. Minutes later, a grainy photo surfaced: Hasina and her sister, flanked by security officers, boarding a helicopter. The longest-serving leader in Bangladesh's history was gone, ousted by an uprising that came at an unbearable cost.
We reported at the time – already, over 300 dead. Thousands wounded. More than 12,000 detained. It felt like history collapsing under its own weight. The count, little did we know, was in fact around 1,400 killed.
By evening, Shahbagh filled with flowers—people handing garlands to army officers, thanking them for opening the roads. Soldiers, once feared, now hailed as peacekeepers.
When broadband returned, we gathered around the screen. At 3:56 pm, General Waker appeared. Composed. Grave.
His words cut through the tension like steel. He confirmed Hasina's resignation—slipped once, calling her "prime minister," then corrected himself. A title uttered for 15 years, now discarded in a single breath.
He announced the formation of an interim government. Promised justice. "Every death, every atrocity will be investigated," he said.
In the newsroom, no one spoke. I typed my notes feverishly, repeating his words aloud, while my boss fed each line live to the website. Publish. Refresh. Publish.
For a few moments, we were not journalists—we were witnesses.
Then, a sound rose—a ripple of applause, spreading, growing louder. Some clapped. Some cried. I felt tears streak down my face, unstoppable. The kind that come after holding everything in too long.
We cheered not because it fixed everything, but because it meant the horror had been acknowledged.
But jubilation curdled. We watched the long march reroute from the window. The Moghbazar flyover was crawling towards a new destination.
Crowds stormed Ganobhaban, plundering its kitchen, waving utensils in triumph. They overran the Prime Minister's Office. Then the mood changed. More grave. Bangabandhu's residence in Dhanmondi was set ablaze. Across the country, ruling party offices burned.
By nightfall, Bangladesh drifted leaderless. Clashes raged—18 dead in Savar, 11 in Lakshmipur, six in Habiganj. In Rajshahi, Uttara, Jatrabari, security forces opened fire on crowds.
We published an editorial appeal: "People's victory achieved. Now time for calm." We warned the uprising risked consuming itself.
Even Khaleda Zia appeared on TV that night. Decades-old rivalries resurfaced as she and her son Tarique Rahman urged restraint. It felt surreal—a scene no one imagined even hours before.
Then came headlines that reignited anger: "Hasina in Delhi, en route to London" and "My mother will not return to politics: Sajeeb Wazed Joy."
In a single day, Bangladesh had seen a regime collapse, its capital erupt, fires light up Dhanmondi, and history rewritten in real-time.
By 2am, exhausted and stranded, I sought shelter at a friend's apartment—ironically next to Mujib's residence, still smouldering from the hours before.
That night, lying awake, I thought of the newsroom cheers, of the faces on the streets, of my brother's tearful plea.
