Remembering the July Uprising

Nafis’s lifeless body hung limply from the footboard of a rickshaw. One side of his head, wrapped in the national flag, dangled in the air, while his bullet-ridden legs dangled helplessly on the other side. The rickshaw driver pedaled furiously, carrying Nafis away. Every time this scene replayed in my mind, tears filled my eyes.

Nafis had still been alive then. The police had initially tried to toss his injured body into a manhole, and later attempted to burn him. But against the officers’ intimidating presence, a brave rickshaw driver fought to save Nafis’s life.

Just recently, Nafis had completed his SSC from Banani Bidyaniketan School and College at the tender age of 17. Such a monumental sacrifice at such a young age!

On the morning of August 4th, Nafis had joined the movement at Shahbagh and was headed towards Farmgate. At around 1:30 PM, he called his mother to assure her he was safe. She urged him to come home quickly. As time passed, however, his mother could not reach him again. By evening, his father set out to search for him, moving from Shahbagh to Farmgate and visiting hospitals in vain. Returning home at midnight, having found no trace of his son, Nafis’s heartbreaking image had gone viral on Facebook. His sister showed the photo to their father, and from there, they managed to identify Nafis. After fruitless searches in various morgues, Nafis’s father rushed to the office of the newspaper “Manabzamin” to find the photographer of that haunting image.

Meanwhile, the rickshaw driver, Mohammad Nur Mohammad, who had rescued Nafis from the police and rushed him to the hospital, recounted what had happened that day. After dropping off a passenger near the parliament, he had been heading towards Farmgate when he noticed a fight at the corner of the road. He tried to steer clear, but picked up another passenger from Mogbazar. As he approached the Farmgate police box, he was startled to see bullets flying like rain.

The police stopped him in front of Science College, pulling him forward. “Why would I go towards the gunfire?” he protested, but the officers dragged him along, ignoring his pleas. He began to recite prayers, uncertain of what lay ahead.

Once in their custody, they instructed him, “Lift this into your rickshaw.” “What should I lift?” he asked, confused. Spotting some plastic and other debris, he realized with horror that a bullet-ridden body lay coiled on the ground beside him. The police shouted at him, “Can’t you see? We’re hiding a corpse! Lift this!”

As they forcefully dragged Nafis’s legs onto the footboard, the police callously joked about him needing more bullets to ensure he wouldn’t survive. “Shoot him in the legs too,” one officer barked at the driver.

Seeing that Nafis was slipping off the rickshaw, another officer – a bit more humane – urged the driver to hold onto him. The rickshaw driver desperately tried to get Nafis to Al Rajee, hoping to save him, but the police continued their abuse, insisting he take Nafis to either Sohrawardy or Dhaka Medical College.

Despite the police’s orders, the driver pulled the rickshaw towards Al Rajee, but faced obstruction from party activists there. Ultimately, he had to return to Chikungunya Hospital. Fortunately, the army intervened, insisting they needed to take him to the emergency room. Several soldiers helped lift Nafis into an auto-rickshaw, racing him to Sohrawardy Hospital. But by then, Nafis had already departed this world, his name added to the list of martyrs.

According to the rickshaw driver, the police had first tried to dispose of Nafis’s body in a manhole, but when they couldn’t find a cover, they simply wanted to discard him. As he was being lifted, the journalist from Manabzamin, who was there taking photos, was also met with police threats.

Nafis and those like him will never be forgotten. As long as this police force exists, we will remember them with disdain. They mercilessly murdered our brothers, friends, and classmates.