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Published : 04 Aug 2025, 02:31 AM
Nafisa Hossain Marwa was just 17. A science student, a daughter, and — quietly, a protester.
She told no one. Not her father, not her teachers. She marched under cover of silence, swept up in the fervour of a student-led uprising that would, in time, bring down one of the most powerful governments in Bangladesh’s history.
On Aug 5, 2024, Nafisa was shot and killed. She never came home.
Her father, Abul Hossain, found out too late. “If I had known, I would have locked her in,” he said, tears sliding down his cheeks.
Now, he visits her study table, where biology notes still cling to the wall: fragments of a life interrupted.
The July Uprising, which began as a protest against the government’s civil service quota system, quickly escalated into a mass revolt against deposed prime minister Sheikh Hasina’s 15-year rule. By the time Hasina fled to India on Aug 5, the human cost was staggering.
A UN fact-finding mission, reporting in February this year, accused the former government of “systematic and disproportionate force” against demonstrators.
Between Jul 15 and Aug 5, more than 1,400 protesters may have been killed, a figure eclipsing all prior mass uprisings in post-independence Bangladesh.
The official toll stands at 834, according to the Directorate General of Health Services (DGHS). Of those, a staggering 79 percent were under 35, with many just teenagers.
Nearly one in five were children, like Nafisa, who had yet to finish her A-level equivalent exams.
A MOVEMENT TURNED BLOODSHED
No mass movement since Bangladesh’s 1971 independence has seen such loss of life.
Students like Abu Sayed, Mir Mahfuzur Rahman Mugdho, and Wasim Akram became martyrs in the course of a protest that mutated from demands for quota reform into a sweeping, youth-driven call for regime change.
The United Nations reported that the Awami League government tried to stifle dissent with lethal force. Its data shows 66 percent of deaths were from rifle fire, 12 percent from shotgun blasts, and 2 percent from pistols.
Victims ranged in age from 4 to 70. Some were burned. Others were hacked or beaten. But bullets, overwhelmingly, did the killing.
Roughly one-third of those killed were students. At least 269 names, including the first martyr Abu Sayed and young Mugdho, belonged to those still in school or university. Ten of the dead were women; five were students. Nafisa was the only one actively participating in the protests.
A road in Kotbari, Savar, has now been named after her.
KULSUM HAS NO ONE TO DEPEND ON
Nafisa was killed on Aug 5 in the Model Masjid area of Savar. That day, she had joined fellow students from Jahangirnagar University in the final march toward Ganabhaban, the prime minister’s residence.
She had not told her mother. Nafisa had been staying at her uncle’s house at the time and slipped away. She was shot during the demonstration and taken to Labzone Hospital. By the time her name was called at the emergency ward, she was gone.
Her mother Kulsum Begum spoke by phone from Kuwait where she works as an expatriate to support her children. Her voice broke as she recounted her daughter’s last few days.
“She called me on the 3rd of August and said ‘Mum, I want to join the movement. Don’t stop me.’ I told her to talk to her father,” said Kulsum.
“She called again on the 4th of August. Her grandmother had tried to stop her, but I explained. That afternoon, she went to the protest and returned by 3pm.”
Later that night, Nafisa called again. “She told me ‘I will go tomorrow for the last time. We’ll march to Ganabhaban. The army has promised not to do anything. We won’t either. We just want to go to Dhaka’.”
Kulsum paused, before adding: “I didn’t stop her. Nafisa loved this country.”
On the morning of Aug 5, Nafisa left without calling. By 4pm, Kulsum’s younger daughter phoned in panic. “Nafisa Apu has been shot.”
SEVENTEEN AND SILENCED
“She was my eldest,” Kulsum said, crying. “I think about her every moment, when I walk, when I speak. I used to ask her for advice. Now there’s no one.”
Nafisa had always understood her mother’s struggles. She dreamed of becoming a freelancer after her HSC exams to ease the financial burden.
“She wanted to buy a computer, start working online,” said Kulsum. “She was young but wise. It was Nafisa who told me to go abroad.”
She was a source of strength in her absence. And now, in death, a permanent wound.
EMPTY HOUSE IN TONGI
Before her death, Nafisa had been staying in a small two-room house in the Changkirtek area of Tongi with her father. On Sunday, the house stood hollow. Her room was untouched.
Her study table remained by the wall. Biology notes are still stuck beside it. A small, portable desk, built by her father because she did not like studying at a regular table, sat beside the bed.
Her name, casually etched into the wood, stared back at him like a ghost.
Abul Hossain showed her exam documents; the school entry card, registration sheet, and textbooks. His voice wavered.
“She joined the protests even during her exams. I only found out later. If I had known… I would have locked her in.”
Nafisa had sent him a photo on Aug 5, before leaving for the protest. It was the last image he would receive. He has laminated it now, and keeps it close.
After her death, her body was taken in an ambulance to her uncle’s house in Savar. Initially, the plan was to bury her nearby following the evening prayers. But her father decided she should rest closer to home. Nafisa was laid to rest in the Tongi graveyard.
The government has since announced a plan to preserve her grave.
Nafisa’s HSC results were published posthumously on Oct 15. She had sat for seven subjects in the science stream at Shahajuddin Sarkar Ideal Higher Secondary School. She passed with a GPA of 4.25.
But for her family, no academic score, no honour or gesture can soften the truth: Nafisa has left this world. And the silence she left behind is deafening.
MUGHDHO’S FAVOURITE PUDDING -- MOTHER WILL NEVER MAKE IT AGAIN
Bangladesh University of Professionals (BUP) student Mugdho was shot dead on Jul 18 last year during clashes between students and police in Uttara’s Azampur amidst the anti-discrimination movement.
Just before he was shot in the head, a video of Mugdho distributing snacks and water had gone viral and added “fuel to the fire” of the movement, sparking an uproar across the country.
After his death, his twin brother, Mir Mahbubur Rahman Snigdho, posted that video on Facebook.
Though the family hails from Brahmanbaria, they had been living in Dhaka for a long time.
After completing his undergraduate degree in mathematics from Khulna University, Mugdho was pursuing an MBA at BUP.
The family no longer resides in the Dhaka residence where they used to live while Mugdho was alive.
On Monday, after arriving at their new residence, Mugdho’s elder brother, Mir Mahmudur Rahman Dipto said: “Our parents were traumatised staying in the previous home. Memories of Mugdho were everywhere. That’s why we moved.”
In the drawing room of their new home in Dhaka’s Diabari, Mugdho’s computer caught the eye. He was a freelancer by profession. After his death, the freelance marketplace Fiverr recognised his contributions in a tribute. Yet, his chair now remains empty.
The house is still filled with his medals, certificates from scouting and other activities, childhood photos, sports trophies, and neatly arranged clothes.
A painting by artist Masuk Helal, depicting Mugdho’s smiling face, is framed in the drawing room. From there, his cheerful expression looks on -- almost as if he’s still nearby.
HOW DID THEY LEARN MUGDHO HAD DIED?
His father, Mir Mostafizur Rahman, said: “On the 18th of July, the day Mugdho died, we were in Cox’s Bazar, at my elder son's in-laws’. The news first came to Dipto. But he didn’t tell us.
“He only said Mugdho was seriously injured and took both his mother’s and my phones to him, saying people might call.”
Out of fear that many might call asking about Mugdho’s death, Dipto kept their phone with him.
Recalling that heartbreaking day, Mostafizur said: “The next morning we flew to Dhaka. Everything was quiet when we arrived.
“Thousands of people were waiting for us; at that point, it was clear -- my son is no more.”
He added, “I couldn’t cry for almost a year. The previous Eid-ul-Azha, I had bought a cow with him and hugged him after prayer.
“When that memory came back, I finally broke down this Eid.”
Dipto, bearing the pain of loss all over his face, also remembered his beloved younger brother. He said, “Among the three of us, Mugdho was the closest to our mother. When she heard he was injured, she sobbed, saying, ‘My prayerful boy -- Allah can’t be this cruel. He’s alive, he must be.’
“I sat silently. I knew -- he was gone.”
Dipto added, “My mother has heart problems and impaired hearing. When the call to prayer would sound, Mugdho would ask her, ‘mom, can you tell if the call has been made? Is it time for prayer?’
“He would have already heard it, but didn’t say so directly -- he’d gently remind her it was time. These are just memories now.”
Recalling more, he said: “Mugdho loved pudding. When he visited from Khulna, Ma (mother) would prepare it two days in advance.
“Since his death, she’s never made pudding again. She said she never will.”
The boy who would tremble at the sight of blood -- his own blood flowed endlessly from his head during burial.
Recalling the horror, Dipto said: “Three days before Mugdho died, Snigdho had a bike accident. He needed five stitches on his finger.
“When I reached the hospital, Mugdho was nearly in tears and told me, ‘Bhaiya, Snigdho lost so much blood, I couldn’t bear to see it,’ and he was shaking.
“Three days later, when he was shot, all the blood in his body poured onto the street. It kept flowing until he was buried. My Punjabi was soaked in his blood.”
Mugdho now rests forever at the Kamarpur Bamnartek graveyard in Sector 10, Uttara.
BEAUTY GHOSH STILL ‘GRAPPLES’ WITH DEPRESSION
Ria Gope was one of the youngest martyrs of the Uprising.
She was only six when she was shot in the head and died on the rooftop of their rented home.
Born in 2019 in Narayanganj, Ria’s father, Deepak Kumar Gope, was working as a manager at a local construction materials store at the time of her death, and her mother, Beauty Ghosh, was a homemaker. The child was born five years into their marriage.
They used to reside on the fourth floor of the Dinbandhu Market building in Narayanganj Sadar’s Nayamati. As the movement intensified, on Jul 19, Ria went to play on the rooftop after lunch. The situation below their building was tense -- clashes were ongoing between students, the public, and police.
Hearing gunshots, her father rushed to the rooftop to bring her back. At that moment, a bullet struck the back of Ria’s head.
She was first admitted to Narayanganj General Hospital in a critical state, then transferred to Dhaka Medical College Hospital, where she underwent surgery.
Doctors placed Ria in the Intensive Care Unit afterwards. On Jul 24 last year, she was pronounced dead. The medical report cited “gunshot wound” as the cause of her death.
Her father Deepak has yet to recover from the trauma of losing his daughter.
He said that Ria’s mother, Beauty, is still battling depression and has not been able to cope with the pain.
He said, “Life is exactly how it feels after such a loss. She had just gone up to the rooftop to play. Before anyone could realise what was happening, the bullet struck her head.
“Every single moment, I feel that pain. Her mother is battling depression. She is still unwell.”
“THIS PAIN IS BEYOND WORDS”
On Jul 16 last year, Chhatra Dal leader Wasim Akram posted a Facebook status saying, “Come to Sholoshohor”, before joining the anti-quota protest.
He posted the status around 2pm. By around 4:30pm, police reported his death. Three people died in Chattogram that day.
Wasim was a third-year Sociology student at Chattogram College and served as a joint convenor of Chhatra Dal’s college unit. He was from the Mehernama area of Cox’s Bazar’s Pekua Upazila. He lived in a mess in the port city’s Chawkbazar area.
He was the second son of expatriate Shafiul Alam, who works for a company in Qatar.
Overwhelmed with grief, Wasim’s mother, Jyotsna Begum, could barely speak. She only managed to say: “The pain of losing my son – it’s beyond words.”
