Jannatul Ferdous Sadia :
There once was a generation, often ridiculed and mockingly referred to as the “smartphone Generation” for many. The group is supposedly devoid of manners, ethics, dreams, or any meaningful role in shaping society. A generation accused of chasing nothing but money, with no hope for the future, no concern for the nation. A generation believed to be asleep.
But who knew? Who could have imagined that this very generation, addicted to social media would shatter the addiction of power-hungry giants with a single swipe of truth? Who could have foreseen them uploading the bitter images of corruption, injustice, and state-brutality to the world, instead of just uploading social media reels?
Eventually was there anyone imagining this poetless generation composing an epic called “July” and then reciting:
“July bolle laal hoye jay smriti,
Gonohotta, prottekdin lash.
Mrittu othoba muktir prostuti
July dirgho- 36 dinee mash.”
Even today, after a year, the air carries the scent of gunpowder, and the echoes of bullets still ring. A year has passed since those days but could the expected picture of Bangladesh be painted? July touched different lives differently-to some, through the demand for quota reform, to some, through the blockades in Dhaka, or through accepting the irony of being “Rajakar” tagged by the former fascist government, or to some , through the blood of a brother fallen.
“July” spread like wildfire-etched in graffiti, sung in protest songs, shouted in marches, and whispered in the prayers of mothers. July didn’t spare anyone and none spared July.
It hardened gentle hearts of mothers, ignited courage. Coming in July, mothers threatened her children, “Shall I go out, or will you?” Fathers no longer held their sons back-they joined them, hand in hand. July gave us bold voices and fearless words: “tor quota tui ne, shaheed vai der firaya de.” The old warning “Walls have ears” was transformed into the July songs: “Awaz uda”, “kotha ko.” July identified the real legacy of 71’s collaborators when ” Gharme koyi mukti hya?” Came back among us in this mask, “Ghore kuno chatro ache?”
From writings and sermons to tea-stall conversations and viral songs, everything became centered on one thing-July. A battle that began on the first day of the month but was rooted in deeper tragedies: the Shapla Square massacre, the BDR mutiny at Pilkhana, the murders of Abrar Fahad, Major Sinha, Tonu, journalists Sagar and Runi, and countless other stories buried in injustice, enforced disappearances, rape, corruption, and money laundering.
July was the explosion of one and half decades’ worth of bottled-up rage. The government’s official record lists 834 martyrs-but the real number is far higher. 587 left disabled, 685 lost their eyesight.
When public universities were shut, private universities carried the torch-13 institutions lost at least 19 students in the struggle. Helicopters, bullets, tear gas-none of it could deter students of North South, Daffodil, or Stamford.
Religious scholars and madrasa students also played a vital role-over 70 of the madrasha students were martyred.
Every death, every blindness, every injury didn’t just cripple individuals-it shattered families. Thus, Every man became an Abu Sayeed, a Wasim, or a Mugdho. Every child transformed into Riya, Naima, or Faiyaz. We all became someone’s beloved Tuna, Yamin, or Nusrat.
In return for each bullet, we rose twice, thrice as many.
July is not just a month-it is a legacy, a guide. On August 5th, the flag soaring once again in the free skies of Bengal taught us the patience to wait over fifteen long years. It taught us to rise after every fall, to survive losing a son, a brother, a limb, an eye-and yet live on.
It broke the fascination of GPA 5.00, corporate slavery, and the pursuit of meaningless success. July gave us the intoxicating taste of “Azaadi”.
It taught us politics-not the dirty games of power-but the fundamental difference between governance and exploitation. July fulfilled Aristotle’s ancient wisdom: *”Man is by nature a political animal.”
This generation now debates budgets, foreign policy, and shouts for national reform. In times of crisis, they guarded temples, cleaned streets, and directed traffic.
They are no longer just “youth”; they are “the architects of tomorrow.” We must carry the lessons of July into our personal, family, social, and state decisions. Like a half-filled glass, if the unity of July is missing, the void will be filled with injustice and fascism that we removed.
And if we forget, we risk the bitter truth:
“Ora tumar July, beicha dise olpo dame vai.”
But today, the strength in a crippled brother’s cane is more powerful than the tyranny of the world. The dreams of 685 blind souls are more enduring than any regime of oppression.
Today, this New Bangladesh is the reincarnation of those hundreds of martyrs.
My experience on one of those days was full of not only fear and rage but also of hope and dream. On the 33rd day of July, I was inside Kishoreganj Jamia Imdadia Madrasha. Outside, chaos reigned – gunshots, police raids, panic.
Amidst the turmoil, I saw a young boy, no older than 11 or 12. A bandage, wrapped around his head, soaked in fresh blood. A bamboo stick clutched in his hand, Volcano in his eyes. In those eyes, I saw the legacy of Titumir, of Haji Shariatullah, of Hossain Ali from 69’s mass uprising. The bamboo in his hand seemed as an echo of the fortress once raised against the British.
The Bengali is not a coward, was never. The Bengali is by born resistant. From anti-colonial struggles to modern-day fascism – again and again, the Bengali has fought back. And every time if tyranny rises, from Titumir to July will rise again with twice the strength.
For now, a corruption free, brutality free, criminality free country, full of fairness, freedom, fundamental rights and developments is the dream of all the witnesses, fighters and martyrs of July. And we all must strive sincerely in the road of dream to reality from all of our individual perspectives and positions.
(The writer is a student of English Department, Ishakha International University, Bangladesh).
