From public universities to private campuses, from madrasah students to rickshaw-pullers, people from all walks of life stood shoulder to shoulder, forging the historic July August movement in defiance of violence and injustice. These are the voices of those who were there – who marched, who bled, who carried the fallen and who refused to stay silent. Not just stories of protest, but of unity, sacrifice and unshaken hope for a different future.

Maksudur Rahman
Dawra-e-Hadith , Jamiatul Anwar Madrasah, Jatrabari, Dhaka
“Ma, hold your head high—on the Day of Judgement, you’ll be known as the mother of a martyr.”
I’ve been engaged in activism since the 2018 Safe Roads Movement, where a spirit of revolution first took root in me. When the Quota Reform protests erupted in 2024, that fire was reignited—and I returned to the streets once again.
Some say Madrasah students shouldn’t take part in political movements. But does wearing a Punjabi or studying at a Madrasah mean I must accept injustice in silence? Should I stand by quietly while my friends—or the next generation—fall victim to discrimination?
On 7 July, I attended a programme in Paltan with a few friends. That evening, we made a firm decision to join the protest with full conviction. We created an online platform called the “Anti-Discrimination Qawmi Student Movement,” and soon, Madrasah students from across the country began to rally around it.
Despite the extreme hardship, hunger, and exhaustion of the protests—there were days I survived on nothing but rice and salt—what kept me going was the chant of “Naraye Takbeer.” It gave me a strength beyond words. That slogan carries a power capable of standing against any force on earth. When a bullet pierces the chest of a Hafiz, or an Alem is shot in the head, that is no ordinary death. That is martyrdom—and Allah will hold them accountable. On 18 July, police opened fire on us while members of the Bangladesh Chhatra League (BSL) hurled bricks.  In that chaos, I held up a manhole cover for protection as bullets whizzed past my head. I dropped to the ground, lying flat—but even then, a bullet struck me in the leg.
On 4 August, I broke down in tears while calling my mother and said, “Ma, I may not return alive—I might come back as a lifeless body. But hold your head high, for on the Day of Judgement, you will be honoured as the mother of a martyr.”
Then came 5 August—the darkest day of my life. My comrade, Rabiul Islam Tanmoy Bhai, stepped in front of me to shield me. A bullet struck his head instantly, and he died in my arms; his blood soaked my body. Just moments later, another person was shot right behind me.
 After Tanmoy Bhai’s martyrdom, there was no turning back. I held up my blood-stained shirt and stood before Jatrabari Boro Madrasah. The gate was locked, keeping the students inside—but I kicked it open. One by one, they poured out to join us. That moment changed everything. It was a turning point. From that day on, we grew stronger—and we took control of Jatrabari.
We weren’t fighting just for ourselves—or only for Islamists. We were fighting for a better Bangladesh—for people of all faiths, all classes, and all professions. But what do we see now? Only political leaders hold the reins of decision-making. So where are the voices of the rickshaw pullers, the day labourers, and the factory workers? Where are the people this country truly belongs to?
This movement is built on the blood of martyrs—their sacrifice must never be forgotten. We now demand the immediate declaration of the ‘July Charter.’ If this does not happen, our martyrs risk being falsely branded as terrorists.