The unsung Hijra heroes in the July uprising

Priya (right) and Nodi (left) are two of the Hijra community members who provided much-needed voluntary services during the July atrocities and the August flood. PHOTO: MIRAZ HOSSAIN

"Have you ever carried a person in your arms who is about to die?" Priya, a prominent member of the Hijra community in Shahbagh, asked at the start of our interview as if the horrific memory haunted her at that moment. 

"It is such a helpless and burdensome feeling, which I can't put into words," she said.

On 15 July evening, Priya was at her residence on Najimuddin Road where she lives with other community members. She was supposed to be at work, collecting money as their usual business, but their earnings had been off for over a month by then.

The Dhaka University campus simmered in tension and violence the same evening.

Priya, the second in command of the Shahabag area's Hijra community, was scrolling Facebook and swiped on a video of Chhatra League men beating the students, even girls. She could no longer stay still.  

"I instantly told my Guru Ma [Mukta, the leader of Shahbagh's Hijra community], 'We survive on what we collect from students. If they're in danger, so are we. We have to stand by them,' " recounted Priya, explaining how they got involved. 

Mukta asked Priya what she wanted to do. "As many of us as possible will volunteer at DMCH," she replied.  

Answering the call 

A remarkable act of solidarity unfolded from one of the "most disadvantaged populations in Asian-Pacific countries," according to a 2022 study published in Heliyon.

Priya gathered her team, including Habiba, Nodi, Boishakhi, Mugdho and their elderly leader, who, at 75, refused to stay home. From 16 to 25 July, the Hijra community became an indomitable force in a time of need. 

When they started working in the emergency department on 16 July, the authorities did not welcome it. They even threatened Priya and her group saying, "Who asked you to be here? Police cases will be filed against you." 

But the Hijras explained that they had come out of their own will, and they began helping with stretchers and carrying the wounded.

But little did they know that the worst days were ahead. 

"The horror began on 17 July. Scores of people came in with gunshot wounds. It wasn't just men; women and children were among them, too," recalled Priya, her eyes distant.

At DMCH, injured and dead people arrived in a constant stream—rickshaws, vans, CNGs, ambulances and mini-trucks bringing in victims. Most were shot—some in the hands, legs, chest, throat or head—often with bodies riddled with bullets. 

Vehicles, at times, were packed with patients. 

But the hospital was woefully understaffed. The few staff present largely shirked their duties. That's where Priya and her group stepped in. They lend hands to unload bodies, place them on stretchers, arrange medicine and blood, or move them to the morgue. "We had to help," said Nodi, who also volunteered along with Priya.  

Nodi's voice sounded heavy. "People were dying."

A lifeline of blood

When the Hijra community heard that the hospital was running out of blood, they went beyond physical labour. They organised a blood donation campaign. 

With their effort, 36 Hijras donated blood, and within two days, they had collected 730 bags of blood—no small feat in a city paralysed by fear.

Priya recounted how they stood with placards outside the hospital, urging the public to donate blood. "We asked everyone to give blood," she said. We didn't care where it came from; we just wanted to help." 

The community also raised Tk3 lakh in cash donations during this time. That money went toward buying medicine, arranging ambulances and covering the costs of sending the deceased bodies back to their families. 

"We even bought silicon bags for blood when DMCH couldn't provide them," Priya shared, "And for those who donated blood, we gave them water and juice."

Pushing through the atrocities

Priya and her group witnessed the atrocities firsthand: bullet wounds that spread inside the body, explosions that left victims unrecognisable and a constant stream of ambulances delivering more people than the hospital could handle. 

Priya recalls an instance where a boy's body was brought in on a rickshaw, half of his head blown off. Many of the injured arrived with slim chances of survival. "Most people didn't make it," she said. The words now fell quietly to the ground. "The doctors said the bullets had hit vital organs. It wasn't just hands or legs."

Priya and her community worked from morning until night, often staying at the hospital until 4 or 5 am. And then they would return at 11 am on the same day. "We couldn't rest," she said. "There were too many people who needed us."

Confronting exploitation

In this chaos, the Hijra community also had to fight exploitation from an ambulance syndicate that began charging higher prices. Priya was appalled. "How could they do that?" she asked with an incredulous grasp — as if it happened just yesterday. 

"We knew some people who ran ambulances, and we called them in to help. But when we ran out of options, we had no choice but to pay the higher prices."

On 18 July, a schoolboy was shot. His father, a rickshaw driver from Jhenaidah, couldn't afford to take his son's body home. The boy was hit by two bullets. One nestled in his chest, and the other pierced through his body. He died on the spot. 

"His father was devastated," Priya recalled, "He had no money to take his son home, and it was getting late at night. We arranged an ambulance and paid Tk10,000 to make sure he could take his son home."

The weight of the dead 

"We carried them [patients] with our own hands. Whoever we took inside, they were gone within 10 or 15 minutes,"  Priya remembered. Her voice sounded a little shaky now. 

The memories of the carnage still haunt them, that became certain.  

One of the most haunting moments for Priya was when she discovered the body of Rifat, a 22-year-old who had been helping them from time to time since 17 July. He was shot and killed on 5 August.  

"He wanted to join the Long March but he ended up joining the dead bodies instead. His family didn't even know he had died. There's nothing more painful than that," Priya recalled. She paused. 

"Those days, our bodies were drenched in blood. Even there were days when the smell of blood made it impossible to eat," she added.

Priya and her comrades could not even celebrate the news that Hasina fled. "Even on the evening of 5 August, bodies were still coming in," she remembered.

Priya believes that the injured individuals and the families of those who died during those harrowing days deserve government support. "Just like freedom fighters receive pensions, the families of these martyrs should receive support," she said. "They sacrificed their lives for the country. Their families need help."

They volunteered at DMCH for 16 days in two phases, the first from 16 to 25 July, and then from 1 to 5 August.

The community in August's flood crisis 

The Hijra community's involvement didn't end with the movement. Just when the dust of July settled, there was a massive flood in the Feni area. 

"They continued to provide support during the floods. They volunteered when we made packets of relief at TSC; they even donated money," said Faisal Ahmed, a DU student, who oversaw the operations as the volunteer team lead at TSC.

They even sent a team to Feni to help the flood-affected people and to provide them with relief. "We worked throughout the entire relief effort," Priya said proudly, "30 of us worked."

The marginalised saviours 

The Hijra community, according to a study by Bipul Kumar Sarker in 2020, "one of the most violated and marginalised minority groups in Bangladesh," found a new sense of purpose in the crisis. 

"We don't have much," Priya said, "but we save what we can. We always try to step up in times of need." She recalled how, during the Bongobazar fire, they donated Tk23 lakh to help the victims. Now, during the floods in Feni, they contributed another Tk7 lakh.

"People didn't ask how we survived when there was no income from June to August," Priya said. "But we save small amounts for times like this. And when the crisis comes, we help however we can."

During the July massacre, "We were there from the beginning to the very end," Priya said, a hint of quiet pride piercing her voice. "We don't want to show off. We just did what we had to do." 

"If needed, we would do it again."