Why was I beaten?
On July 15, two TBS journalists - one on assignment and another on family emergency - found themselves in the line of fire at the DU campus during the ongoing quota reform-centred violence.
Both were mercilessly beaten despite identifying themselves as journalists. Here, they describe what they saw and experienced
An evening to forget at DMCH
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I hadn't intended to visit the emergency section at Dhaka Medical College Hospital (DMCH) on 15 July. I don't have a good memory of this place. Two years ago, I rushed there with someone who had committed suicide. That memory still haunts me at night.
Yet, I went there again. I had to.
My chhoto khala (younger maternal aunt) had been taken there, though not yet admitted, with a suspected heart failure. She was accompanied by her 12-year-old daughter and a neighbour. The presence of an adult relative was urgently needed to complete the admission procedure and make important decisions.
But this is the thing about this country: even something as basic as reaching a hospital emergency can suddenly become an uphill task.
On the fateful evening of 15 July, the DMCH premises were swarmed with hundreds of Bangladesh Chhatra League (BCL) activists, some sporting helmets and wielding large sticks like medieval knights.
They were staging a demonstration, resolute in their determination to prevent anyone from entering the emergency section. Their reasoning? They didn't want the students they had mercilessly beaten throughout the day during the Quota Reform protest to come to seek treatment there.
So intense was the environment that many ordinary people were huddled in fear just outside the hospital entrance. No matter how critical their own or their loved ones' physical condition was, they didn't dare to go inside.
For me, time was running out fast. I had to get into the emergency section. And here I must admit one thing: I am somewhat luckier than most other ordinary people in the country, because I have a press card that helps me rush in where others dare to tread.
On this particular evening, however, the BCL activists were not ready to spare the journalists either. They tried to chase me down. But being myself a former Dhaka University student, it was like a déjà vu for me. Memories of numerous such confrontations I had previously been faced with flashed before my eyes.
I knew I had to be fearless before them. So, instead of running away, I fought back. I felt a few blows to the upper parts of my body, but I kept pushing forward.
Right at that moment, some Quota Reform activists also arrived with their injured friends, and chaos ensued. I was right in the middle of it all. I lost count of how many times I was hit, but the fortunate part was that I finally managed to get past the barricade.
Now it was time to find out where my aunt was—or at least that's what I thought.
As soon as I got into the emergency section, at least 20-25 BCL activists also stormed in, brandishing sticks and shouting with fervour. They began to beat the hell out of the injured students.
The sight of them sent a wave of panic through the room and the patients, their relatives and hospital staff began to flee for safer places. But it was as if the assailants were intent on indiscriminate violence, targeting anyone in their path, including senior citizens.
Suddenly, the whole corridor was filled with cries. Not the mournful cries of loss, but a discordant mix of fear, anger, and unyielding fury.
I wondered where the Ansar members were—those tasked with the duty of keeping the hospital premises safe and secure.
I came across an elderly man in his eighties with a full white beard, who had just been struck by a stick and was in a state of utter shock and disbelief. Who would have thought that one could be beaten inside a hospital?
"Why did they hit me? Who are they?" he asked me with such innocence in his face that it broke my heart. I felt like sitting beside him and offering some consolation for a while.
But of course, I still had to find my aunt. Turned out, I entered the wrong building. She was in another building, which meant I had to again come face to face with the BCL activists before moving to the other building.
At that moment, the emergency section resembled a dystopian movie set. I managed to get through all that, and as I was heading out, I discovered that the police force had also arrived.
Were they protecting the injured students and the general people? It didn't seem so to me. While trying to go out, I had a scuffle with one of them before he let go of me upon seeing my ID card.
I then ran to the other building where my aunt was supposed to be. But it was too late—she had already breathed her last, not finding enough oxygen in her dying moments.
I didn't even get a chance to see her alive one last time, let alone try to save her.
I sat down for a moment, overwhelmed by a profound force of grief, before promptly rising to face the formalities. The night was still young. For me, for the patients in the hospital, and for every single entity around me.
In the line of fire
I was a student of Dhaka University not too long ago, and thus, I had sources inside campus. When I learned about the quota-reform protest scheduled for 12 noon, I asked my boss for permission to cover the event. He obliged, and I headed to the university campus.
As I approached Shahbag on foot, I saw police unloading truckloads of barricades. Riot cars and water cannons were being deployed as well.
Walking through the Social Science Chattar, Madhur Canteen, and the Arts Building, I noticed a group of people wearing white caps. Some looked too young to be Dhaka University students, while others appeared too old.
At the Raju Memorial, a large group of protesters were reciting rebellious chants and singing patriotic songs, with national flags everywhere. The group comprised about 200–300 students.
Near them, across the street leading to the Raju Memorial from the Institute of Modern Languages, protesters were painting graffiti on the road. Journalists were everywhere. The tension was high, but the protesters were mostly unarmed.
I asked some of them why there were fewer people than last night. One of them said that groups of protesters were going from hall to hall to break out the pro-quota reform students from there.
Suddenly, a rickshaw carrying an injured student, who was being taken to the Dhaka Medical College (DMC), appeared. The students taking him there said he was a pro-quota reform student attacked by Bangladesh Chhatra League (BCL) members inside Bijoy Ekattor Hall.
The protesters went wild. A mass procession began, with the protesters chanting fiery slogans. The crowd grew in size. We were running in front of the procession, taking pictures and videos.
When the procession reached the Mall Chattar, the protesters began arming themselves with sticks and bricks.
Soon, the protesters grew in number, gathering comrades from Surja Sen Hall. They then charged at Bijoy Ekattor Hall, turning the area into a battlefield. They started throwing rocks and bricks at the hall building.
Some protesters began breaking windows and doors. Others shouted at them to stop, but it was too late. They also destroyed a few bikes.
I entered the premises, hoping to get a closer picture of a destroyed motorbike. A brick hit a window above my head, showering me with shards of glass.
On the field of Jasimuddin Hall, the protesters and BCL members stood face-to-face, ready to draw blood, exchanging expletives. I again tried to get closer for a better picture.
Soon, a fight broke out between the two sides. Bricks and pebbles were lobbed at each other, while sticks and rods clashed. For a while, the two sides fought with equal vigour and ferocity, driving each other off. The battle for control of the Surja Sen Hall field lasted a while.
I saw a protester being beaten violently. He shouted, "I am a BCL activist." But the reply came, "Then why are you not inside the hall?" He was then dragged inside the hall with an injured leg.
BCL members from Ekattor Hall, Jasimuddin Hall, and Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman Hall banded together and, with a strong charge, drove the protesters away from the Mall Chattar boundary.
I was updating our newsroom on what was going on and running simultaneously. In front of the Registrar Building, I took a break to catch my breath.
And then it happened.
A young man on the BCL side of the fight charged at me, shouting, "I found one!" He snatched a stick from another person and hit me on my left elbow.
"No, I am a journalist!" I shouted. My press card was hanging from my neck and was quite visible.
A number of young men gathered near me, some armed. I got hit in my hip and back again. I kept shouting that I was a journalist, not a protester. They looked confused, and I used the chance to run towards the Faculty of Business Studies.
One of them threw a brick at me, hitting my left shoulder. There was no physical pain, at least not yet. I glanced back, saw them, and ran to safety with other journalists at the VC Chattar.
There, I saw the protesters gathering and throwing bricks. The BCL members charged at them, and a violent clash ensued, driving the protesters towards Fuller Road.
I saw some protesters lying injured on the road, some being taken to the DMCH by their comrades. I followed the fighting towards Fuller Road and then towards Chankharpul. But I was growing concerned about my safety at that point, so I decided to head back to my office.
On my way back, I saw sporadic fighting where protesters were being beaten. Meanwhile, the BCL had taken control of Raju Memorial and TSC.
There was a small group of pro-quota activists in Shahbag, demanding quota reservations. I looked around and saw the police there.
Surprisingly, I saw no policemen on campus during the clash.
As I walked out of my almost unrecognisable campus turned battlefield, I felt a sense of quiet unease wash over me about the fate of the protests and the nation in general.
