July uprising: Extraordinary powers of the ordinary people

When bullets tore through a protester's head near a poultry shop in North Badda on July 19, Waliullah rushed to rescue him.

"I was on my way back from Friday prayers," he said. "He was bleeding from the skull. A few of us took him to a local clinic, then to Dhaka Medical."

The protester didn't survive. Waliullah, a garment worker, didn't even know his name.

But within days, police summoned him. "After that, my family never let me step outside again … But I wasn't the only one who tried to help. Friends, neighbours, strangers -- we were all drawn in."

The protests were loud, defiant, and spreading fast. But behind them was a quieter resistance.

Garment workers marched after shifts, homemakers handed out saline, retired officers guarded buildings while students hid inside. Elsewhere, teachers, imams, rickshaw-pullers and shopkeepers formed a silent safety net, keeping the movement alive in whichever way they could.

Sumaiya, a college student from Cumilla who once shrieked at thunder, found herself on the frontlines by August 2, 2024. "I wasn't that aware of the quota system…. But when I saw my friends' siblings return wounded, something in me changed."

Her father, Mamunur Rahman Chowdhury, 57, was too ill to join but helped in his own way -- sitting outside their Mirpur-10 home handing water to protesters.

"When I heard my timid daughter leading chants, I didn't stop her. This was everyone's movement."

As East West and Brac University students joined in, Rampura became one of the bloodiest flashpoints.

Fashion designer Safia Sathi, who lives in the area, recalled sounds of tear gas, stun grenades, and gunfire. "From my window, I saw helicopters dropping things on unarmed protesters."

When 17-year-old Shamudra, a boy from her neighbourhood, was shot dead, Safia couldn't stay in. On July 18, she and her friends stepped out with water, bread, and biscuits. "It was the least we could do."

Suyel Haque, a student from Khilkhet, joined when the movement was still about quota reform. As it escalated, he ended up on the frontlines in Rampura and Uttara.

"On July 18, a civilian offered help near Jamuna Future Park. The next day, a group brought food, bottled water, masks, saline, even toothpaste. Police threw sound grenades, but those people stayed."

He remembered bottles and biscuits tossed from balconies.

When Chhatra League attacked, the owner of the Vivo Mobile showroom in the area opened his store and gave them Wi-Fi.

In Bhasantek, Café Mama Hotel owner MA Hossain couldn't join protests but still acted. "From July 18 to 20, I sent about 90 boxes of food to students."

He was later arrested, taken to Bhasantek Police Station, and accused of aiding protesters. "I had to pay Tk 3 lakh to get out," he said. Later, plainclothes DB officers picked him up again. "I had to use every contact I had."

But protesters like Mosharraf Sardar didn't forget. "For three days straight, we got food from Café Mama Hotel. The staff brought it to Hope International School by CNG."

In Chattogram, Bahaddarhat and New Market intersection turned into epicentres on July 16.

Mizanur Rahman, a businessman from Riazuddin Bazar, recalled, "They were firing at unarmed students. So, we gave the children over 100 cricket stumps to defend themselves."

By the month's end, Mizan and other small traders were supplying water and tiffin cakes. "We communicated with the protesters and delivered the food in secret."

Protesters at Barishal University still remember 35-year-old Eliza Begum, a widowed mother of two.

Living in Kornokathi village, opposite the campus, she acted without hesitation. "When we heard the protesting students were going hungry, we couldn't sit idle. On July 18, we cooked rice, lentils, curry and fed it to them. In the evening, we cooked khichuri."

Student Rabiul Islam said Eliza and others became lifelines. "Despite lockdowns and fear, they eased our suffering."

"No one told us to help," Eliza said. "We just thought of their pain. After all, we all have children too."

Nazrul Islam, 48, a tea-stall owner in Savar, provided water, bananas and dry food. "From July 19 to August 5, I helped because I wanted a better country -- one where I could vote freely."

His shop was later attacked by AL activists, who accused him of assisting protesters.

Civilians also became medics and stretcher-bearers, with no training or safety.

On July 18, as Dhanmondi-27 turned into a battleground, two young doctors converted their Satmasjid Road garage into a makeshift clinic.

Dr Worthy Jukhrif and Dr Hritisha Aktar Mitheen treated over 100 people in two days. Neighbours brought antiseptics, orsaline, water, and biscuits.

Worthy, a private hospital doctor and health show presenter, saw students huddled below her balcony. "I rushed down. Others, like Dr Mitheen, were already there."

She vividly remembers a 10-year-old with pellets all over his body. "I treated him, sent him home. Hours later, he returned with another pellet in his forehead. Other protesters later showed me a video of him, lifeless on the street. I still can't forget that child."

Mitheen, now pursuing her post-grad, said, "Humanity is what I acted upon. I couldn't hold back."

Neighbour Khurshid Jahan said, "While the doctors treated wounds, we brought water, first aid, clothes."

But soon, their building was under surveillance. Drones flew overhead. Phones were traced. "…I was nervous. But my duty was to humanity," Mitheen said.

Worthy added, "Blood carries no political identity. The students' gratitude made it all worthwhile."

Associate Professor Akhlima Akhtar of Government Nazrul College couldn't stay silent when students were attacked.

She rushed downstairs when one was cornered. "They called him a terrorist. I asked, 'Does he have a weapon? What makes him a terrorist?' Then they turned on me…"

"I don't know any party. I recognise students. A teacher's duty is to protect them."

After Abu Sayed was killed in Rangpur, her grief deepened. "If I had been there, maybe I could've saved him."

Imam Saeed Mohammad Hasan Al-Azhari of Shahjahanpur Railway Jam-e-Masjid, said, "Islam teaches us to stand against injustice. When police tortured students, how could I stay quiet?"

On July 16, he condemned the crackdown from the mosque. By August 3, he was marching with them in Chattogram.

"I got anonymous calls, death threats. My father was warned I'd be 'taken care of'. Mosque authorities were told to bar me."

Unflinching, he said, "A just imam must stand with the oppressed. And justice isn't seasonal."

A year later, the memories remain.

"I still think of that boy I carried to Dhaka Medical," said Waliullah. "He died. But I can't forget his face."

Akhlima still teaches, still faces scrutiny. "Even now, I tell my students -- don't fight with violence. But never surrender your conscience."

And for many like Safia, the reason for stepping up was simple -- "We just didn't want to see anyone else die."

Nazrul, the tea-stall owner, was subdued a year on. "I hoped for a better country. It wasn't good before. But it's not good now either. I just want a country where we can vote, freely and fairly."

(Our correspondents from Savar, Barishal and Chattogram contributed to this story)