A year has passed since the country erupted in protests over the quota-reform movement — a wave of demonstrations that soon snowballed into a nationwide uprising. The turmoil that followed claimed many lives, including those of journalists who paid the ultimate price for doing their job. For the families they left behind, the pain did not end with death — it only began.
Every day, the parents, spouses, and children of the martyred journalists wake up to grief. "We are alive physically, but we died that day," says Md Belayet Hossain, father of Shakil Hossain, a reporter for Daily Bhorer Awaj, who was killed in Gazipur on July 18, 2024. "We have nothing left except for tears. Maybe we'll run out of those too someday, but the void left in our heart will never be filled."
Shakil's mother suffered two strokes and has been bed-ridden since her son's death. She still murmurs, "Won't Shakil be back? When will I meet him?" Belayet says with a trembling voice, "This old woman still asks me if her Shakil is doing well. I say yes. What else can I say?"
The family filed a case with the International Crimes Tribunal (ICT) last August, but there has been no progress. "I seek justice from the Almighty," Belayet says, bursting into tears. "But there is also a legal system in Bangladesh. Justice must be delivered to the families of the martyred. I'm old — I want to see the murderers punished before I die."
He also made a heartfelt appeal for his ailing wife: "I want the government to arrange proper treatment for Shakil's mother if possible. That is my only demand."
Hasan Mehedi, a reporter for Dhaka Times, was also killed on July 18 during a clash at Jatrabari. His death fractured an entire family. His father, Mosharraf Hossain, has suffered four strokes and continues to battle heart disease. "My medicine costs BDT 10,000 a month," he says. "Whenever I used to call Mehedi for help, he would send some money instantly. Now that he's gone, I can't even buy my medicines on time."
Mehedi, the family's only breadwinner, had also been arrested once before for writing against police misconduct. His father believes his murder was targeted. "He was shot from ten hands away," he recalls.
The initial case filed by police falsely accused members of opposition parties. After the fall of the previous government, Mehedi's father appealed to the Golapbagh DC to file a case against 28 individuals. However, Jatrabari Thana OC Faruk Ahmed reportedly dropped five police personnel from the list, and the case ultimately proceeded with 23 accused. But there has been no update since. Repeated attempts by this writer to contact OC Faruk Ahmed were unsuccessful, and police personnel at the station declined to comment on the matter.
Mehedi's mother Mahmuda Begum sits by her son's grave every day. "This time last year, he was alive," she sobs. "Now I only have his photos and his grave."
Farhana Islam, Mehedi's widow, is raising their two daughters, just four and a half years and 18 months old. "My older daughter still looks for her father. Whenever she gets hurt, she starts calling out for him," she says, in tears. Farhana still awaits justice. "Everyone saw that Mehedi was shot from the No. 25 armoured police vehicle. Is it so hard to find out who was inside and bring them to justice?"
Her grief is further deepened by rifts within the family, stemming from the absence of clear guidelines on how financial aid should be distributed between a martyr's spouse and parents. "It's creating problems in families like ours," she says. "There's no official circular. In some cases, it's 50/50; in others, 80/20 — whoever can exert more pressure gets more. The government must establish clear and fair rules."
She enrolled her older daughter in a local kindergarten, though Mehedi had dreamed of sending her to a top school. "I don't have the means," she says. "The monthly allowance promised from the government hasn't arrived yet. I've only passed SSC, but if the government arranges a job according to my qualifications, I'll work to secure my daughters' future."
Shamsi Ara Jaman, the mother of freelance journalist Tahir Zaman Priyo, is enduring her own version of this nightmare. Priyo's five-year-old daughter remains deeply traumatised. "She falls ill whenever she sees someone holding a camera or sitting in their father's lap," Shamsi Ara says. "She keeps asking where her father's camera is. Often, she breaks down with a high fever from the shock."
Her voice falters when she speaks of the loss. "The emptiness in our hearts, it can't be explained. Those who haven't gone through this will never understand nor do I have the strength to describe it."
She also filed a case with the ICT, but like others, waits in limbo. "They keep saying they're overwhelmed with cases, it might still take several months. But I want to see my son's killers punished before this government's term ends," she says firmly. "Our future seems bleak since my son died, but we haven't died yet. We want justice, and if more anarchy lies ahead, we are ready to fight it."
The grief of loss is mirrored in every martyr's household. Abu Taher Md Turab, a young journalist from Naya Diganta, had been married for just two months when he was killed on July 19. His brother, Abul Ahsan Md Ajraf, recalls how police initially refused to take their case seriously, accepting it only as a general diary entry.
It was on August 19 that the family managed to file a case naming 18 individuals. The ICT is currently handling it, and while two arrests have been made, the rest remain free. "My mother is almost 70 now," Ajraf says. "All she wants is to see justice for her youngest son before she dies."
Those who were killed were not just journalists, they were sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers. Their families are now caught in a spiral of grief, financial struggles, and unresolved justice.
"Your movement lasted until July," says Farhana Islam, "but for us, for our children, our struggle will last until our death."
Miftahul Jannat is a journalist at The Daily Star.
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