Rumana Monzur is a lawyer and human-rights activist based in Vancouver, and the subject of a new book by Denise Chong called Out of Darkness: Rumana Monzur’s Journey through Betrayal, Tyranny and Abuse.
A childhood friend whose family had once lived in the same neighbourhood as mine in Dhaka, and who now lives in Melbourne, called me. She sounded distressed. “Do you know what’s happening at home?”
Most every Bangladeshi who lives abroad – like me in Vancouver – had been trying to follow news of turmoil in Bangladesh. In June, students began to protest against the quota system for government jobs, which left fewer than half the positions available on the basis of merit. The protests, which had begun peacefully, turned violent in mid-July.
“They’ve started killing students!” my friend said. I am blind, so she described one of the images and videos circulating on the internet. Police were firing rubber bullets. A student protester was struck. She told of the look of surprise on his face as he fell to the ground. Then, as he went to get back on his feet, the police pumped him with three or four rubber bullets, killing him. My friend wailed. “He only had a stick in his hand.”
The government of prime minister Sheikh Hasina, citing “disinformation,” had imposed an internet blackout. Still, in the days that followed, I picked up what I could on social media and from friends. Once the killing began, the students turned to calling the current government to resign. I didn’t know what to make of the disturbing reports on social media of armoured vehicles on the streets of Dhaka, and of shootings and killing by the police. Or, of reports that students had attacked police and police stations. I was deeply worried about the entire situation in Bangladesh.
Finally, I got through on WhatsApp to my eldest male cousin in Dhaka who was well connected with journalists. The line was terrible. I could make out nothing; his voice sounded as if it came from under water. More updates came from my friend in Melbourne. Police arrested six student leaders, although all eventually were released from custody. By this time, I learned that lawyers in Bangladesh had joined the protests, followed by about 40 faculty from Dhaka University, where I had studied and began my career teaching international relations. They told the government that if the police wanted to kill their students, they’d have to kill them first.
I was a lawyer, having taken up a second career once I moved to Canada. I was distressed that it took the lawyers and these few faculty to come forward before more joined the protest.
I resolved to do what I could. The students are so courageous, I told myself. What am I waiting for? Only for something good to happen? I felt distracted. I didn’t feel I was present in Vancouver.
I spoke again with a former colleague at Dhaka University, now at UBC studying for her doctorate, about how we could support the students. She had notified me earlier in the month about a protest to be held in front of the UBC bookstore, but notice had been too short for me to find a sighted guide.
“You have a voice, Rumana,” she said. “Use it.”
Then came a turning point for me.
I got a call from Dhaka from a former student. Thirteen years ago, he was among students who heard that the teacher who lay grievously injured and blinded from a vicious assault by her husband and lay helpless in hospital, was me, and that my husband, eight days after the attack, was not being pursued by police. Those students rallied to patrol the hospital lobby lest my husband or his supporters, who had influential connections to the government, came to harm me further.
“Ma’am,” my former student said, “our protest was just to ask to reduce the quota. Then came the government crackdown. We know we cannot back down. There is no return. There is no other way; it is freedom or death. If we die, please tell the world, that we students didn’t hurt anyone, that we didn’t want to harm anyone.” He asked me not to reveal his name.
I had to show my solidarity. After all, the widespread public outrage at the assault on me precisely because it had happened to a teacher at Dhaka University had put my name and plight in international headlines.
That morning, Friday, Aug. 2, the start of the long weekend, I booked a flight to Dhaka, for Aug. 15.
Events moved quickly. On Aug. 5, Sheikh Hasina resigned and fled the country. Still, I kept my reservation. When I told my teenage daughter, Anusheh, that I was going, she burst into tears. “What if something happens to you?” she asked. I told her that she needed to be brave, just as the students were.
Ultimately, I decided – for now – to cancel my flight. I told Anusheh that there was a lesson in the courage of students in Bangladesh. They were a model for the past, present and future of Bangladesh, in standing up for what is right.
I want a Bangladesh where people will be able to express their opinions without fear. A democracy which is functioning and credible. Where everyone will work toward achieving the freedoms the students dreamed of, and were prepared to die for.