Every Day Feels Like July for Us – Sanjida’s Cry After Losing Shaheed Imran

Delowar Hossain Mahdi: “Ever since I lost my brother, it feels like every single day is July for us” — said Sanjida, the younger sister of Shaheed Imran, her voice choked with tears. Her words pierce the heart like thorns.

Shaheed Imran, aged 21, had recently returned from Saudi Arabia. He was a resident of Charlohania Dakshinpara in the Fardabad Union of Bancharampur Upazila in Brahmanbaria. His father, Md. Alam, worked as a cook in Dhonia, Jatrabari. Despite the hardships, he lived in a rented house with his wife, one son, and two daughters. Life was tough, but Imran had become the family’s hope and strength. After returning from abroad just seven months earlier, it felt like a new light had been lit in their home.

But the evening of 17 July changed everything.

That day, Imran’s mother cooked his favorite meat and tea with her own hands. She kept calling him lovingly, “Come, my son, your food is ready.” But suddenly, gunshots and chaos broke out outside. Fearfully, his mother pleaded with him not to go out. But perhaps fate had already written its verdict. Imran, who had been lying down, got up — said nothing — and walked out.

His mother and younger sister Sanjida rushed out searching for him and eventually found him. He was still alive. His mother pleaded again and again, “Come back, my son, nothing will happen.” His eyes were filled with uncertainty. But he didn’t return.

After Maghrib prayers, a neighbor came running, “Go and see what your son is doing.” The mother couldn’t hold herself anymore. Like someone possessed, she ran. Then she heard: her only son had been shot.

Imran was first taken to Desh Bangla Hospital in Dhonia, and later to Dhaka Medical College Hospital. The doctors said a bullet had entered the right side of his head and exited from the left — his skull had shattered, and his brain was severely damaged. After arranging seven bags of blood, an operation was done, and he was put in ICU. But nothing could save him.

On the night of 18 July, at 8 PM, Imran bid farewell to the world forever. Though the hospital preserved his body in a freezer, it couldn’t be handed over to the family without police permission. When they went to Jatrabari police station, officers refused to sign, citing “busyness.” Finally, Shahbagh police station gave the necessary approval.

Imran returned home for the last time — in silence, lifeless. The hospital had instructed the burial be completed within an hour due to the condition of the body. But people from the neighborhood and surrounding areas gathered to say goodbye. After much difficulty, a funeral prayer was held, and Imran was laid to rest in Jurain Cemetery, forever.

Imran’s mother said, “After Shaheed Abu Sayeed, my son was the second martyr. No other injured person had reached the hospital at that time, so the doctors tried their best. But we couldn’t save him.”

She added, “We received support from many places, including the July Foundation. But the love, the companionship a son gives — can that ever be replaced?”

When his younger sister Sanjida said, “My brother is no more,” it felt as if a thousand cries, sorrows, and heartbreaks were hidden in that one sentence. She continued, “Our father passed away just two months ago due to cancer. My brother was the only earning member. Now, for us, every single day feels like July.”

Just like every martyr’s story is one of pain, Imran’s family’s story reflects a household consumed by loss. His death doesn’t just wound one family — it questions society itself.
Who will bear this burden?