Julkar’s Last March- Md Mahbubur Rahman

Julkar Nain was not just a name. He was a story. A dreamer. A fighter. And above all, a loving big brother.

He was only seventeen.

In the small, sun-warmed village of Swarup in Pabna, everyone knew Julkar as the boy with a spark in his eyes. He laughed easily, shared generously, and always stood up when someone was wronged. At home in the evenings, he would help his younger brother Hamza with homework, tease his cousins, and sit quietly beside his father Abdul Hai, asking him about herbs and healing. His father was a homeopathic doctor, kind and soft-spoken, respected in their village.

But Julkar had dreams far bigger than the village. He studied in class 10 at KL Model School and College in Palashbari, Savar. His mother Halima Khatun would pack his lunch every morning and sends him off with a dua, gently straightening the collar of his school shirt. “You’ll be someone one day, Inshallah,” she would whisper. Julkar would smile back. “Only if everyone becomes someone, Ma.”

The year 2024 had brought a storm bigger than any weather could bring. Across Bangladesh, students had taken to the streets. They weren’t fighting with sticks or stones. They carried nothing but banners, voices, and an unbreakable spirit. They were demanding justice, equality, and a future where everyone had a fair chance. Julkar was one of them.

Since the beginning of the movement, Julkar had joined every peaceful procession. He wasn’t looking for fame or attention. He believed in something simple: that justice should not depend on one’s background or birth. “Even if it doesn’t help me,” he told Hamza one evening, “it’ll help you, and your friends, and the children of tomorrow.”

On the morning of August 5, something felt different. The air was quiet, heavy. Before leaving for the rally in Bypile, Savar, Julkar turned to his younger brother. “If I don’t come back,” he said softly, “look after Ma and Baba.”

Hamza, just twelve, didn’t understand the weight of those words. “Why won’t you come back, Bhai?”

Julkar knelt down, hugged him tight, and smiled. “Sometimes, big brothers have to walk ahead so that others don’t have to walk in fear.”

That was the last time anyone at home saw him alive.

What happened next still shakes the hearts of those who loved him.

As the peaceful procession moved through Bypile, witnesses say the crowd was chanting slogans, waving flags, and singing songs of hope. Suddenly, chaos erupted. Law enforcement opened fire without warning. In the confusion, Julkar was shot — a bullet pierced the left side of his chest. He fell, calling out for justice, surrounded by fellow students who tried to carry him to safety.

He didn’t make it.

On the way to Savar Enam Medical College Hospital, Julkar Nain, only 17, breathed his last.

His father, Abdul Hai, rushed to the hospital the moment he heard. The silence of a father holding the still body of his son is not something that words can describe. That evening, he brought his son’s lifeless body home.

But their suffering didn’t end there.

That night, men claiming to be supporters of the local Member of Parliament came to their house. They threatened the family, shouted at them, and warned them to stay silent. “We can make you disappear too,” one of them said. Abdul Hai didn’t respond. His heart was too heavy, his soul too shattered.

Late into the night, with tearful eyes and trembling hands, the family quietly took Julkar’s body back to their village in Pabna. There, under a neem tree in the village graveyard, as dawn broke, Julkar Nain was buried.

Months have passed. But time does not heal all wounds.

His mother, Halima Khatun, still wakes up in the middle of the night, calling his name. She walks to his empty room, sits by his bed, and imagines him coming home from school, throwing his bag on the table, asking for tea. Her eyes have lost their sparkle. She often says, “He wanted to be like Abu Sayeed and Mugdho, and maybe Allah granted him that wish.”

Julkar’s younger brother Hamza no longer jokes as much. He sits quietly, studies harder, and sometimes stares long at the picture of his brother on the wall. On the back of that photo, Julkar had written in red ink: “If I ever give my life, let it be for something greater than myself.”

And it was.

This is not just a sad story. This is a story of courage.

Julkar Nain didn’t have superpowers. He didn’t wear a cape. But he had something stronger — a brave heart and a kind soul. He didn’t fight with weapons. He stood with truth, with hope, and with dreams — the same dreams that live in you.

Perhaps you’ve heard that heroes only exist in movies. But look around. Look at the school benches, the playgrounds, the protest photos. Real heroes sit among us. They wear school uniforms, share small meal during lunch breaks, and sometimes, they stand up even when their legs tremble.

Julkar’s dream was simple — that no one should suffer injustice—future should not be buried by unfair systems. That you should have the freedom to rise, learn, love, and live with dignity.
His story reminds us that one voice can awaken many. One brave step can light a path. And one young heart can shake a nation.

In every street where children walk without fear, in every classroom where equality is taught, in every home where parents dare to dream again — Julkar Nain lives on.
He walked ahead so we don’t have to walk in fear.