The Light That Didn’t Fade (A True Story of Saad Al Afnan) -Md Kajol Irfan

In Lakshmipur, there lived a boy named Saad Al Afnan. He wasn’t just any boy, he was the pride of his mother, the joy of his neighborhood, and a rising star in his school. With his big glasses, gentle smile, and quiet nature, Afnan dreamed of becoming a scientist one day. He would often tell his little sister, Jannatul Mawa, “One day, I’ll make something that helps people, something that saves lives.”

His mother, Nasima Akhter, believed every word he said. She had already lost her husband, Saleh Ahmed, just three months before, he had died abroad. She is working hard so that Afnan and Jannatul could go to school and live better lives. With her husband gone, Afnan became both her hope and strength. He was only 18 but carried himself like someone much older.

Afnan was studying in the science department at Victory College. He was smart, really smart. He loved physics, adored math, and even taught his classmates when they were confused. When protests started across the country demanding an end to unfair treatment of students, Afnan didn’t stay silent. He joined because he believed no one should be judged by where they came from or who their parents were. Everyone deserved equal chances.

On August 4, something unforgettable happened. That day, students like Afnan were protesting peacefully. They were chanting, holding signs, and demanding fairness. Suddenly, a group of men from political groups—Chhatra League and Jubo League came with weapons. Everyone started running. People screamed. Tear gas filled the air. Stones flew like birds in the sky.

A young girl protester fell. She was crying for help. Afnan didn’t think twice. He ran towards her, trying to lift her up and pull her to safety.

Then…

Bang!

A gunshot rang through the crowd.

It hit Afnan.

But it didn’t end there. The men grabbed him. They beat him cruelly, not caring that he was just a student, someone’s child, someone’s brother. Afnan never got to say goodbye. When his friends rushed him to the hospital, the doctor shook his head slowly.

Afnan was gone.

When Afnan’s mother, Nasima, heard the news, she didn’t scream. She didn’t faint. She just stood there, frozen like someone had pulled the soul from her chest. First her husband, now her son. How could the world be so cruel?

At Afnan’s house, the walls were covered with his drawings of circuits, his medals from science fairs, and sticky notes where he had written things like:

“Don’t give up, Jannat!”

“Amma, I’ll make you proud.”

He had passed the HSC exam with a GPA of 4.17—three months after he died. But he wasn’t there to see it.

Nasima tried to stay strong for her daughter. She filed a police case against the men who killed her son. But then came the threats. Strange calls. Unknown men standing outside their house at night. People whispering, “Withdraw the case or else.”

Nasima and little Jannatul Mawa had to flee. They locked their house and ran from one place to another, hiding like birds from a storm. Sometimes in relatives’ homes, sometimes in strangers’ basements. They carried only a small bag with two sets of clothes and a picture of Afnan.

Jannat’s books were left behind. Her schoolbag, her pencil case, her school uniform all locked away in the house they could no longer call home.

One night, as they lay on a hard floor under a mosquito net, Jannat whispered, “Amma, where will we go tomorrow?”

Nasima hugged her tightly and said, “Where there is safety, my love. Where they won’t take you too.”

Jannat didn’t cry. She had no more tears left. But inside her heart, a storm of sadness raged. She missed Afnan’s voice calling her “Mawa.” She missed their secret handshake. She missed hearing him talk about stars and atoms and justice.

The world went on, but the pain stayed. The students who knew Afnan began to call him Shaheed Afnan, Martyr Afnan. His name became a symbol. His sacrifice became a spark. More people joined the protests. More voices rose.

On the day of his death, not just Afnan, but three others—Kausar Hossain Bijoy, Sabbir Hossain, and Osman Patwari were also killed by bullets.

And now, months later, Afnan’s family is still running. His mother has dark circles under her eyes. Jannat’s schoolbooks gather dust. No one from the administration has offered help. No police officer has caught the killers. Justice still hides, afraid of those in power.

But do you know something?

The light of Afnan hasn’t faded.

In schools across the country, students now whisper his name like a prayer. Teachers share his story. Children write poems about him. Jannat keeps a diary where she writes letters to her brother every night. In one of them, she wrote:

“Bhai, I will grow up and become a lawyer. I will fight for truth, for you. I will finish your dream.”