My dream will live on -Md Masud Rana

Shuvo Shil was only twenty years old. At an age when most young people dream of university admission, friendships and building a future, Shuvo’s life was already burdened with responsibilities.

He was born in Munuria village of Jhenaidah, but poverty had pushed his family away from the green fields of their home to the crowded lanes of Ashulia, Savar. His father worked long hours in a salon, while both Shuvo and his elder brother, Sohag, stitched clothes in a garments factory. His mother, Sadhana Rani, often reminded her sons to eat properly before heading to work, though she herself went hungry many nights.

Shuvo had passed SSC with hope in his heart. He had dreamed of going to college, maybe studying further, but life’s harsh reality came knocking. His family simply didn’t have the money. And so, while many of his friends carried college bags, Shuvo carried bundles of unfinished shirts and trousers on factory floors.

Yet, despite the struggles, there was always a spark in his eyes. His friends remember him saying, “I may not get the chance, but one day, boys like me will have a fair chance to dream bigger.”

When the student movement for equality began in July, Shuvo could no longer stay silent. He left the machines, the factory noise, and joined the streets. For him, it was not just a protest, it was a chance to fight for a future he himself had been denied.

On July 20, Savar turned into a battlefield. From the morning, the police roamed the area, determined to stop students from gathering. But Shuvo and his friends were not afraid. They carried only their voices, their chants for justice.

By noon, chaos broke out. Tear gas filled the air, the sound of boots thundered on the streets, and batons struck young shoulders. Shuvo tried to run, taking shelter inside a closed market near the bus stand. His heart must have raced, but he did not cry.

Two policemen spotted him hiding. They dragged him out by his arms, beating him mercilessly. Even as he fell unconscious, one of them pointed a gun and fired into his stomach.
He was only twenty.

At Savar Enam Medical College Hospital, Shuvo lay handcuffed to an iron bed. The very hands that had only known the weight of fabric and thread were now chained as though he were a criminal.

His elder brother Sohag stayed by his side, tears filling his eyes. Shuvo, pale and weak, turned his face slightly and whispered:

“Dada… maybe I won’t survive. But giving my life for the country on the streets… it is the greatest achievement of my life.”

Those words, spoken through sobs, became his last promise. Three days later, on the morning of July 23, Shuvo’s young heart stopped beating.

But even in death, peace was denied to him. His family begged to take him home, back to their village, so that the people who loved him could say their final goodbye. But the police refused. They insisted his body remain in Savar. That night, under their watch, Shuvo was cremated hurriedly at Savar crematorium.

Far away in Munuria, hundreds of villagers waited till midnight. They held candles, their hearts heavy, hoping Shuvo would come back home one last time. But the news reached them, he would not return. His ashes rose in the night sky of Savar, carried away by the wind.

Shuvo’s story is one of pain and courage. A boy denied an education, denied his youth, denied even his last rites, still chose to dream of justice. His sacrifice reminds us that bravery is not about living without fear, but about standing firm even when the price is everything.

For usthe young generation, Shuvo’s life is a question and a lesson. Can we stay silent when voices like his are silenced? Or will we carry forward his dream, the dream he left behind for us?

Perhaps somewhere, in the wind that blows through Savar’s bus stand, Shuvo’s words still echo softly:

“I may not survive, but my dream will live on.”