By Mohammad Afzal hossen Tanvir

DHAKA, July 23, 2025 (BSS) - Rifat Rashid was actively involved in every phase of the historic July Uprising that toppled the fascist Sheikh Hasina ending her nearly 16-year rule.   

He joined the initial stage of quota reform movement and later it turned into the anti-discrimination student movement. The then Awami League government launched crackdown on peaceful demonstration of students sparking nationwide protest that transformed mass uprising with spontaneous participation of students and people of all classes. 
     
When six of the front-line coordinators publicly withdrew from the movement under intense pressure from the government and intelligence agencies, many believed the student resistance had reached its end. But at this critical juncture, four coordinators stepped forward to keep the movement alive and Rifat was one of them. 

Mohammad Rashidul Islam Rifat, better known as Rifat Rashid grew up in Cumilla but now lives in Ashulia, on the outskirts of Dhaka. His leadership, however, wasn't sudden; long before that turning point, he had been working strategically to energize and sustain the protests.

Not merely a symbolic figure, Rifat played a central role in building a nationwide coordination network for the movement. He was injured multiple times and after July 17, was forced into hiding. Prioritizing the cause over personal safety or family obligations, he dedicated himself fully to the struggle.

On the first anniversary of the July Uprising, Rifat shared his experiences, sacrifices and reflections in an exclusive interview with Bangladesh Sangbad Sangstha (BSS). The full interview is presented below. 

BSS: When did your political journey begin?

Rifat: I have been involved in campus activism for a long time, but if we're talking about formal political engagement, it really began with the 2018 quota reform movement. At that time, I was living in Savar and often visited Jahangirnagar University to participate in demonstrations. That movement marked my first steps into political life.

Later, in the 2020-21 session, I got admitted to Dhaka University. Even before classes began, I became involved in student politics. A friend of ours from the Journalism Department was tortured by Chhatra League activists. They forced him to stare into a burning light bulb. I didn't even know his name back then but I knew he was a first-year student from our session at Ekattor Hall. We organized a protest program against that abuse and that's really where my political engagement at Dhaka University began.

However, I couldn't stay in the hall for more than two days because I was forced out. I tried relocating to Haji Mohammad Mohsin Hall but faced the same harassment. What hurt the most wasn't just the bullying, it was the loss of dignity. They hurled abuse at our families and I simply couldn't tolerate it. I also refused to bow to the so-called senior leaders of political factions. That's when I decided to live outside the hall.

Eventually, I became part of a growing political circle. At that time, Bangladesh Chhatra Odhikar Parishad appeared to be the most vibrant student organization on campus. I had already been connected to them through the previous quota movement. We later established a new campus-based organization called Chhatra Shakti, led by Nahid bhai. I was deeply involved in its formation.

BSS: How did you become involved in the 2024 anti-discrimination student movement?

Rifat: On June 5, when the government reintroduced the quota system for public service jobs, it triggered strong reactions on campus. Having previously been part of the quota movement, we were deeply concerned. That afternoon, Akhtar bhai called an online meeting and before any decision was even made, I posted in two university groups announcing a protest march at 7pm.

I did it early because I feared political parties or opportunistic actors might hijack the movement. During the meeting, I shared what I had done, and the others agreed. I understood social media and digital networks quite well, so I was assigned to coordinate online mobilization. 

That same night, I created a Facebook group and connected with students and seniors from other universities. I reached out to admins of job-prep groups and offered them moderator roles in our group. Many responded positively. That's how, within a day, our group reached nearly 20,000 members while others struggled to gather even 500. That strategy really paid off.

At that time, we were staying in a place in Chankharpul we called "Swapno." Room 601 was our base. As Eid approached, we were worried, momentum is critical in any movement and a pause can kill it. So we issued an ultimatum: the government had until June 30 to reform the quota system. Most of us didn't go home for Eid. We used the break to coordinate, run online campaigns and connect with other student groups already active in anti-authoritarian struggles.

BSS: How did you organize students once classes resumed?

Rifat: Since we had issued a June 30 ultimatum and the government didn't respond, tensions were already rising. At the same time, a separate teacher-led movement over pay scales was disrupting classes and exams. This actually worked in our favor. Students who might have avoided protests for academic reasons started joining in.

Incidentally, I was the one who handwrote the draft of our four-point demand. We included the "5% quota" demand not because we wanted it but as a bargaining chip. We would have accepted 10%. But even then, the government gave no positive signal.

Meanwhile, coordination with other student organizations grew stronger. Leftist groups declared solidarity and Shahbagh was soon covered in protest graffiti. The movement had spread to nearly every campus across the country.

We focused on making the protests engaging songs, slogans, comedy skits, poetry. You'd see students playing cricket or football at the sit-ins, chatting on the street, even couples participating together. One slogan became hugely popular: "Lakho Shahider Rokte Kena, Deshta Karo Baper Noy" ("This country bought with the blood of martyrs doesn't belong to anyone's father"). That slogan was my idea.

We began thinking creatively beyond conventional protest names. That's how Bangla Blockade was born, which created a national stir. Another programme was the Complete Shutdown.

During Bangla Blockade, intelligence agencies made multiple offers directly and indirectly. We rejected them all. Some students were even used to file petitions in court to stop us, but they failed.

BSS: On July 14, Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina referred to student protesters as "descendants of Rajakar." How did you respond?

Rifat: That day was chaotic. We had a scheduled programme to submit a memorandum to the President and marched toward Bangabhaban. Even before the march began, Chhatra League tried to obstruct us covertly. They were positioned at various campus points, clearly prepared for violence.

Chhatra League held a counter-programme at Madhur Canteen. Initially, students gathered there, but once our rally started, many of them joined us. The crowd swelled quickly. A large procession came from Jagannath University, despite facing obstruction from police and ruling party activists.

After submitting the memorandum, we returned to campus. That evening, in a press conference, Sheikh Hasina said, "If freedom fighters' grandchildren can't get jobs, should collaborators' grandchildren get them?" It was a brutal insult to the student protesters.

Despite being physically exhausted from the day's events, students immediately responded with a spontaneous nighttime protest. The slogan echoed through the campus: "Tumi Ke? Ami Ke? Rajakar, Rajakar!"Later versions included: "Ke Boleche? Ke Boleche? Sarkar, Sarkar!" It wasn't about embracing the slur, it was defiance.

That evening marked a shift. Even students who had previously avoided protests joined us. Girls led marches out of the halls in fierce protest.

When we reached 71 Hall, Chhatra League activists brutally beat our fellow fighter Asif Mahmud. In other halls, they tried to block students, especially juniors, from joining. I personally broke open a locked guest room in Sergeant Zahurul Haque Hall where juniors were confined. One student ran into my arms crying. I lost control and physically attacked a Chhatra League member on the spot, possibly the first open counterattack from our side.

Later, we held a massive rally stretching from the VC Chattar to the mosque gates. Chhatra League occupied Madhur Canteen. Some of their goons took positions near Shahbagh. As we moved, a brief clash occurred near the mosque entrance.

Though we wanted to occupy the streets overnight, concerns about women's safety forced us to retreat by 3am.

The next day, July 15, at Raju Memorial, we held another programme. Chhatra League announced a counter-rally at the same place and time. As we marched through the hall areas, they hurled bricks, shoes, and liquor bottles from Bijoy 71 Hall. Several students were injured.

Despite a hoarse voice, I kept chanting slogans. Some students stormed the hall. I rushed toward the gate. A large brick hit my thigh. Still, I kept going.

Suddenly, someone announced over the mic that the protest was canceled but it wasn't one of us. It was a planted disruption. Then Chhatra League stormed in from Nilkhet and behind Mujib Hall. We were mostly unarmed, while they carried sticks, pipes even machetes. No one imagined they would attack us so brutally.

They targeted women intentionally striking heads and faces. I was beaten too, especially on the head. At Dhaka Medical, I saw others far worse off 14-15 stitches on some, bloodied bodies. I stopped seeking care and began helping as a volunteer.

In the meantime, a group from Chhatra League came to the medical area and began looking for some of us by name. When a few people who knew me got wind of it, they forcefully took me upstairs to hide. A student from Dhaka Medical College recognized me and took me to a reading room on the third floor of the academic building. He told me to stay there quietly.

When I entered, I saw that everyone was studying. I felt like I was disturbing them. The thought made me feel embarrassed. I felt selfish, as if I had abandoned my fellow fighters and taken shelter upstairs. My mind couldn't settle there. After a while, I came down to the CT scan room. Once treatment was completed that day, we all returned to the dorm.

On July 16, we had a programme at the Shaheed Minar. We gathered there, while Chhatra League was stationed inside the university near the Raju Sculpture. Clashes were still ongoing around the science faculty dormitories. There were also chases and counter-chases between us and Chhatra League. Some shots were fired at us from the Chankharpul side, and a few of our people were injured.

That day, we couldn't decide what to do. A division appeared among us. One group wanted to march toward the Raju Sculpture and engage in a confrontation with Chhatra League to retaliate for the previous day's attacks. Another group wanted to avoid any clash and instead moved with a procession toward the Doel Chattar. I wanted a face-to-face confrontation with Chhatra League that day. But because of the seniors' decisions, no major confrontation took place.

Still, many students were afraid thinking if we didn't settle the matter today, if we didn't act now, they might attack and kill us later when we return to our halls, as we had stood up against Chhatra League. So, we decided we had to go back to the halls and take control first. We had to position ourselves inside the halls. Because, after all, attack is the best defense. Toward evening, everyone returned to their respective halls.

As soon as they returned, students of Mohsin Hall raised slogans and freed the hall from Chhatra League's control. There was no violence. Earlier, Rajshahi University had already driven Chhatra League out of its halls, it had become a kind of precedent.

Later that night, it was the female students of Rokeya Hall who first drove out Chhatra League leaders, including Atika, and declared the hall free of politics. As word of this spread, by morning, Chhatra League members were expelled from every hall across the university, one by one.

One more thing about the July 16, when I heard the news of Abu-Sayed's death, I couldn't forgive myself. I had spoken to him on the phone just the evening before. He had sought my advice on what to do next. But I was in a rush, and I ended the call after a brief exchange. Later, when I heard that he had been martyred, I felt incredibly small... and guilty. 

BSS: What events did you personally witness on July 17?

Rifat: Around 11am, the campus was freed from Chhatra League's control. Shortly afterward, the university administration announced the indefinite closure of the campus. The students didn't accept this. That day, we had a pre-announced Gayebana Janaza (funeral prayer in absentia). But executing that programme was extremely difficult. 

From the night before, the entire campus was surrounded by law enforcement. We couldn't manage coffins. Eventually, we contacted Shibir, and Zayed Bhai, the then secretary for student movements, arranged coffins for us. But he called us and said the coffins couldn't be brought onto campus.

Later, I, along with a few brothers from Chhatra Dal, went to bring them. At first, the police wouldn't allow it. Eventually, we forced our way through and brought the coffins.

Akhtar Bhai was supposed to lead the Janaza. Until then, he had not come to the front of the movement, fearing it would be politicized due to his known political identity. The Janaza would have marked his open involvement. But when we returned with the coffins, we learned he had been arrested.

We couldn't gather many people for the programme. Students were afraid to leave the halls fearing occupation by chhatra league. Just then, a large procession from BUET joined us. It was life-saving. We held the Janaza.

As we marched with the coffins toward the Raju sculpture, police attacked from both sides. We retreated through the mall chhattar. Police entered the residential areas, opened fire, and threw sound grenades and tear gas. I was near Jasimuddin Hall. Hannan Masud Bhai was shot. Arif Adib Bhai, a journalist then, learned I was being targeted for arrest. He helped sneak me out, hiding me behind a group of journalists.

Leaving campus felt like embracing death, Chhatra League members with weapons guarded the gates, attacking any student they found. With help from a friend, I went to Mohsin Hall, where only a few disabled students and members of the Tablighi Jamaat remained. They gave me a robe and a cap. Dressed like that, I left on a rickshaw with the disabled students. 

I headed for a brother's house in Dhanmondi. At Katabon intersection, I saw Abu Yunus from Ekattor Hall's Chhatra League. He saw me too and chased me. I jumped from the rickshaw and ran into a familiar publishing house where I had once worked.

BSS: How did you spend time after the 17th? How did you maintain communication?

Rifat: That night, I took a CNG to Dhanmondi and went to the house of fellow fighter Tarek Reza's brother Salauddin Bhai. I had bullet fragments in me. He took me to a local pharmacy to remove them. I stayed at his home that night. That was the only 12 hours I spent outside the movement.

Early the next morning, I headed to meet Akram Bhai. On the way near Jigatola, I briefly turned on my phone. Within five minutes, I noticed a black microbus following me. I realized it was the intelligence agency. I broke the SIM card and ran to a nearby house, convincing the guard to open the gate by saying I was a relative of the homeowner.

Later, I met Akram Bhai. He gave me a SIM, and Salauddin Bhai bought me a button phone, which I used for communication. At Akram Bhai's office, Mohaymin Patwary Bhai was present. That night, I stayed at his house. But I felt I needed a safer place.

On the morning of the 19th, I left without informing him and went to a journalist sister's home. I stayed there for a few days. Since she was a journalist, she had access to some information despite the internet shutdown. She told me my father was searching for my body in morgues, and my mother was in the ICU. I had anticipated something like this. I didn't go home or call them directly, knowing their phones might be tracked. I called my cousin from a new number to tell her I was safe.

Soon after, my home called that number, and I realized my location could now be traced. I immediately left. Later, I learned the house belonged to a senior police officer who interrogated the journalist and said there was nothing he could do, this was an order from above.

I then went to a friend's house in Savar but found no one there. I returned and called Rakib Bhai, former president of Hemonto Bus. He took me to his home. That night, the internet returned. Through it, I connected with Asif Bhai, Nahid Bhai, Bakir Bhai, and others. We decided to meet.

We met at Gonoshasthaya Nagar Hospital, where Nahid Bhai was admitted. After seeing him, Asif Bhai asked me to leave immediately since the authorities were looking to arrest us. Police and intelligence agents were patrolling outside. Hannan Masud Bhai and I exited through the back. On our way out, someone tried to question us, but we ignored them and took a rickshaw.

At that meeting, we decided to form legal and health wings to sustain the movement and support those injured or arrested.

According to our plan, we had decided to visit the injured students at Dhaka Medical College and hold a press conference there. But on that day, Sheikh Hasina was scheduled to visit the hospital, so we couldn't go. Instead, we offered prayers and then headed toward Kuwait-Bangladesh Friendship Hospital.

The scene at the hospital was haunting. It felt like we had stepped into a haunted house. Cleaning staff were wiping blood from the floors. Outside, members of the security and intelligence agencies were stationed. A journalist was with us at the time.

Sensing the growing tension, we quickly left and headed toward the U.S. Embassy. I remember we were traveling in an ambulance and the driver was very skilled. At one checkpoint, security personnel stopped us, but the journalist stepped out, identified himself as a reporter and explained that we were with him. The authorities didn't check the vehicle further and let us pass.

From there, with a reference from a human rights activist, we were taken in by a diplomat who offered us shelter. That night, we had no access to the internet. The next morning, we were finally given internet access. I contacted an elder brother, and he shared an address and asked us to connect with someone there.

The person we were sent to was a well-known businessman. He arranged a place for us to stay on the third floor of an English medium school in Banani, which was closed at the time. That's where I, Abdul Hannan Masud Bhai, Mahin Sarker Bhai and Abdul Gaffar Bhai stayed together. 

Gaffar Bhai, a student at Jahangirnagar University, took care of us. He cooked for us, ensured we were okay, and helped us coordinate different matters.

Meanwhile, our fellow movement leaders were being arrested one after another. On July 28, the Detective Branch (DB) forcibly made them issue a statement announcing the withdrawal of the movement from their office. 

BSS: Why did you oppose the withdrawal announcement made from DB office on July 28? 

Rifat: It wasn't about trust, it was about circumstances. They were taken to DB and forced to read a statement. It was obvious. Before being arrested, Asif Bhai had told us, "Whoever is on the field will lead." So we didn't accept that statement. I was scared then wondering if people would still listen to us. But we decided to reject the DB's announcement and continue the movement.

That was a very difficult time. Our seniors were on one side and we were on the other. But the situation left us no choice.

BSS: How did the movement continue afterward?

Rifat: It wasn't just us, it had become a mass movement. Everything was shut down. People took to the streets demanding justice for their children. On the July 30, we announced a campaign to turn all Facebook profile pictures red. It received huge traction.

Many groups, doctors, teachers, lawyers, cultural activists joined in. The government invited us several times for talks, but we refused. I said, "There's no negotiation over the blood of martyrs. Bring back the dead if you want dialogue."

Eventually, Nahid Bhai and others were released. They called for a programme at Shaheed Minar. The huge crowd there was very encouraging, it showed us we were on the right path.

But I wasn't present at the announcement, as Asif Bhai had warned me about the risk of arrest.

BSS: Tell us about the "Long March to Dhaka" programme.

Rifat: It was designed based on public sentiment, a psychological strategy. We first announced it for the August 6, making the government think they had time. But in the evening, Asif Bhai suddenly announced the programme was moved up to the 5th. It was a surprise attack, planned that way to catch the government off-guard.

On the August 5, massive crowds joined us, and that's the day the Hasina government fell.

BSS: How did you communicate with your family during the movement? Did they face pressure?

Rifat: Honestly, I avoided communicating with them. I knew the government's easiest way to get to me would be through my family. My father begged me to come home, but I couldn't. I had already advised my brothers and sisters-in-law to go somewhere safe.

But it was very painful knowing my father was searching morgues for my body and my mother was in ICU. Still, I didn't let those emotions overshadow the movement.

BSS: A year has passed since July. The "July Declaration" hasn't been released. What's your take?

Rifat: It's not being released because of political parties. But the real stakeholders are the injured and martyred of July. Not consulting them and only talking to political parties is a betrayal to the martyrs.

BSS: Any particular incident you want to share?

Rifat: I was at a protest in Science Lab area, a bit towards the back. As the police fired from Elephant Road, a young boy may be 16 or 17, kept moving to the front. I slapped him to stop him. He told me: "They're almost out of bullets. Once they fire a few more, we'll rush them." He wanted to absorb bullets to exhaust the police's ammunition. I was stunned, what people will do for their country!

I was wearing a mask. Someone recognized me and warned me to leave. Just then, a bullet hit his chest. He had covered me. If he hadn't, that bullet would've hit me. That face, that bloodied shirt, I'll never forget it. I've searched hospitals and martyr lists for him but never found his name.