-Md. Kamal Uddin A year has passed. The world has turned on its own terms. The seasons have changed. The monsoon has come, autumn has come, the winter has passed and a new sun has risen again. The school bell has rung again, the classroom is filled with the smell of new books, new children have sat in class with new dreams. But in some families, time has not moved on. Even though the pages of the calendar have been turned, the clock has stopped at that terrible noon. A mother’s eyes still cannot sleep. A father still looks at the door—maybe he will hear the sound of small footsteps. That morning was like any other day. Seven-year-old Junaid stood in front of his mother and said— “Mom, I will not go to school today.” Children sometimes say such things. Some think it is laziness, some think it is a promise, some think it is a temporary sadness. But who knew, hidden within these words was a silent call of destiny! The mother patted her child’s head and said— “No, father, I have to go today. I will take you for a walk in the afternoon, I will also cook your favorite chicken.” The child smiled. He believed his mother. He knew that afternoon would come. He knew that he would return home after school. He knew that his mother would wait. But fate had written a different story. A moment. Just a moment. Then… the sky shook. Fire spread. Smoke covered the surroundings. Crying, screaming, panic, people running, ambulance sirens—all of it seemed as if the world stopped. The classroom where the children were learning their alphabet, a deathly silence descended. The corridor where innocent children had been running around a moment earlier, was covered in rubble. A mother rushed from the kitchen. A father ran from the office with all his might. Some were calling their children, some were shouting their names. Some were repeatedly saying— “Just call me once, father… I have come…” But there was no answer. Only silence. Only tears. Only waiting. Then… a small schoolbag. A half-burnt notebook. A tiffin box. An unfinished letter. A life that had stopped. Someone said— “A child’s body has been found…” This one sentence shattered a family’s entire world. A mother beat her chest and cried— “My uncle said he wouldn’t go to school today. I forced him to go…” There are no words for this cry.
There is no dictionary for this pain. Even after a year, the same question still lingers in that mother’s heart—”If only I had listened a little more that day…” But there is no such thing as ‘if’ in history. Only emptiness remains.
Even today, that child’s little uniform might still be hanging in his closet. Even today, a flower might be withered in the folds of a book. Even today, his favorite toy might be lying by his bed. Even today, his mother might open the door at night and say to herself, “Dad, come home…” but no one comes back. An accident doesn’t just take a few lives. It shatters the future of a family. A father’s dream. A mother’s world. A brother’s smile. A sister’s playmate. The children did nothing wrong. They just went to study. They just went to dream. They had books in their hands, not weapons. They had the future in their eyes, not fear. So their death is not just an accident—it is a difficult question before the conscience of all of us.
Is safety really our top priority? Are we prepared enough? Have we made every educational institution safe enough for a parent to say goodbye to their child? The answer to this question must be found not only in the investigation report, but also in our policies, plans, and practical actions. Today, on the first anniversary of this tragedy, we bow our heads and remember those innocent children whose dreams were cut short. We remember those teachers who risked their lives to save their students.
We remember those rescue workers who performed their humanitarian duty amidst fire, smoke, and danger. And we pay tribute to those parents who still live each day with their children alive in their hearts. May their cries not be in vain. May the deaths of their children not become mere statistics. May this tragedy teach us a lesson—
The safety of children is not an option, it is the collective responsibility of the state, society and all of us. A nation that can keep its children safe is truly civilized.
Even today, that little voice still floats in the air—”Mommy… I won’t go to school today…” This sentence echoes endlessly in the hearts of every parent in Bangladesh.
There may be no answer. But there can be a promise. May no other mother cry over the loss of a child like this. May no other father say his final goodbyes clutching a small schoolbag to his chest. May no other child’s life end with an unfinished notebook. We pray that God, with His infinite mercy, may all the deceased children rest in peace and grant patience and strength to their bereaved families. The memories will remain unbroken. The tears will not stop. But may those tears be our pledge to build a safe future.