Students return to Milestone amid haunting memories

It has been nearly two weeks since the skies above Milestone School and College turned dark – not with clouds, but with smoke and ash, and the unbearable weight of loss. And now, for the first time, the gates have reopened.

On this quiet morning, students from Class XI and XII stepped back onto the campus they once knew as a place of laughter, lessons, and life. They came in uniforms still neatly pressed, bags slung over shoulders, faces composed—but behind the calm, grief stirred like a tide beneath the surface.

The day began with a prayer session. Heads bowed, voices hushed, tears fell silently onto folded hands. The school imam led the prayer session for the souls lost on July 21 – the day a plane fell from the sky and shattered more than just concrete and steel. It broke childhoods. It stole futures.

After prayers, students moved to classrooms. Desks were wiped, boards cleaned, but there was no lessons on the day. Teachers greeted them with soft voices and gentle smiles, trying to stitch a sense of normality into a world that no longer feels whole. 

Then came the walking. Not aimlessly, but with purpose. As if drawn by an invisible thread, students wandered, slowly, quietly, towards the ruins of the Haider Ali Building, once a hub of activity, now a skeletal remains wrapped in caution tape and sorrow.

They stopped. Just stood. No words. No movement. Just eyes fixed on the blackened walls, the twisted metal, the swing set still hanging, motionless, in the playground.

It was here, in front of this ghost of a building, that the past refused to stay buried.

"They told me we’d swing together"

Among them was Fairuz Islam, an 11th-grade student, her eyes red-rimmed but resolute. As she prepared to leave the campus just after 2 pm, she paused again – her feet unwilling to carry her away.

“I don’t want to remember that day,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Because remembering… it hurts too much. We talk about it. We try to describe it. But no words can capture how terrible it was.”

Then, softly, she shared what haunts her most.

“That morning, July 21, I came to college early. And right here, in front of Haider Ali Bhaban, my younger brothers and sisters were playing. They were on the swings. Laughing. One of them looked up at me and said, ‘Apu, come after school hours. We’ll swing together.’”

Her breath caught.

“And now… there is no one. No laughter. No voices. Many of them are gone – gone forever. Some are still in hospital beds, fighting. The flowers… they fell before they even had a chance to bloom.”

A long silence followed. The wind rustled the scorched leaves on a nearby tree. Somewhere, a bell rang—once, hollow, echoing across an empty courtyard.

“Our campus used to be alive with their chirping,” Fairuz said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Now… it’s quiet. Too quiet. My chest aches every time I walk past here. I can’t explain it. It’s like the soul of this place has been torn out.”

We must go on"

Yet, even in her grief, there was strength.

“We all have to return to life,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Our principal, our teachers—they’ve been with us every step. They’ve held our hands, spoken to us, prayed with us. They’ve reminded us that we’re not alone.”

She took a deep breath. “I know we’ll heal. Slowly. Gradually. We’ll come back to our books, our dreams, our future. But…”

Her voice trailed off, then returned, softer now, heavier with truth.

“We are born. We will die. That is the way of this world. But the fact that they – so young, so full of light – were taken in such a cruel, sudden way… that will stay with me. Forever.”

As Fairuz turned to leave, she didn’t look back. Perhaps she couldn’t. But the campus did. The swing creaked slightly in the breeze—as if, just for a moment, a child had pushed off into the air.

And for the first time in two weeks, someone dared to hope that one day, joy might return.  

But never forget.  

Never.