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9th December, 2019

Forget my name, I just want people to remember I am a human.

My story...oh Allah, I never thought that this story would be mine. The pain I have suffered. I pray no one else suffers the same pain.

I am a 70 years old man, I once was a farmer. Living a simple life. I was just grateful to be breathing, to be living without fear. That's all I ever wanted for me and those around me.

Then the most painful day in my life happened. All we could hear at first was the screams. Then we could hear the gunshots. I remember I was praying when it happened. I quickly finished my prayer and ran for my daughter. I couldn't find my wife or son. I called for their names. But I couldn't find them. I had no choice but to hide with my daughter in our hiding place. I kept praying my wife and son would also join us in our hiding place. Minutes passed and as I and my daughter hid, we could only hear the screams, that I've never heard in my 70 years. I could hear the women screaming, I could hear the footsteps of the army. I couldn't leave my daughter. I had to hide.

We hid for 1 hour. Then there was silence. We got out to find the most painful scene in my life. My wife had been murdered in such a horrific way. I remember my knees shaking as I approached her body. I bent down to feel her lifeless body, blood was everywhere. I embraced my wife's body for the last time, my daughter just stood in shock.

I got up to see if I could find my son, so many bodies lying on the ground. I stumbled upon bodies until I found my son. He was dead. My son my dear boy was dead. He was a bright boy, he was my boy...lifeless and peaceful as he lay there, staring at the skies. I kneeled beside him and collapsed. I cried as I have never cried before. The pain was unbearable. Only two hours ago I saw him happy, now he is no more.

I realized I had to flee my village to protect my daughter. So, we fled. We took 5 days to get to Bangladesh. My clothes were still stained with my son's and wife's blood. I didn't want to wash it off. My hands were still stained with their blood. My daughter walked along with me in silence.

When we finally arrived in Bangladesh. That is when my daughter finally cried. She cried in such pain and anguish that her tears could flood Bangladesh.

This is my story.