A half-burnt shoe and the human cost of Uttara plane crash

As soon as I noticed three missed calls on my phone, I quickly called back Imam Hossain Sayid, the First News Head at Prothom Alo. His voice was urgent: “Get to Milestone School in Uttara immediately. A Bangladesh Air Force training aircraft has crashed into the school. Go now!”

Without wasting a moment, I booked a motorbike through a ride-sharing app. Luckily, I got one within three minutes. As I hopped on, I urged the driver, “Brother, please go as fast as you can.”

We headed toward Uttara via Kuril, taking the Kalshi flyover through DOHS Mirpur and reached the Uttara North Metro Station, only to hit a traffic jam. As we tried to inch forward, law enforcement attempted to stop the motorbike. I showed them my office ID and was allowed to pass, but we got stuck again soon after. I paid the fare and ran toward the incident site.

Amid the crowd, a man gestured to me, reminding me that I was still wearing the helmet the rider had given me in haste. I hadn't the time to return it.

By then, it was past 2:15 pm. The crowd was so thick that it was hard to get close to the school gate. Still, I pushed forward and reached near the entrance of Milestone School. There, I encountered Lucky Akhter, a guardian, who was begging to everyone she saw: “Please, my little son is trapped inside. Please save my child.”

People around her advised contacting the teachers, but she was in no state to listen. She kept repeating the same desperate request until she vanished into the crowd.

I managed to climb over a wall on the right side of a nearby under-construction building to enter the campus. I ran up the stairs to the roof—probably of a four or five-storey building—but could not see much of the rescue operation or the scene below.

So, I climbed down and sprinted past several adjacent buildings, then scaled an iron grill between two blocks and reached near the school’s transport area. Seeing barbed wire fencing, I looked for an alternative entrance.

Finding none, I climbed a mango tree and crossed the fence to enter the college grounds. A security guard tried to stop me, but after persistent requests and showing my press ID, he let me pass, only for me to be stopped again moments later by soldiers and volunteers overseeing rescue and security.

Eventually, after multiple requests, I was allowed into the site of the crash. I immediately began taking photos and recording videos of the rescue efforts and sent them via WhatsApp to the newsroom.

Fire service trucks, ambulances, and rescue teams were rushing about. Stretchers were coming in one after another. Injured victims were being loaded and sent to hospitals with sirens blaring. I kept calling colleagues at the office to update them with the latest developments, photos, and videos.

Suddenly, I noticed a man with a microphone in front of the damaged building, urging people to donate blood. He was Md. Sabuj Mia, an accounting teacher at the school. I managed to speak to him briefly. He said that some students had already come out, while others were waiting for family. That is when the crash took place. He said he saw the torn bodies of at least three or four young children in front of the building.

As we spoke, a group of army personnel approached, and I had to leave the immediate area. I went to the back of the damaged building, where I saw part of the back wall had collapsed. Rescue workers were pulling out pieces of the wreckage from there. I took pictures quickly. A bit farther from the broken wall, I saw more debris. I rushed over to find charred chairs scattered on the ground, clearly from the damaged ground-floor classrooms.

Amid the wreckage and burnt furniture, my eyes fell on a half-burnt black shoe. As I filmed the shoe and surrounding debris, I suddenly felt a wave of grief. Tears welled up, and I could barely stand.

From 2 pm until 8:30 pm, I spoke with soldiers, police officers, fire officials, family members, and other witnesses. When I finally left for the office around 8:45 pm, I couldn’t stop thinking about that half-burnt shoe. I still do not know if the child it belonged to is alive...