The Oath of Russell’s Blood: We must be victorious

By M. Nazrul Islam Look to the east, where the crimson sun peeks through the darkness — smiling, radiant. Doesn’t it look like the tender smile of little Sheikh Russell? Even the morning dew resting on the grass blades seems to carry traces of his laughter — glittering in the gentle warmth of a late autumn sun.

Today belongs to him — the boy named after Bertrand Russell. The beloved youngest among two brothers and two sisters, always playful with his sisters-in-law, was wrapped in his mother’s endless affection. In the end, it was to his mother he turned — his final refuge. That dark dawn, when the world slipped away from him, he wanted only to reach her side. And it was with his mother that he began his eternal journey.

Little Russell was his father’s dearest treasure — always by his side. Did he dream like his father did? Certainly, his father had dreams for him, too. Like any other child, he went to school every morning. A fourth-grade student, loved by all his friends, admired for his gentleness and charm.

He was like a celestial child — a divine soul with eyes full of wonder, naturally drawing everyone toward him. Innocence glowed in those eyes. His days flowed gently, carried by the love of his parents and siblings. As Rabindranath Tagore once wrote:

“The body was light, the age was tender — like a bird without wings.”

He was indeed that tender in age. In front of their home at 677, Road 32, Dhanmondi, lay the lake — the street stretching far ahead. On his three-wheeled bicycle, Russell explored that world, slowly expanding his little universe.

What dreams did this adored child carry in his heart? What messages did the sunrise whisper to him? What secrets did the evening sky confide? We will never know.

Teachers loved him dearly — at school and at home. When classes ended and the clouds gathered near the rooftops, perhaps he gazed at them, lost in fairy tales he loved so much. He was full of sweet demands — from his mother, from his sisters.

Russell loved flowers — especially red roses. His garden bloomed with jasmine, gardenia, and chrysanthemums. Butterflies danced over marigolds and balsams. He, too, was a flower of that garden — tender and pure.

Like the morning star that shines and vanishes in an instant, Russell too appeared like a star… only to fade at life’s dawn. Who still remembers him? To find that answer, we return to poetry:

“The killer never understood the innocent child’s heart,

Nor the sisters’ love.

The killer only knew how to pull the trigger,

Blind to the nation’s future.

Intoxicated by false power,

He celebrated death —

Even the child became his target.

History has recorded the pain,

But not the countless hearts

Drowning silently in endless sorrow.”

At that tender age — when dreams first take flight — Russell was taken away. At that age, every child is a little king, building a world of their own.

“Sister’s eyes — sleepless, searching day and night,

Restlessly seeking her brother’s face.”

Perhaps, even now, his sisters speak to him in silence.

Oh, their beloved little brother — where are you now?

Are you shining somewhere as a distant star?

“In her heart, she whispers always:

‘Russell, come back, my boy.

Come, stand before me with that sweet smile,

And the river of joy will flow once more.’”

On this day, Russell’s birthday, his sisters may open the old albums, caressing the photographs — whispering, “Happy birthday to you.”

Perhaps, closing their eyes, they return to those days when he played hide and seek — when the house rang with laughter.

“In memory’s mirror, his smiling face remains —

Bringing both joy and tears.

The air grows heavy with sighs,

As tears fall silently for the brother who never returns.”

Our beloved Russell will never come back. His mischievous grin will no longer fill the house with joy. He lives on only as memory — a face forever bright within our hearts. That dear, playful smile still flickers in the mirror of remembrance, stirring waves of grief in the sisters’ eyes, in the sea of sorrow that never rests.

Now autumn has arrived. The white kash flowers sway along the riverbank. Jasmine, kamini, and mallika bloom in fragrance. The shiuli and chatim fill the night with sweetness. Every flower that blooms today — blooms for Russell. Every bird that sings — sings for Sheikh Russell.

“Whose gentle face once invited dreams with a soft kiss —

He is no more.

Thoughts wander, covered in the dust of memory,

Searching every corner of the home once filled with laughter.”

The assassin’s merciless bullet ended the life of that innocent boy. But what was his fault? A child untouched by the world’s cruelties — why did he have to be a victim of conspiracy? Why was he forced to cross into eternity before he could even dream?

There was only one reason: to erase the bloodline of the Greatest Bengali of all time, to avenge the defeat of 1971, to secure the killers’ own future. Their conspiracy began in ’71 — and it continues even today.

Bangladesh has once again fallen under the grip of those conspirators. The same evil forces that murdered Sheikh Russell and his family are once again shedding blood across the land. They seek to erase our history, our heritage, our victories of the Liberation War. These betrayers of the nation have even burned the Bangabandhu Memorial Museum — setting fire to Bangladesh’s very history.

The traitor Yunus presses the reset button — aiming to erase 1952, 1962, 1969, even 1971, and all the proud chapters of our national identity. They seek to abolish our secular Constitution and drag the nation back into darkness.

On this day, how we wish Sheikh Russell were here — to lead a new battle against this rising tide of evil. Had he lived, his fire could have ignited a revolution — a flame against injustice, a call for renewal. His voice would have stirred the people once again to complete the unfinished war of liberation.

Russell may no longer be with us in body, but he lives on — in every heart that beats for Bangladesh. We hear his call still — the call for change.

On this 18th of October, Sheikh Russell’s birthday, we take an oath:

Those who conspire against the Bengali nation — their venom must be uprooted completely.

The collaborators and killers of 1971, and their heirs, must finally face justice.

The blood of little Russell flows through our veins.

And with that blood, we swear:

We must — and we will — be victorious.

Nazrul Islam: President, All-European Awami League; Austria-based human rights activist, writer, and journalist