Let This Be Her Medal: The Maherin Medal for Civilian Sacrifice

23 July 2025

My cousin died in a tragedy. But the real tragedy is that Bangladesh has no name for women like her.

Maherin wasn’t just a name I knew—she was family. My cousin. The daughter of my mother’s brother. Though life had stretched us across continents—me in the U.S., she in Bangladesh—we were growing close again.

Since the political shift of 2024, I’d been spending more time in Dhaka. The nation was calling calling, and I finally found a small part to play. And as I returned more frequently, Maherin and I—like cousins often do—began to rediscover each other. It started with messages, then calls. Then came the day she invited the family to her home in Uttara. Our two aunts from North America were visiting, and with both our parents gone, Maherin saw the moment for what it was: a chance to gather what was left of us and stitch something whole again.

I remember walking into her apartment and being hit by the smell of spices and home—the kind of scent that can stop time. For a few hours, we were back in a world where cousins were best friends and family dinners weren’t optional. That night, we laughed like we were ten again. From then on, we spoke often. Random calls. Plans. She had so many. We were supposed to meet the following Thursday. She called me the day before the catastrophe. I had just returned from the U.S., sick from food poisoning but glad to be back. She sounded energized. Alive.

And then she was gone.

The Sky Fell

The next day, around 2 p.m., I forced myself into work despite still feeling ill. As I was sitting down in the car seat, I overheard a man outside—just a random motorcyclist—speaking loudly into his phone.

“A plane crashed into a school.”

My blood ran cold.

Her school.

I called her immediately. No answer. I called again. And again.

Later I would understand—her phone had likely melted in the fire.

I called my wife in a panic, asking her to check with the family. To find out. To deny it. Maybe she had stepped out. Maybe she had been late that day. Maybe…

But we both knew.

She died because she showed up. Because she stayed. Because she was doing what she always did—serving others, protecting those in her care.

And now, she’s just another headline no one remembers. Another woman who gave everything for her people, and got nothing in return.

This Country Doesn’t Know How to Honor Death

Maherin didn’t die in a war. She didn’t belong to a political party. She didn’t march. She didn’t lobby. She didn’t trend.

She just… lived well. Loved hard. Worked quietly.

And when the unthinkable happened, she didn’t run.

She stayed.

And she died doing her duty.

Bangladesh has no award for people like that.

We have medals for battlefield bravery. We have trophies for politics and patronage. We even have honorary titles for the well-connected. But we have nothing—nothing—for the selfless civilians who lay down their lives without fanfare.

We say we honor sacrifice, but we only seem to honor it when it’s convenient, historic, or televised.

Let This Be Her Medal

It’s time to change that.

I’m calling for a national civilian award—one reserved solely for those who give their life selflessly in the service of others. Not for those who served well. Not for long years in a position. Not for philanthropy with PR. But only for those who died in acts of quiet courage and moral responsibility.

Let it be called: The Maherin Medal for Civilian Sacrifice.

And let it come with one unbreakable rule:

No political affiliations. 

No nominations from parties. 

No backroom deals.

This cannot become another ribbon handed out during Independence Day speeches to people with connections. This has to mean something.

Let it be awarded to:

• The teacher who shields her students from fire.

• The health worker who walks into an epidemic and never comes back.

• The citizen who saves lives in floods, fires, or crashes—and pays for it with their own.

Let it go to people who never asked for a medal, and can no longer receive one.

Because Some Deaths Must Shame the Living

This is no longer about grief.

This is about responsibility.

If Bangladesh cannot recognize the quiet heroism of those who give their lives for others, then it does not deserve to call itself a grateful nation.

We do not need another monument.

We need memory. We need accountability. We need to teach our children what real sacrifice looks like.

Maherin didn’t just die.

She gave her life—through years of care, and in one final moment of duty.

Let this be her medal.

Let her name be the first on the list.

And let that list never grow too long—but never go unwritten again.