THE quota reform movement, a movement birthed from the desperate cries of Bangladesh鈥檚 youth, has transformed into a chilling indictment of a nation in crisis. What began as a plea for equitable opportunities in government service has morphed into a battleground where students face the full force of a militarised police state. The protesters, primarily students, faced a brutal crackdown by Bangladeshi law enforcement. Reports of tear gas, rubber bullets and live ammunition being used against peaceful demonstrators paint a grim picture of the state鈥檚 response. Tragic deaths of minors and students during these protests underscore the severe consequences of such force. Additionally, block raids and the ensuing panic not only violated the rights of the protesters but also fostered a climate of fear and intimidation among the general populace. These actions mirror those in Hong Kong and Ferguson, USA, where excessive force has been used to quell dissent.
On August 1, 2023, the Daily 抖阴精品 published my article titled 鈥�Militarisation of Police,鈥� where I expressed my apprehension that in the name of fighting terrorists and organised gangs, police, the guardians of peace, are being transformed into something altogether more sinister. Armed to the teeth with military hardware and trained in the tactics of war, they are becoming, in essence, soldiers in blue. It is a dangerous, insidious trend. When the police become an occupying force rather than a community service, when their batons and shields are replaced by assault rifles and armoured vehicles, that essential bond between citizen and protector, is eroded as fear takes its place and the very fabric of democracy begins to unravel. Trust, that essential bond between citizen and protector, is eroded as fear takes its place. And with that fear comes the potential for abuse, for the heavy hand of oppression disguised as law and order. My wildest dreams never foresaw that my apprehension would be proven true in the streets and residences of Bangladesh within a year.
The once hopeful streets of Dhaka and other major cities are now echo chambers for the cacophony of violence. Riot shields, once symbols of order, have become instruments of oppression, wielded against a generation demanding nothing more than a fair chance. The spectre of semi-automatic rifles, weapons of war, patrolling the city鈥檚 arteries is a grotesque perversion of security. These are not isolated incidents; they are symptoms of a global disease. The trend of arming police forces with military-grade equipment has spread like cancer, infecting nations from the Philippines to the heart of Europe. Tragically, Bangladesh has become its latest victim. The government has chosen to meet dissent with brute force, trading dialogue for bullets and hope for terror. In doing so, they have sown the seeds of a far greater conflict.
The brutal crackdown on the student movement is more than just a suppression of dissent; it鈥檚 a systematic assault on the very fabric of society. The psychological scars inflicted upon these young protesters will linger for generations. The fear that has gripped the nation is a chilling testament to the government鈥檚 disregard for its citizens. They came for the students in Dhaka. They came with riot shields and rifles, the tools of war against children. And the world watched, as it always does, with a distant, detached gaze. These were not cops anymore. They were stormtroopers, trained for the battlefield, unleashed on their own people. Semi-automatic rifles, the kind that chew through flesh and bone, became as common on Dhaka鈥檚 streets as rickshaws. And who gave them these toys? Who armed these children-hunters? The questions hang in the air, unanswered and chilling.
Blockades, a tactic more suited to war zones than urban centres, have become commonplace. Homes, once sanctuaries, have been transformed into fortresses under siege. The very notion of privacy and security has been eroded, replaced by a pervasive sense of vulnerability. Block raids, a blunt instrument wielded by the state, have become a battleground for rights and security. These sweeping operations, where entire neighbourhoods are encircled and homes turned inside out, are a potent symbol of the growing divide between the police and the public. When citizens are forced to live under the shadow of these raids, homes, once sanctuaries, become potential crime scenes, and lives are upended on mere suspicion. The elderly tremble, children are terrorised, and the innocent are caught in the crosshairs of a war they did not start.
Beyond the human toll, these raids raise profound legal questions. Are they a necessary evil in the fight against crime, or an unchecked power grab? When entire communities are treated like suspects, where does the line between lawful pursuit and oppression lie? And what of the marginalised, those already living on the fringes of society? Are they more likely to be the targets of these raids, their homes violated, their dignity trampled? It is a delicate balance, the scales tipping dangerously in favour of security over liberty. For when the state becomes too heavy-handed, it risks creating the very monsters it seeks to destroy. The blockades were a monstrous act. To seal off a city, to turn homes into fortresses, to terrorise a population 鈥� this is the work of occupiers, not guardians. And who were they hunting? Students? Idealists? Or were they simply casting a net wide, hoping to catch anything that moved?
This was not a revolution, not a coup. It was a demand for reforms in a discriminatory quota system, a bureaucratic squabble that exploded into a war zone. The streets of Dhaka, once filled with the hopeful hum of a burgeoning nation, echoed with the crack of batons and the shrill keening of tear gas. And at the heart of it all was a grotesque spectacle: the militarisation of the police. The student movement is a stark reminder that the pursuit of justice can come at a terrible cost. It is a call to action, a demand for accountability and a plea for a future where the rule of law prevails over the reign of force. Bangladesh鈥檚 darkest hour may be upon us, but it is not the end of the story. The resilience of its people, the courage of its youth and the unwavering pursuit of justice will ultimately determine the fate of a nation. For when a state turns its guns on its own people, it is a rejection of everything that civilisation stands for. And so we watch and we wait for the day when the ghost of Dhaka haunts the dreams of those who gave the order.
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Abdul Monaiem Kudrot Ullah, a retired captain of the Bangladesh navy, is an adjunct faculty of a private university.
