Murder at DU and JU: Must we emulate what we dismantled?

Waking up early, I expect the usual perks of an early start. But the quiet morning of September 19 carried a heaviness that left me wishing I hadn’t woken at all.
The news came quickly but in fragments. At Dhaka University’s (DU) Fazlul Huq Muslim Hall, a man named Tofazzal Hossain had been beaten to death by a group of students on suspicion of being a thief. The details were sparse, but they were enough to horrify. Violence where there should have been learning, young men turning on one of their own in a hall of a university that once stood as a symbol of resistance.
The story didn’t end there. Later, the name Shamim Ahmed surfaced – a former leader of the Bangladesh Chhatra League (BCL) at Jahangirnagar University. Last night, Ahmed had been assaulted on campus by students, a beating that cost him his life. There was neither peace nor refuge from the brutality on either one of the campuses; just two senseless deaths.
Reading about the vicious beating of Tofazzal Hossain, I was struck by the failure that allowed it to happen. How was it that neither students nor hall authorities intervened effectively in time to save him? The details of the assault are too harrowing to recount here, but suffice it to say, the extent of violence one endures before succumbing to such a brutal death is almost beyond imagination – yet tragically real.
The images of Tofazzal Hossain, quietly eating what would be his last meal, unsettle me in a way that words can rarely convey. There is something seriously grotesque about the sequence of events that occurred – a man was beaten, then offered food, only to be beaten again until life is snuffed out.
One of the accused recently took to a private Facebook group, teeming with thousands of DU students, to stake his claim in a peculiar defence. He boasted of his involvement in the July protests, asserting he could “prove” his association with the movement. But what does this have to do with the situation at hand? Absolutely nothing. It’s a curious, almost desperate attempt to deflect a not-so-subtle parade of virtue. After all, participation in a protest doesn’t instantly grant one sainthood.
As a student of Dhaka University, I’ve often noticed a prevailing sense of entitlement among my peers. There’s a particular strain of pride that runs deep, one that traces itself back to the legacy of student activism. Yet, the narrative that DU students alone were responsible for ousting a fascist leader – a feat that was really a collective effort by the broader public – reveals something more insidious. It’s a performance of superiority, a need to feel exceptional, even when the truth suggests otherwise. This is how self-righteousness becomes a shield – a way to claim credit when it’s only partially due.
No matter how deeply invested one is in a cause or how great the personal sacrifices made along the way are, the yardstick by which one’s actions are measured must remain consistent with that applied to others. In fact, there are times – often for reasons that reveal themselves in the quiet spaces between the headlines – when the scrutiny required must rise above the usual, demanding a more refined, perhaps even harsher, lens through which one’s choices and motives are assessed.
In the aftermath of what many of us students proudly deemed a historic moment – the destruction of a decade-and-a-half-long regime of creeping fascism – something unsettling began to stir. We thought that we had rid ourselves of the disease of authoritarianism, only to witness the emergence of its familiar patterns within our own ranks. 
The death of Abdullah Al Masud became a turning point. The principle of justice seemed to erode, replaced by a more primal instinct – retribution. A quiet justification of violence began to surface, an unsettling refrain that echoed: “Harm those who have wronged you, even if it means taking the law into your own hands.”
What had begun as a movement rooted in fairness and collective action was now mirroring the very forces it had sought to destroy. The recent incidents at Dhaka and Jahangirnagar Universities only solidified these fears. It was as if the ghosts of the fascist era, once banished, had returned; their shadows looming large over a generation that had once sworn never to let them rise again. In our victory, it seems, we may have overlooked one fundamental truth: destroying a regime is one thing; ensuring that its legacy doesn’t infect the future is another. 
According to a Bangla Tribune correspondent at Jahangirnagar University, a student coordinator with a stick was spotted while Shamim Ahmed was being beaten. This disturbing image represents a larger, more insidious precedent that threatens to sweep campuses in waves of fear and compliance. 
Those of us striving to advocate change are confronted with a terrifying question: How can we speak of progress when the ghosts of fascism still haunt us? What we are seeing is not simply mob violence but an ideology designed to alienate us from our sense of empathy. Even in its most diluted form, the shadow of tyranny is nonetheless a shadow. This collective recovery from a fascist past that has not totally subsided serves as both a reminder and a warning.
The deaths of Tofazzal Hossain and Shamim Ahmed are not isolated incidents but signs of a deeper decay. As we move forward, the challenge lies in recognising that progress cannot thrive under unchecked power or the casual acceptance of brutality. We must hold each individual accountable and question those who are in decision-making positions. 
In the face of continuous aggression, the issue is no longer limited to improving institutions or eliminating violence on college campuses. The more serious question that I am honing in on is how we can cope with the remaining spectres of a fascist regime that we thought we had defeated. In our eagerness to topple oppression, we may have unintentionally nourished it, changing a noble fight for justice into something darker – where murder is rationalised under the guise of justice and retribution replaces the values we once espoused.
Reference:
Bangla Tribune (September 19, 2024). ‘A coordinator was also seen holding a stick during the murder of BCL leader Shamim’.
Azra Humayra is majoring in Mass Communication and Journalism at Dhaka University.