H.M. Nazmul Alam

A society does not wake up one morning and discover that it has become violent. It drifts into that state gradually, much like how dampness spreads inside walls. By the time the cracks become visible, the foundation has already weakened.

The Madhabdi case carries additional layers that make it more uncomfortable. There have been allegations of prior sexual violence, and of local arbitration.

A faint gas smell is sometimes tolerated for hours. A regulator that hisses slightly is considered manageable. A minor spark in a switchboard is dismissed as routine. We are accustomed to improvisation in many aspects of life. Improvisation, however, is a poor strategy against combustible gases.

On a winter morning in Dhaka's Gulshan, a place better known for embassies, cafés and the illusion of order, a woman was tied to an electric pole and doused with water.

The alliance suggests that ideological clarity was always negotiable.

Dipu Chandra Das did not die because he insulted a religion. He died because accusation has become a more powerful weapon than truth, and because crowds in Bangladesh increasingly believe that outrage is evidence enough.

What makes these events unbearable is not only their brutality but also the uncanny normalisation that follows.

There are few places in a country that so completely represent its image as an airport. It is both a threshold and a mirror, reflecting not just the physical state of a nation but the moral tone of its institutions. For Bangladesh, Hazrat Shahjalal International Airport (HSIA) has long stood as that symbolic gateway—the first and last impression for millions who travel in and out of the country each year.