Wounds and the Will to Heal

July 12 was the International Day of Hope, a day created by the United Nations to remind us that even in our darkest hours, there is always room for courage, change, and renewal. It is a day that asks us not just to reflect, but to act. In Bangladesh, this year’s observance feels especially urgent.

Three recent events have shaken the nation to its core: a man beaten to death in broad daylight, record-breaking student failures in national exams, and another Bangladeshi life lost to gunfire along the border. These are not isolated tragedies. They are part of a deeper crisis, one that demands our attention, empathy and collective resolve.

Take the case of Lal Chand (also known as Sohag), a 39-year-old scrap trader in Old Dhaka. He reportedly refused to pay extortion money, and for that, he paid with his life. In front of onlookers, he was dragged out of his shop and beaten to death with concrete blocks and knives.

The video of the killing spread quickly, shocking the public. What unsettled many most was not just the brutality of the act, but how routine such violence has become. The involvement of political youth wings pointed to a disturbing nexus of crime and politics. And yet, hope sparked in the protests led by university students who demanded justice and accountability.
Meanwhile, the nation’s education system faced a different but equally distressing kind of breakdown. This year’s Secondary School Certificate (SSC) results were historically poor: over 600,000 students failed, with particularly low success rates in the humanities. These results reflect long-standing problems—an education culture focused more on grades than on real learning. The pandemic, of course, accelerated these cracks. Millions of students lost two formative years of schooling. Online education was a luxury many could not afford due to lack of devices, internet access or digital literacy.

Even those who managed to attend online classes often struggled with comprehension and retention. This learning gap, combined with heightened exam difficulty, proved catastrophic. The psychological impact is just as severe. Reports show rising anxiety, depression, and dropout rates among adolescents. Without strong mental health support in schools, students are left alone to deal with the pressure. For many, the exam results did not just signal academic failure; they felt like betrayal. A betrayal by a system that promised education as a ladder of opportunity but turned it into a trap of unreachable expectations.

Then, there is the story of Azgarh Ali, who was shot and killed by India’s Border Security Force (BSF) along the Thakurgaon frontier. His death is the latest in a troubling pattern of border violence where unarmed Bangladeshi civilians—often farmers or cattle traders—are killed without due process. These shootings violate not only human rights but also the basic principle of sovereignty. The rationale offered—anti-smuggling enforcement—cannot justify the loss of innocent lives. Such actions have led to recurring diplomatic tensions, but still, the killings continue. The silence surrounding these deaths is deafening.

Together, these incidents highlight a society grappling with fragility of life, justice and trust in institutions. Whether it is a trader murdered in the heart of the city, students abandoned by an ineffective education system, or a civilian killed at the border, the thread running through them is neglect—by those in power, by systems that fail and by a society that too often moves on. These are not just stories of loss; they are stories that demand attention, reform and remembrance.

From a social science perspective, these events reflect what German sociologist Max Weber called a “crisis of legitimacy”. When institutions like law enforcement, education boards, diplomatic channels fail to function transparently and fairly, people lose faith. Without legitimacy, even the best-constructed systems crumble.

In such a vacuum, impunity thrives, violence escalates and public trust dissolves. Citizens begin to believe that justice is a privilege, not a right. Literature, too, offers insight. In The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy writes, "Things can change in a day." In Bangladesh, too, days have changed lives—Sohag's lynching, a student’s despair, a border villager’s final breath. Roy shows us that systemic injustice is never abstract; it penetrates families, memories and the very rhythm of daily life. These stories are not merely news—they are deeply human narratives, echoing across generations. Yet not all is lost. As Brazilian educator Paulo Freire wrote in Pedagogy of the Oppressed, true change begins with critical awareness. When we recognise injustice, we create space for transformation. The student protests, the public outcry, and the conversations sparked by these tragedies are signs that awareness is growing. The real test is whether this awareness will translate into meaningful change.

In all three cases, action must follow grief. For Sohag, justice must come not only through trials but through dismantling the culture of extortion and political thuggery. For our students, the failure must serve as a wake-up call to reform education, making it learner-focused, creative and humane. For our border victims, Bangladesh must assert its moral and legal authority through stronger diplomatic efforts and sustained international pressure. Hope, in this context, is not passive. It is active. It is the refusal to accept that violence, failure and death are inevitable. It is the insistence that human dignity matters, even when institutions forget. The International Day of Hope reminds us that in confronting injustice with clarity and compassion, we build not just better systems but a better nation.
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The writer is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Philosophy at IUBAT and pursuing a Masters in Human Rights and Multiculturalism at University of South Eastern Norway