Persistence of Corporal Punishment in Our Classrooms

Every few years, Bangladesh rediscovers a truth it never truly confronts: the children are still being hurt in the very places meant to protect them.

Classrooms that should echo with curiosity and confidence instead carry the sounds of fear, restrained sobs and the familiar authority of raised hands.

Society reacts with momentary outrage, legal reminders and solemn statements, as though this cruelty were a sudden deviation rather than a long-accommodated habit.

Like the children in countless stories who learn early that silence ensures survival, we too avert our eyes, convincing ourselves that pain delivered in the name of discipline is somehow less painful.

What resurfaces today in viral videos and alarming statistics is not a new moral failure but an inherited one, passed down quietly, justified lovingly and defended as necessity.

Ain o Salish Kendra’s report based on their observation of the situation over the past five years reveal a disturbing pattern.

Incidents reported from districts such as Gazipur, Chattogram, Narsingdi and Brahmanbaria show that children were beaten with sticks for failing to memorise lessons, students were sent home to conceal injuries, and school authorities attempted quiet resolutions to avoid scrutiny. 

This pattern exposes a deeper truth about how power operates within educational spaces. The teacher stands not only as an instructor but as an unquestionable authority, backed by social reverence and parental trust. When that authority turns violent, children have nowhere to go.

Complaints are silenced by fear of academic retaliation, social stigma and the overwhelming imbalance between institutions and families. The result is a culture where abuse survives through obedience.

Compounding this silence is a widespread nostalgia that romanticises suffering. Often social media posts listed dozens of trivial reasons for which children in the 1990s were beaten, triggering affectionate recollections rather than discomfort. Many proudly claimed that such punishment shaped their character. But, literature has long warned how easily pain masquerades as virtue when generations refuse to name their wounds. Violence remembered fondly does not lose its cruelty. It only becomes normalised.

This belief that physical punishment builds moral fibre persists despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Research consistently shows that corporal punishment damages rather than disciplines. It may produce immediate compliance, but it fails to cultivate understanding, self-regulation or empathy. Children learn not why behaviour is wrong but how to avoid detection. Fear replaces curiosity. Obedience replaces growth.

In Bangladesh, the scale of this violence extends far beyond classrooms. National survey data indicate that nearly nine in ten children between the ages of one and fourteen have experienced corporal punishment at home or elsewhere. More than one third of parents believe such punishment is necessary. This reveals a society that does not merely tolerate violence against children but integrates it into everyday childrearing. The classroom becomes a continuation of the home, not a refuge from it.

The psychological consequences are neither abstract nor temporary. Children subjected to repeated physical punishment often carry its effects well into adulthood. Anxiety, depression, low self-esteem and emotional instability become quiet companions. Learning environments associated with fear stunt cognitive and socio-emotional development. Over time, the child either withdraws or replicates what they have learned. Violence becomes language.

This helps explain why cycles of aggression persist across generations. Children who grow up associating authority with pain are more likely to normalise abuse in future relationships, whether as perpetrators or silent sufferers. When trust is broken at an early age, it rarely repairs itself without intervention. The growing culture of adolescent violence, impulsivity and antisocial behaviour does not emerge in a vacuum. It grows in soil fertilised by fear.

What makes this tragedy more painful is that it unfolds despite clear legal prohibitions. Corporal punishment has been banned in educational institutions for over a decade. Court rulings have declared it a violation of fundamental rights. Laws criminalise both physical and mental abuse of children. Yet enforcement remains fragile. Investigations are slow. Consequences are rare. Transfers replace accountability. Institutions protect reputations rather than children.

Part of the failure lies in teacher preparation. Many educators enter classrooms without adequate training in child psychology or nonviolent classroom management.

Overburdened by large class sizes, rigid curricula and performance pressures, some fall back on the methods they themselves endured. Violence becomes inherited pedagogy, passed from one generation of teachers to the next, unquestioned and unexamined.

Parents, too, often find themselves trapped between reverence and fear. Respect for teachers is deeply ingrained, sometimes to the point of surrendering parental authority altogether.

When abuse occurs, families hesitate. Reporting can invite backlash, social isolation or academic punishment for the child. Silence becomes a survival strategy.

This contradiction sits uncomfortably alongside Bangladesh’s ambitions. The nation speaks of innovation, demographic dividends and global competitiveness, yet continues to undermine the very minds it hopes to cultivate. Creativity cannot grow under threat. Confidence cannot thrive in fear. A child cannot be beaten into becoming thoughtful, ethical or resilient. Those qualities require safety.

Ending corporal punishment requires more than reiterating bans. It demands a collective moral shift. Teachers must be equipped with practical tools for positive discipline. Schools must establish transparent and child-friendly complaint mechanisms. Parents must be supported through awareness programmes that challenge harmful myths and offer alternatives rooted in empathy. Investigations must be swift, visible and decisive.

Most of all, society must confront its own discomfort. Defending corporal punishment often serves as a defence against acknowledging personal trauma.

Questioning it requires adults to revisit memories they would rather romanticise than grieve. But healing, whether personal or collective, begins with honesty.

Bangladesh has pledged to end violence against children by 2030. That promise cannot survive on paper alone. Every delay leaves another child learning fear before knowledge, silence before speech, obedience before dignity.

Beating children is not discipline. It is not culture. It is not care. It is a failure of empathy, governance and imagination. Until that failure is acknowledged, the classroom will remain a place where lessons are taught not through understanding, but through pain.