Bangladesh’s Reforms Collapse Under Extrajudicial Shadow

 

When the Yunus-led interim government assumed power on August 8, 2024, three days after a mass uprising toppled the Awami League regime, the country exhaled collectively. After nearly fifteen years of systematic rights violations, there was a government explicitly mandated to reform state institutions and restore the rule of law. Yet Odhikar's latest report, released on October 30, 2025, delivers a sobering verdict: at least forty people have been killed extrajudicially between August 9, 2024, and September 30, with eleven of these deaths occurring in the July-September period alone—well into the interim government's tenure.

Let me be precise about what we're discussing. These aren't deaths in combat or tragic accidents. Nineteen individuals were shot dead. Fourteen were tortured to death. Seven were beaten to death while in custody. Of the eleven killed extrajudicially in July-September, seven allegedly died at the hands of joint forces, three by police, and one by army personnel. The methods vary—six killed in gunfire, three tortured to death, two beaten to death—but the outcome remains grimly consistent: the state killing its citizens without trial, without due process, without the minimal protections that distinguish civilization from barbarism.

The numbers themselves tell a story that should alarm anyone concerned with Bangladesh's democratic trajectory. Twenty-seven people died in custody during July-September alone, bringing the thirteen-month total since the interim government's installation to eighty-eight. Think about that for a moment. We're not talking about a handful of aberrations or isolated incidents attributable to rogue actors. We're looking at a pattern—a system that continues to function precisely as it did under the regime it replaced.

And the violence extends far beyond extrajudicial killings. Political violence claimed forty-six lives in July-September, contributing to a total of 281 such deaths between August 2024 and September of this year. At least 687 girls and women were raped during this period, with 188 assaults occurring in the most recent three-month span. Another 153 people were beaten to death between August 2024 and September, forty-five of them in the latest quarter. These figures paint not merely a bleak picture—they suggest institutional collapse, a state apparatus unable or unwilling to protect its most vulnerable citizens.

Consider the historical precedent. When South Africa emerged from apartheid, the new government faced tremendous pressure to exact revenge on the previous regime's enforcers. Instead, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, for all its imperfections, chose accountability over vengeance. The message was clear: the cycle of violence stops here. Similarly, post-Franco Spain managed a transition to democracy precisely because reformers understood that new governments must embody new principles, not merely redirect old violence toward new targets.

Bangladesh's interim government, one suspects, grasps the importance of this principle intellectually. State governance reforms ranked high on their agenda from day one. Yet there remains a chasm between stated intentions and operational reality. Part of the challenge lies in the sheer complexity of reforming deeply entrenched institutional practices. Security forces don't transform overnight simply because new leadership issues directives. Decades of impunity have bred a culture where extrajudicial methods are seen not as violations but as efficient problem-solving.

But complexity cannot excuse complicity. The government's attention has understandably focused on electoral transition—a critical piece of democratic restoration. Yet law and order cannot be relegated to a secondary priority, addressed once more pressing matters are resolved. The two are inextricably linked. What credibility does an electoral process possess when conducted under the shadow of state-sanctioned violence? How can citizens trust a government that promises reform while bodies continue accumulating in police custody?

There's also the uncomfortable matter of denial. In some cases, according to available evidence, the government has simply refused to acknowledge what's plainly occurring. This is perhaps more troubling than mere inaction. Denial suggests either a fundamental unwillingness to confront the problem or a cynical calculation that public attention will eventually drift elsewhere. Neither possibility inspires confidence.

The solution, frustratingly simple in theory yet maddeningly difficult in practice, begins with accountability. Every extrajudicial killing demands credible investigation, not pro-forma inquiries designed to exonerate security forces but genuine examinations that follow evidence wherever it leads. Those responsible—whether individual officers or commanding authorities—must face consequences proportionate to their actions. This isn't about vengeance; it's about establishing that the law applies universally, that no one operates above it.

Justice must also arrive swiftly. Delayed justice, as the old maxim correctly observes, amounts to justice denied. But there's another dimension here: speed signals seriousness. When investigations languish for months or years, when prosecutions never materialize, security forces receive an unmistakable message—that official pronouncements about accountability are mere performance, easily ignored.

Consider what's at stake beyond the immediate victims and their families. Bangladesh's reformist government possesses a narrow window to establish its legitimacy, to demonstrate that the uprising that brought it to power actually changed something fundamental. Every extrajudicial killing shrinks that window. Every death in custody suggests that the revolution merely rearranged the furniture rather than rebuilding the house.

The international community watches too, though this shouldn't be the primary motivation. Bangladesh's democratic credentials, its treatment of citizens, its adherence to basic human rights standards—these factors influence everything from trade relationships to foreign investment to diplomatic standing. A country where the state routinely kills with impunity is a country that forfeits its claim to be taken seriously as a modern democracy.

More fundamentally, there's a question of national character, of what kind of society Bangladesh wishes to become. The interim government inherited a mandate for transformation. Citizens didn't risk their lives in the streets merely to replace one abusive regime with another that employs slightly different rhetoric while perpetuating identical violence. They demanded—and deserve—something categorically different: a state that protects rather than prey upon its people, institutions that serve rather than terrorize, a government that understands its power as a public trust rather than a license for impunity.

The path forward requires no mysterious innovation or complex theorizing. Stop the killing. Investigate thoroughly. Prosecute fairly. Implement systemic reforms that make future abuses structurally difficult rather than merely officially discouraged. It's unglamorous work, harder than grand pronouncements about reform, but infinitely more important.

Bangladesh's interim government faces a choice that will define its legacy and the country's trajectory. It can continue down the familiar path of promises unmatched by action, of reform rhetoric contradicted by operational reality. Or it can demonstrate that this moment genuinely represents a rupture with the past, that the uprising's demands will be honored not just in constitutional clauses but in how the state treats its most vulnerable citizens. The clock is ticking, the bodies are accumulating, and history is watching. What happens next will tell us whether Bangladesh's revolution succeeded or merely changed the cast while leaving the brutal script intact.


M A Hossain is a political and 
defense analyst based 
in Bangladesh.