Emran Emon :
At the stroke of midnight, when a university campus should have been blanketed in silence and study lamps, Chittagong University was instead shattered by cries of terror, chaos, and the clanging of makeshift weapons.
At Gate No. 2 of the campus, local residents of Jobra—summoned by announcements over mosque loudspeakers—launched a brutal and organized assault on students. Armed with indigenous weapons, they rained blows on unarmed students whose only “crime” was standing against an act of injustice.
The incident was sparked by a seemingly small episode that revealed the fragility of safety for students: a female student, delayed in returning to her rented accommodation, was verbally abused and physically assaulted by the building’s caretaker. When the news was spread, students rushed to demand justice.
Instead of addressing the grievance, the locals retaliated with a campaign of organized violence. Within hours, over fifty students were reportedly injured, many bleeding and scattered across alleys where they were mercilessly hunted down.
And where was the university administration during these hellish hours? Asleep, Detached, Paralyzed. Students were abandoned in their own campus, left to fend for their lives. The silence of the administration became a tacit ally of the attackers.
For nearly six decades—since the university’s inception—this syndicate (attackers) has flourished as an invisible power, both feared and untouchable. Successive administrations, regardless of political color, have made peace with it.
Why? Because the syndicate does not merely represent a band of unruly locals; it is entwined with business networks, political patronage, and informal protection rackets. University officials, politicians, and segments of law enforcement have all, in different ways, been stakeholders in this ecosystem of impunity.
This is why locals—many of them with little connection to the academic life of the university—act as if the campus is their fiefdom. They can harass female students, summon mobs through mosque microphones, break hostel gates, and attack students with iron rods, secure in the knowledge that nothing will touch them. Their roots are deep, and their patrons are powerful.
A university, by definition, should be a sanctuary for ideas, debate, and youthful imagination. But in Chittagong University, the very word “safety” is alien. Imagine a student entering the central medical center after being battered—only to find that there is no oxygen supply, no emergency preparedness, no adequate medicine beyond paracetamol.
For decades, students have mockingly dubbed it the “Napa Center,” as if the very notion of healthcare beyond painkillers was unthinkable. What could be more humiliating for a public university than failing to guarantee the most basic medical support for its students during a crisis?
This explains the arrogance of the attackers. They know they will not face consequences. They know their patrons will shelter them. They know that even if the blood dries on university grounds, the cycle of impunity will repeat itself.
And yet, there is an irony here. For all its violence and medieval barbarity, the Jobra Syndicate thrives not because it is strong, but because the university administration is weak. Strip away its protection, and it is nothing more than a mob without legitimacy. The tragedy is that those in power fear that breaking the syndicate would unravel their own web of business, politics, and privilege.
The crisis at Chittagong University is not unique. Around the world, universities have faced the suffocating grip of local dominance, political patronage, and criminal syndicates. In Pakistan, “student wings” of political parties often wielded sticks and firearms, transforming campuses into battlegrounds until strict administrative reforms curbed their reach.
In certain Indian universities, entrenched local mafias once controlled housing and transportation, until student protests and judicial interventions forced accountability. Even in Latin America, universities like UNAM in Mexico City struggled with local gangs until collective student mobilization pressured the state to restore order.
The lesson is clear: syndicates are never eternal. They can be dismantled if there is political will, administrative resolve, and student solidarity. What Chittagong University suffers today is not fate but failure—the failure of its authorities to choose courage over convenience.
Independent Investigation: The attacks must be probed by a neutral commission, not by those already compromised. Names must be named. Evidence must be public. Accountability must be enforced.
Student Safety First: Every public university must have a fully equipped, 24/7 emergency medical center with oxygen, surgical kits, and trauma care. Anything less is criminal negligence.
Campus Security Reform: Security must not be outsourced to local power brokers. Professional, trained security personnel accountable directly to the university—not local syndicates—must be appointed.
Breaking Patronage Chains: The government and administration must publicly declare a zero-tolerance policy toward syndicates. Those who shelter them—be they politicians or officials—must face exposure.
Dialogue with Local Communities: Jobra residents are not a monolith. Many are peace-loving, many are themselves suffocated by the dominance of the syndicate. Constructive community engagement can separate ordinary locals from entrenched power brokers.
Empowering Students: Students must not be treated as passive victims. Formal student representation and watchdog mechanisms can ensure their grievances are addressed without fear of reprisal.
The power of youth must not be underestimated. The history of Bangladesh itself was written by students—at Language Movement martyrs’ graves, at the heart of the Liberation War, on the streets of Dhaka. The same resilience flows through today’s students of Chittagong University. They know that education cannot be sustained on fear. They know that silence is not an option.
The haunting question remains: what kind of university allows its students to be assaulted with iron rods while its administration slumbers? What kind of university cannot guarantee a female student’s safety at her own residence? What kind of university lets its medical center function without life-saving oxygen?
If Chittagong University continues this way, it ceases to be a university at all. It becomes a hostage ground—its students pawns, its administration collaborators, its locals masters.
The question is will the administration and state muster the courage to act before more blood is spilled? Or will they remain silent, until Chittagong University becomes a cautionary tale rather than a beacon of learning? For now, the students bleed. For now, Jobra rules. For now, the administration sleeps. But tomorrow need not be the same. Tomorrow can still be reclaimed.
(The writer is a journalist, columnist and global affairs analyst. He can be reached at [email protected])
