Last year, around this time, we carried the hope of reforming our country. We dreamed of building a just and prosperous nation — one that would flourish and serve as a model for others. It was a hope that echoed the spirit of our independence: the determination to rebuild. As a young student, it felt deeply promising to witness the winds of change. We wanted every broken system of the nation to be rebuilt from the ground up.

For once, it felt as if a new chapter in Bangladesh’s history was being written before our eyes. The call for reform even sparked a wave of ‘reverse brain drain,’ with many renowned professionals expressing their eagerness to return to Bangladesh and take part in rebuilding the nation.

BUET carries a certain notoriety for brain drain, often described as the single largest source of talent leaving the country. From my very first semester, one message was constant: the best career choice was either to go abroad or to prepare for the PSC (Public Service Commission) exams to secure cadre jobs.

What was rarely encouraged, however, was joining government engineering services. The problems within the system were hardly discussed, because everyone knew it was broken beyond repair. Yet, after the July Uprising, a new sense of hope emerged. We began to dream of reform — not just in education or engineering, but across every sector of the country: a fair judiciary, a fair administration, and ultimately, a just system for all.

At BUET, I have witnessed many protests, particularly against attempts by the former government to infiltrate our campus through its student wing. But the spirit that shaped these movements was born earlier. In 2019, one of the darkest chapters in our university’s history unfolded when our senior, Abrar Fahad, was brutally tortured and killed by members of the ruling party’s student wing. That tragedy shook the entire nation and transformed our campus forever. In its aftermath, students rose with unprecedented courage, refusing even to hand over CCTV footage without keeping a copy. Such defiance came from a deep distrust of the police — a fear that evidence would be tampered with, documents falsified, and justice ultimately denied.

We always carried the fear that either the police or the judiciary might grant the culprits immunity from justice. That lingering distrust kept us constantly vigilant, prepared to resist any attempt by the state machinery to distort the truth.

The previous government repeatedly tried to infiltrate our campus, attempting to impose control through its now-banned student wing. We had to protest many such attempts, one of the most significant coming just before the July Uprising. Had the uprising not toppled the government, it seemed almost inevitable that political activities would have been forced back into our campus life.

Everything we faced stemmed from the same fight — resisting a system rotten at its foundation. We dreamed of a government where we wouldn’t have to fight for our lawful rights. Yet, one year after the Uprising, we find ourselves back on the streets, pressing our demands. Once again, police responded with excessive force against peaceful protestors, injuring more than fifty students from BUET and other engineering universities.

What followed laid bare just how rotten the system remains. That night, the Police Commissioner, S. M. Sazzat Ali, came to Shahbagh, offering words of sorrow for the actions taken. But those words rang hollow. By the next day, the DMP (Dhaka Metropolitan Police) rushed to publish photos of injured policemen, a clumsy attempt at shifting the narrative.

Instead of sympathy, the images became instant meme material on social media, ridiculed for their obvious intent. The real outrage came when a photo of my junior, Rafid Khan — held down, muzzled by hand, kicked and beaten by police — spread across social media. Rather than acknowledging the brutality, the authorities shamelessly dismissed the picture as fake. It was only later that The Business Standard photojournalist Rajib Dhar confirmed it was his photograph, exposing the DMP’s claim as false. It showed, once again, that in Bangladesh the burden of truth falls on citizens and journalists — never on the state.

After the July Uprising, we expected a system where we wouldn’t be beaten up by police for a lawful and peaceful protest. We didn’t expect police to try to muzzle the voice and exercise power to suppress a lawful protest. Most shocking of all, we did not expect them to lie so blatantly — falsifying concrete evidence and even attempting to dismiss it as AI-generated, while dozens of journalists stood present at the scene.

It is very unlikely for students to take to the streets. But the problem is, the government seems reluctant to act unless there is visible pressure. When approached through proper channels, they often turn a blind eye — as if silence is preferable so long as the issue doesn’t erupt into chaos.

In today’s context, not every protest around Shahbagh, the Secretariat, or the Chief Advisor’s residence may be fully justified. But the government must act responsibly, not seek to unduly suppress all protests. If a handful of people can pressure the state to call off the HSC examinations — one of the most crucial milestones in the life of a student — then how prudent are the government’s decisions?

Again, the government’s selective responses to protests raise troubling questions. Some protests are facilitated, while others are suppressed. Are some voices “more equal” than others? And what does it mean when a state machinery itself falsifies evidence to build a reverse narrative, eluding justice? Did we ever expect that, in a “new” Bangladesh, the police would be caught fabricating evidence? What matters more: changing the color of the uniform or building a culture of accountability? The former is easier to do and easier to display as change, but the latter is far more difficult. And haven’t we dreamt of a real change rather than a cosmetic one?

The police have indeed gone through a traumatic stage since the Uprising, and it is true they are struggling to regain public trust. But protecting their own officers at the cost of truth only widens the rift between the police and the people. It also creates a sense of impunity in police — where loyalty is rewarded, while accountability is ignored. If the government truly wants to bring change, it must reject this culture of impunity. The reform that people dream of is not cosmetic but fundamental. It is a culture where accountability outweighs loyalty and where institutions serve justice instead of shielding their own.

As time passes, the hope for reform grows dimmer. Our struggle began with a simple demand: reform in the country’s engineering sector. But when we took to the streets to press for our lawful rights, we were confronted with something larger — that the rot runs far beyond one sector. It seems reform itself has been reduced to a word rather than an action. Even after a drastic change in the government, the new police mirror the old habits: muzzling voices, twisting facts, and shamelessly defending their own.

Such behaviour is deeply disheartening, and it forces us to confront a painful truth — without reform in the very systems meant to protect justice, the promise of change will remain unfulfilled. Unless change reaches the roots, the New Bangladesh will remain nothing more than the Old Bangladesh, endlessly recycled.