Bangladesh Defense
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Attacks on media houses, unruly politics, and the new democratic risk
The smoke that rose from Karwan Bazar during the early hours of December 19 did not begin with fire.
Attacks on media houses, unruly politics, and the new democratic risk
'The fire in Karwan Bazar was not just an attack on two newspaper buildings; it was also an attack on press freedom.' FILE PHOTO: MD ABBAS
The smoke that rose from Karwan Bazar during the early hours of December 19 did not begin with fire. It started with grief, or so it seemed, apparently over the tragic killing of young leader Sharif Osman Hadi that shook the entire nation. In reality, that grief was exploited by vested quarters to do what many believe they wanted to do for long. Thus, the attacks on the offices of Prothom Alo and The Daily Star, along with the unruly behaviour directed at New Age editor Nurul Kabir, were not spontaneous outbursts borne out of mourning. They were the result of a political atmosphere in which anger is weaponised and violence is quietly rationalised as moral action. Hadi's killing became the emotional trigger, but the target was the press. That shift tells us something deeply unsettling about how dissent, grief, and power are being managed today.
When the state cannot clearly and forcefully defend journalists, it sends a message that some forms of violence are tolerable, even if they are officially condemned. Democracy does not collapse all at once. It erodes slowly, through moments when the state hesitates and non-state actors step forward to fill the space.
The most troubling feature of these attacks is that they were carried out by groups that do not formally control the state, yet claim moral authority over it. These actors claim to defend national interest, religious values, or popular sentiment. In reality, they operate outside the law while masquerading as patriots or devotees. This is a classic pattern seen in fragile democracies. When unruly groups begin to decide who is loyal and who is a traitor, the rule of law is replaced by sheer misjudgement.
Hadi's killing intensified this process. His death created a powerful emotional narrative, especially among a section of young people who already distrust institutions. Instead of channelling that grief towards demands for investigation, accountability, and reform, influential voices redirected it towards media houses. They were accused of distortion, bias, or silence. Whether these accusations are fair or not became irrelevant. What mattered was that the press had become a symbol, and symbols are easily burned.
This redirection did not happen organically. A significant role was played by online figures operating from outside the country. These digital actors speak loudly but risk nothing. From safe distances in Europe or North America, they frame events in moral absolutes and encourage confrontation. They do not face tear gas, arrest, or retaliation. Those consequences fall on young men on the streets, many of whom believe they are acting heroically. In this sense, the violence against media houses was due as much to local anger as to outsourced radicalisation.
At the heart of this lies a dangerous misunderstanding of how media power actually works. Many attackers seem to believe that newspapers possess an almost magical ability to shape public opinion and fate, as if a single headline can sway the thoughts of millions overnight. This belief comes from an outdated view of communication, one that treats audiences as passive and the media as all-powerful. Modern research shows the opposite. Media influence is limited, filtered through personal beliefs, social networks, and digital algorithms. People choose what they consume. They argue, reject, remix, and ignore.
In today's Bangladesh, newspapers are no longer the dominant source of information. Social media platforms shape opinion far more aggressively and far less responsibly. Rumours spread faster than facts, and outrage travels further than evidence. If the genuine concern were manipulation, attention would be directed towards unregulated digital ecosystems. Burning newspaper offices does nothing to solve that problem. It only creates fear and silence.
Yet, defending the press does not mean denying its weaknesses. Major media houses in Bangladesh have often failed to communicate effectively with the public, particularly with younger generations. They often speak in formal language, remain distant during crises, and assume that credibility speaks for itself. In a polarised environment, that assumption can be fatal. When accusations of being "anti-state" circulated, media institutions responded slowly and defensively. They did not explain their editorial processes. They did not humanise their tone. They did not actively engage in online narratives that were turning hostile.
This gap made it easier for non-state actors to define the media before the media could define itself. Silence was interpreted as arrogance or guilt. In an age where perception moves faster than truth, that silence became dangerous.
To understand why this moment matters, it is helpful to consider a simple model of media attacks by non-state actors. The process usually unfolds in five stages. First, a triggering event occurs, often involving death, injustice, or humiliation. Hadi's killing fits this stage. Second, emotional narratives spread rapidly, amplified by social media and external influencers. Third, the media is framed as an enemy, accused of betrayal or distortion. Fourth, symbolic violence is carried out against media institutions to demonstrate power and unity. Ultimately, fear sets in, leading to self-censorship and a weakening of accountability.
This model shows why such attacks are not isolated incidents. They are structural threats to democracy. Bangladesh is now witnessing the emergence of non-state actors hell-bent on threatening media freedom.
The state's response at this stage is crucial. Condemnation without enforcement is not enough. The interim government must make it unmistakably clear that violence against the press is a red line. That means arrests, prosecutions, and public accountability, regardless of who the perpetrators claim to represent.
At the same time, media institutions must change. They cannot afford to remain insulated silos. They must engage directly with citizens, especially young people. They must explain why journalism matters, how stories are verified, and where mistakes are acknowledged and corrected. Trust cannot be assumed. It must be rebuilt, patiently and publicly.
Hadi's death should have led to national reflection and institutional reform. Instead, it was weaponised to justify attacks on the very institutions that could have helped uncover the truth and demand justice. That inversion is the real tragedy. When grief is turned into violence and journalism becomes the enemy, democracy stands on fragile ground.
The fire in Karwan Bazar was not just an attack on two newspaper buildings; it was also an attack on press freedom. It was a signal that showed how quickly anger can be redirected, how easily non-state actors can shape political action, and how vulnerable democratic institutions become when both the state and the media fail to act decisively. If this moment is not taken seriously, the next crisis will be worse. And the subsequent fire may not stop at media houses.
Dr S M Rezwan-Ul-Alam is associate professor of media, communication, and journalism at North South University.
'The fire in Karwan Bazar was not just an attack on two newspaper buildings; it was also an attack on press freedom.' FILE PHOTO: MD ABBAS
The smoke that rose from Karwan Bazar during the early hours of December 19 did not begin with fire. It started with grief, or so it seemed, apparently over the tragic killing of young leader Sharif Osman Hadi that shook the entire nation. In reality, that grief was exploited by vested quarters to do what many believe they wanted to do for long. Thus, the attacks on the offices of Prothom Alo and The Daily Star, along with the unruly behaviour directed at New Age editor Nurul Kabir, were not spontaneous outbursts borne out of mourning. They were the result of a political atmosphere in which anger is weaponised and violence is quietly rationalised as moral action. Hadi's killing became the emotional trigger, but the target was the press. That shift tells us something deeply unsettling about how dissent, grief, and power are being managed today.
When the state cannot clearly and forcefully defend journalists, it sends a message that some forms of violence are tolerable, even if they are officially condemned. Democracy does not collapse all at once. It erodes slowly, through moments when the state hesitates and non-state actors step forward to fill the space.
The most troubling feature of these attacks is that they were carried out by groups that do not formally control the state, yet claim moral authority over it. These actors claim to defend national interest, religious values, or popular sentiment. In reality, they operate outside the law while masquerading as patriots or devotees. This is a classic pattern seen in fragile democracies. When unruly groups begin to decide who is loyal and who is a traitor, the rule of law is replaced by sheer misjudgement.
Hadi's killing intensified this process. His death created a powerful emotional narrative, especially among a section of young people who already distrust institutions. Instead of channelling that grief towards demands for investigation, accountability, and reform, influential voices redirected it towards media houses. They were accused of distortion, bias, or silence. Whether these accusations are fair or not became irrelevant. What mattered was that the press had become a symbol, and symbols are easily burned.
This redirection did not happen organically. A significant role was played by online figures operating from outside the country. These digital actors speak loudly but risk nothing. From safe distances in Europe or North America, they frame events in moral absolutes and encourage confrontation. They do not face tear gas, arrest, or retaliation. Those consequences fall on young men on the streets, many of whom believe they are acting heroically. In this sense, the violence against media houses was due as much to local anger as to outsourced radicalisation.
At the heart of this lies a dangerous misunderstanding of how media power actually works. Many attackers seem to believe that newspapers possess an almost magical ability to shape public opinion and fate, as if a single headline can sway the thoughts of millions overnight. This belief comes from an outdated view of communication, one that treats audiences as passive and the media as all-powerful. Modern research shows the opposite. Media influence is limited, filtered through personal beliefs, social networks, and digital algorithms. People choose what they consume. They argue, reject, remix, and ignore.
In today's Bangladesh, newspapers are no longer the dominant source of information. Social media platforms shape opinion far more aggressively and far less responsibly. Rumours spread faster than facts, and outrage travels further than evidence. If the genuine concern were manipulation, attention would be directed towards unregulated digital ecosystems. Burning newspaper offices does nothing to solve that problem. It only creates fear and silence.
Yet, defending the press does not mean denying its weaknesses. Major media houses in Bangladesh have often failed to communicate effectively with the public, particularly with younger generations. They often speak in formal language, remain distant during crises, and assume that credibility speaks for itself. In a polarised environment, that assumption can be fatal. When accusations of being "anti-state" circulated, media institutions responded slowly and defensively. They did not explain their editorial processes. They did not humanise their tone. They did not actively engage in online narratives that were turning hostile.
This gap made it easier for non-state actors to define the media before the media could define itself. Silence was interpreted as arrogance or guilt. In an age where perception moves faster than truth, that silence became dangerous.
To understand why this moment matters, it is helpful to consider a simple model of media attacks by non-state actors. The process usually unfolds in five stages. First, a triggering event occurs, often involving death, injustice, or humiliation. Hadi's killing fits this stage. Second, emotional narratives spread rapidly, amplified by social media and external influencers. Third, the media is framed as an enemy, accused of betrayal or distortion. Fourth, symbolic violence is carried out against media institutions to demonstrate power and unity. Ultimately, fear sets in, leading to self-censorship and a weakening of accountability.
This model shows why such attacks are not isolated incidents. They are structural threats to democracy. Bangladesh is now witnessing the emergence of non-state actors hell-bent on threatening media freedom.
The state's response at this stage is crucial. Condemnation without enforcement is not enough. The interim government must make it unmistakably clear that violence against the press is a red line. That means arrests, prosecutions, and public accountability, regardless of who the perpetrators claim to represent.
At the same time, media institutions must change. They cannot afford to remain insulated silos. They must engage directly with citizens, especially young people. They must explain why journalism matters, how stories are verified, and where mistakes are acknowledged and corrected. Trust cannot be assumed. It must be rebuilt, patiently and publicly.
Hadi's death should have led to national reflection and institutional reform. Instead, it was weaponised to justify attacks on the very institutions that could have helped uncover the truth and demand justice. That inversion is the real tragedy. When grief is turned into violence and journalism becomes the enemy, democracy stands on fragile ground.
The fire in Karwan Bazar was not just an attack on two newspaper buildings; it was also an attack on press freedom. It was a signal that showed how quickly anger can be redirected, how easily non-state actors can shape political action, and how vulnerable democratic institutions become when both the state and the media fail to act decisively. If this moment is not taken seriously, the next crisis will be worse. And the subsequent fire may not stop at media houses.
Dr S M Rezwan-Ul-Alam is associate professor of media, communication, and journalism at North South University.
