Bangladesh has long demonstrated an exceptional ability to absorb violence into the rhythm of daily life. A murder briefly becomes breaking news, a shooting sparks momentary outrage, and then traffic resumes, shops reopen, and the national conversation moves on.
What is new, and far more unsettling, is how gunfire itself is being normalized, not as an aberration but as a recurring feature of public space. When bullets are fired in broad daylight at political actors in the heart of the capital, it is no longer merely a crime problem. It is a statement.
The shooting of Osman Hadi in Bijoynagar was not an isolated act of violence, nor was it particularly surprising in the current climate. A political spokesperson, an organizer, and a potential parliamentary candidate, he was attacked in one of the most crowded and surveilled areas of Dhaka. That he survived, at least for now, is attributed to medical intervention rather than any preventative security arrangement. The incident was both symbolic and instructive. It demonstrated that proximity to power no longer guarantees protection, and visibility no longer ensures deterrence.
Hadi’s shooting fits neatly into a grim statistical pattern. In the 11 months from January to November, more than 230 people were shot across the country, with over 80 fatalities. These numbers alone should have triggered national alarm.
Yet what is more revealing is who the victims are. They are not confined to criminal networks or marginalized spaces. They include traders, young men, local leaders, political organizers, and public figures. Violence has escaped its traditional boundaries and now roams freely across class and geography.
Political violence, in particular, has surged with unnerving efficiency. More than 850 incidents linked to political disputes have resulted in at least 129 deaths and nearly 7,000 injuries in the same eleven-month period. These are not spontaneous eruptions of anger. They are structured confrontations driven by control over territory, influence, committees, extortion routes and pre-election positioning. The election calendar, as always, has a way of sharpening rivalries and lowering thresholds for force.
What makes the attack on Osman Hadi especially telling is not only who he is, but where and when it happened. Bijoynagar is not a remote alley or a forgotten suburb. It is central, visible, and politically conscious. If such an attack can occur there, it sends a message far beyond the intended target. It tells potential candidates, activists, and voters alike that participation carries risk, and that intimidation no longer requires subtlety.
The broader law and order picture only reinforces this anxiety. November alone saw nearly 280 murder cases nationwide, alongside hundreds of robberies, kidnappings, and thousands of cases involving violence against women and children. Over 14,000 criminal cases were filed in a single month. Dhaka led the count, followed by other metropolitan areas, suggesting that urban density has become an advantage not for policing, but for crime.
Public shootings, unlike other forms of violence, produce a unique psychological effect. They are loud, immediate, and theatrical. A gunshot does not merely harm a victim; it asserts dominance. It announces that someone is willing to defy the state in public view. Each such incident erodes confidence not incrementally, but exponentially. People do not need to be victims themselves to feel unsafe; they only need to witness how casually violence is deployed.
Official responses remain familiar. The situation is described as manageable, improving, under control. Security plans have been divided into phases, meetings have been held, warnings issued. On paper, the architecture of order appears intact. On the street, however, the experience is different. A normal situation does not require constant affirmation, and stability does not announce itself through press briefings.
One of the most persistent undercurrents in this crisis is the circulation of firearms. Despite strict laws, guns have become disturbingly accessible. Weapons looted during periods of upheaval remain unrecovered, with hundreds still unaccounted for. These firearms have not remained idle. They have re-entered society, fueling murders, extortion, and political intimidation. Each unrecovered weapon represents a failure not only of enforcement but of accountability.
The timing of all this could not be more precarious. With the national election approaching, violence takes on additional meaning. An election is not merely a vote; it is a collective exercise in trust. When candidates are attacked and activists killed, that trust fractures. Voters may still want to participate, but participation under fear is a hollow exercise.
The political landscape adds further tension. A major party remains absent from the ballot yet present in influence and sentiment. Rival parties are navigating internal disputes, shifting alliances and competitive positioning. Old grievances resurface, new ambitions collide, and the street becomes the preferred arena for settling disputes that institutions fail to contain. Elections do not create these tensions, but they concentrate them.
Human rights monitoring adds another layer of concern. Alongside shootings, there has been a rise in mob violence, attacks on journalists, custodial deaths, assaults on minorities, and suppression of expression. This suggests not a single crisis, but a convergence of many. Violence is no longer purely instrumental; it has become expressive, a language used to communicate power, frustration, and impunity.
What is striking is that none of this is unforeseen. Analysts, criminologists, and election observers have been warning of precisely this trajectory. The consensus is clear: Without firm, early and visibly impartial action, the situation risks further deterioration. The challenge is not a lack of knowledge, but a lack of urgency.
The Election Commission occupies a pivotal position at this moment. Its authority extends beyond logistics into legitimacy. A decisive stance would send a signal that intimidation will not be tolerated, regardless of affiliation. Hesitation, on the other hand, invites testing. In an environment already thick with suspicion, perception matters almost as much as enforcement.
There is a quiet irony in all of this. Bangladesh has conducted elections under far harsher conditions in the past, with fewer resources and weaker institutions. What has changed is not capacity, but confidence. Citizens are less certain that rules will be applied evenly, that violence will be punished consistently, and that safety will not depend on political alignment.
Yet the public persists. Campaigns continue, markets function, people still express a desire to vote. This resilience is admirable, but it should not be mistaken for consent. Endurance is not the same as acceptance, and patience is not infinite.
The shooting of Osman Hadi should not be remembered merely as another entry in a growing list. It should be read as a warning. When political participation becomes a life-threatening act, democracy itself is placed on life support. Whether this warning is heeded or quietly absorbed into the background noise will define not just the coming election, but the direction of public life in the years ahead.
Bangladesh now stands at a familiar crossroads, though the stakes feel higher than usual. Either violence is confronted decisively and early, or it continues its steady march toward becoming an accepted instrument of politics. The bullets have already spoken. The question is whether institutions will respond loudly enough to be heard.
Writer: HM Nazmul Alam is an Academic, Journalist, and Political Analyst based in Dhaka, Bangladesh. Currently he is teaching at IUBAT. Email: [email protected].
