The interim government’s influence extends deep into the judiciary. Judges are pressured; prosecutors are politicized.

Instead of being released on bail granted by the High Court Division of the Supreme Court of Bangladesh, on 4 September 2025, Khodadad Khan Pitu (60), former President of the Naogaon District Bar Association and President of the Human Rights Lawyers’ Forum, Naogaon, was re-arrested by Naogaon Sadar police from the gate of Naogaon District Jail.

On 5 September, he was produced before the court in connection with a 2024 case filed over an incident in 2022 under the Explosive Substances Act, and the court ordered him sent to jail.

Earlier, in the early hours of 17 July 2025 (around 2:30 a.m.), police had arrested him from his residence in the Chokmoyrdi Post Office area of Naogaon town. Although his name was not initially included in the 2024 case of vandalism and arson at the local BNP office, it was later added during the investigation, and he was sent to prison after being presented in court. He subsequently obtained bail from the High Court Division of the Supreme Court of Bangladesh.

Prior to that, he had voluntarily surrendered and obtained bail in another case filed during the July movement against attacks on students and ordinary citizens.

On 2 September 2025, twelve lawyers in Barguna District surrendered before the District and Sessions Judge in a case related to vandalism and arson at a BNP office. The court denied them bail. Eight days later, the High Court granted six weeks’ bail to ten of them. Yet, moments before their release, they were re-arrested under a newly fabricated case filed under the Special Powers Act by Betagi Police Station and sent straight back to prison.

Among those re-arrested were Mahabubul Bari Aslam, former President of the Barguna District Bar Association, and Advocates Mojibur Rahman, Saimum Islam Rabbi, Humayun Kabir Poltu, and Nurul Islam. Their brief taste of freedom became a cruel illusion, underscoring a chilling reality: even High Court bail cannot protect lawyers from politically engineered persecution.

These are not an isolated incidents. Rather, between August 2024 and September 2025, Justicemakers Bangladesh in France (JMBF) documented 75 incidents of imprisonment affecting 203 lawyers. Each case reveals a deliberate strategy: fabricated charges, coerced surrenders, manipulated court procedures, and prolonged pre-trial detentions.

The largest share of these imprisonments arose from attempted murder (15 incidents, 103 victims) and murder (25 incidents, 43 victims)—serious accusations crafted to discredit and intimidate. Other allegations include sabotage, vandalism, seditious conspiracy, and extortion, laws selectively revived to target politically active lawyers or those defending victims of state abuse.

The regime has weaponized the law itself, turning courts into instruments of fear rather than justice. Lawyers affiliated with the Bangladesh Awami League (BAL) have been particularly targeted, with legal compliance—surrendering or filing bail applications—used against them as evidence of guilt.

The case of Advocate Abu Sayeed Sagar, former Dhaka Bar Association president, epitomizes this tactic. During the 2023 Supreme Court Bar Association election, a minor scuffle became the pretext for charges against him. After securing six weeks of anticipatory bail, Sagar voluntarily surrendered on 5 October 2025 to renew it. Instead of a hearing, he was denied bail and jailed. Under the Yunus-led interim government, surrender no longer signifies compliance with the law—it becomes a trapdoor into imprisonment, illustrating how even lawful acts are punished.

Among the 75 documented incidents, 57 involved arrests leading directly to imprisonment. Lawyers have been detained at home, in offices, and even in courtrooms, signaling that no professional stature offers protection.

Each detention removes one voice and intimidates countless others. Bar associations hesitate to convene; young lawyers adopt silence as a survival tactic. The courtroom, once a sanctuary of justice, now functions as a stage for repression.

Behind these numbers are shattered lives. Prisoned lawyers endure overcrowded cells, denial of medical care, and restricted family visits. Many have lost their livelihoods; some have fled abroad to continue their work in exile. Families live in fear, and entire legal communities operate under siege, paralyzed by collective anxiety.

Since mid-2024, the Yunus administration, installed under the banner of “transition and reform”, has systematically dismantled civil liberties, silenced journalists, and targeted professionals aligned with the Awami League. A Nobel Peace laureate now presides over a government that governs through fear, betraying the principles for which he was once celebrated internationally.

The interim government’s influence extends deep into the judiciary. Judges are pressured; prosecutors are politicized. Bail hearings are postponed indefinitely, and lawyers are denied access to case files. This violates Bangladesh’s Constitution and Article 9 of the ICCPR, which prohibits arbitrary detention. Courts have shifted from being protectors of justice to instruments of political repression.

In today’s Bangladesh, detention is preventive, not punitive. Lawyers are imprisoned before dissent occurs, neutralizing critics and stifling independent advocacy. By incarcerating defenders of justice, the government effectively incarcerates the legal conscience of the nation.

Bangladesh is obliged to follow the UN Basic Principles on the Role of Lawyers (1990) and the ICCPR, both guaranteeing lawyers the right to perform their duties “without intimidation, hindrance, harassment, or improper interference.” The mass imprisonment of lawyers under the Yunus government is a direct violation of these commitments, making the administration complicit in systematic human-rights abuse.

The international community must act decisively. The UN and other human-rights bodies should conduct thorough fact-finding missions, while international legal associations monitor trials and document violations of due process. Governments should consider targeted measures, including visa bans and asset freezes against officials responsible for repression, and provide emergency visas or asylum for lawyers facing imminent arrest. Silence from Nobel committees, universities, or civil-society leaders can no longer be tolerated; neutrality in the face of such abuses is complicity.

The mass imprisonment of lawyers in Bangladesh represents a moral collapse of governance. By criminalizing advocacy itself, the Yunus-led interim government has weaponized justice as an instrument of fear.

Muhammad Yunus, once celebrated for empowering the powerless, now presides over a regime that suppresses those who defend them. The world must judge him not by accolades, but by the lives of those jailed for defending the law.

When defenders of justice are silenced, it is not only lawyers who are imprisoned—it is the conscience of Bangladesh itself.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

This was not a case of crowd control gone wrong. This was a premeditated act of state terror.

On July 16, 2025, Bangladesh witnessed one of the darkest and bloodiest chapters in its recent history. What unfolded in Gopalganj was not a random outbreak of violence—it was a calculated, state-sponsored massacre, deliberately executed by the interim government of Nobel Peace Prize laureate Muhammad Yunus. This regime, which came to power under the banner of restoring democracy, justice, and human rights, has now exposed its true face: repressive, authoritarian, and dangerous.

The government forces—comprising both police and military—opened fire on unarmed demonstrators in the heart of Gopalganj. At least four people were confirmed dead and more than a hundred sustained injuries. The deceased have been identified as Dipto Saha (25), Ramzan Kazi (24), Sohel Molla (35), and Imon Talukder (28)—all ordinary citizens. What they faced on that fateful day was anything but ordinary. Their crime? Defending the legacy of the Father of the Nation, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, against a political organization that was permitted to spew venom unchecked.

The crisis was sparked by provocative and deeply offensive statements made by the National Citizens Party (NCP), a fringe group that enjoys the quiet backing of the Yunus administration. During their “March to Gopalganj” rally, NCP leaders vowed to “bury Mujibism” and destroy Bangabandhu’s mausoleum. For the people of Gopalganj—who consider Bangabandhu’s memory sacred—this was an open declaration of war.

In response, residents from various parts of the district, including Gandhiyashur, Ulpur, Chowrasta, and the old bus terminal, began gathering peacefully to protest these threats. These were not armed rebels or political militants. These were farmers, students, day laborers, and shopkeepers—united not by political affiliation but by a common sense of justice and respect for the country’s founding leader.

But instead of diffusing tensions or holding the NCP accountable, the government treated these peaceful demonstrators as enemies of the state. Troops and police descended on the crowd, opening fire without warning. Tear gas filled the air. Live bullets ripped through flesh. Social media videos show soldiers stomping on wounded protesters, dragging lifeless bodies, and making sure that those on the ground would not get up again.

The brutality was not limited to the moment of confrontation. Several reports indicate that bodies were secretly removed. In one particularly harrowing video, a police officer can be heard saying of a gravely injured man, “He’s pretending to be dead,” before tossing him like garbage into a police van. In another clip, white tissue protrudes from a bullet wound in a young man’s abdomen.

This was not a case of crowd control gone wrong. This was a premeditated act of state terror. The fact that multiple agencies coordinated this attack across several sites, under the watch of senior government advisors, makes it even more chilling. Sources reveal that the advisors for Home, Law, and Local Government were monitoring the situation in real-time from Police Headquarters, ensuring a seamless execution of this violent suppression.

From a legal perspective, the actions of the Yunus administration are indefensible. Articles 31, 32, and 35 of the Constitution of Bangladesh guarantee the right to life, personal security, and due process. None of these constitutional protections were upheld in Gopalganj. The victims were neither charged with crimes nor given a chance to defend themselves. They were summarily executed.

Domestic law—including the Police Act, the Code of Criminal Procedure (CrPC), and military conduct regulations—clearly stipulate that the use of deadly force must meet three criteria: necessity, legal authorization, and proportionality. None of these thresholds were satisfied. No police officer or soldier was harmed. No government property was destroyed. And yet, lethal force was used.

The crimes in Gopalganj also constitute clear violations of international law. Articles 3 and 5 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights affirm the right to life and the right to be free from cruel, inhuman, or degrading treatment. Articles 6 and 7 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR), to which Bangladesh is a signatory, prohibit arbitrary killing and torture by state actors. These treaties are not just symbolic—they carry binding legal obligations.

Most significantly, under Article 7 of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (ICC), a “widespread or systematic attack directed against any civilian population” with knowledge of the attack constitutes a crime against humanity. The scale, coordination, and brutality of the crackdown in Gopalganj fit this definition. The state’s actions were not spontaneous reactions—they were carefully planned, organized, and executed.

Moreover, the psychological and political intent behind the crackdown—instilling fear in the populace and punishing dissent—aligns with the legal concept of persecution. The Rome Statute also defines persecution as a crime against humanity when it involves the intentional and severe deprivation of fundamental rights against a group or population.

The violence was accompanied by state-led information suppression. Mainstream media, many aligned with corporate interests or controlled by the administration, portrayed the protesters as aggressors. Headlines read, “Protesters Clash with NCP Supporters,” conveniently omitting the fact that the protesters were reacting to hate speech and threats against a national monument. Social media platforms saw posts taken down, accounts suspended, and internet speeds throttled to limit the spread of video evidence.

This chilling attempt to rewrite history in real-time is as dangerous as the violence itself. The Yunus administration not only targeted bodies in Gopalganj—it also targeted the truth.

It is also essential to question the deafening silence from the international community. In the past, Western governments, human rights organizations, and UN bodies have been quick to condemn incidents of far lesser gravity. Why then the muteness in the face of such a blatant and bloody abuse of power? The answer may lie in what experts call “strategic silence”—a diplomatic tactic used to maintain relationships with governments seen as useful for regional stability, investment, or geopolitical leverage.

This selective outrage is not just hypocritical—it is dangerous. It sends a message to repressive regimes that they can act with impunity, as long as they serve the right interests. But human lives are not bargaining chips. The people of Bangladesh are not expendable.

Muhammad Yunus, long hailed as a global icon of peace and innovation, now finds his name linked to one of the most heinous acts of state violence in the country’s history. His administration was not elected—it was installed. And with no democratic mandate, no transparency, and now no respect for life, it lacks all moral legitimacy.

Yunus cannot absolve himself by citing ignorance. As the head of government, he bears ultimate responsibility. The International Criminal Court must open a preliminary investigation into the events in Gopalganj. So must the UN Human Rights Council. Independent investigators must be granted immediate access to the affected regions, witnesses, and all government communications related to the crackdown.

Justice must also extend beyond prosecution. The families of the victims must receive reparations. Medical treatment must be provided to the wounded. And the right to protest—enshrined both in domestic and international law—must be restored and protected.

The world must speak now, not later. Every moment of silence adds another layer of injustice to the already unbearable burden borne by the victims’ families.

Let us also remember that this is not just a Gopalganj issue. It is a national crisis. Today it is Gopalganj—tomorrow it could be any district, any village, any street. This massacre marks a turning point in Bangladesh’s democratic journey. It is a test of our collective conscience, both within the country and beyond.

The names of Dipto, Ramzan, Sohel, and Imon are etched in blood into our national memory. Their deaths are not just personal tragedies—they are political warnings. Their sacrifice demands not only mourning but mobilization.

We urge all human rights defenders, legal bodies, international institutions, and concerned citizens of the world: do not let this massacre be swept under the rug. Demand accountability. Demand justice. Demand the truth.

The Yunus administration must be held accountable for crimes against humanity. Bangladesh cannot move forward if its people continue to be crushed under the boots of authoritarianism. Democracy is not built on the silence of the dead, but on the voices of the living demanding justice.

History will remember this day. And history will not forgive those who remained silent.