Earlier this month, a national daily reported that at least 325 academic papers published by Bangladeshi researchers in international journals published between 2019 and 2026 had been retracted due to various irregularities, including plagiarism.

It is unfortunate that we are seeing a culture where moral power is exercised arbitrarily, where accusation precedes evidence and power precedes procedure.

Because they could not step away from death, death stepped in for them (apologies to Emily Dickinson)

Last month, the prime minister told parliament that his government was planning to introduce courses on a third language from Class 6.

There is a danger of reducing the protest surrounding this year’s Higher Secondary Certificate (HSC) and equivalent examinations to youthful resentment.

The performative presence of two superpowers in the precincts of Bangladesh’s national parliament has added some twists in the country’s political plot.

Two text messages appeared on my phone on Thursday evening as I came out of cinema after watching Tan Siyou’s Amoeba, a Singaporean film about teenage girls suffocating within an extremely controlled system.

As someone who had the opportunity to stay back after completing further studies, I feel that portraying the issue of non-returning academics as a crisis of individual morality, rather than reflecting on the lack of institutional incentives that allow Bangladeshi scholars to opt for a different destiny, only tells half of the story.

Reading a recent report by The Daily Star on the number of measles victims, I could not help but link the number “666” printed in red with something ominous.

The proposed budget for FY2026-27 indicates a welcome shift in language to back up the government’s electoral promise to gradually increase public investment in education.

Instead of framing the issue as a debate on tradition versus modernity, we need to ask whether we are capable of caring for what we claim to value. If the crocodile was heritage, why was it not managed responsibly? If the child’s safety mattered, why was the danger not addressed earlier? If the shrine was sacred, why was its ecology left to improvisation?

I am sitting in a hotel room in Islamabad, reading a recent Bonik Barta report that makes a compelling argument:

A recent post by a colleague who had to pay Tk 2.5 lakh as an admission fee for his child at a reputed English medium school made me reflect on an anomaly that we have gotten used to.

There is something quite catchy and seductive in the way Mohammadpur is branded as the “City of God.” The phrase is loaded with a Brazilian flavour, conjuring cinematic memories of gang fights in narrow alleys, muggers on motorcycles, the prevalence of narcotics among frightened residents, territorial youth gangs, occasional police raids, and political protection.

The attic of my thoughts is peopled by figures whom I never thought would gather to murmur in my head; these are the voices of people who should never have to meet like this.

Nobody questions the potential of Cox’s Bazar. Clearly, it can compete with any of the top-class beaches elsewhere. For that, the administrators need to think beyond immediate, narrow interests. They need to plan access roads despite local pressures.

“My classroom has four ceiling fans, but if we are to attend online classes from home, we will need 50 fans.”

Last week, while buying vegetables from an open market, I could not help feeling dissatisfied over the hiked price of every item. “It seems you are still in a moon-sighting mode,” I said, to which the seller responded nonchalantly, “What can I do?

In Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot, a character with supposed authority intensifies the absurdity by quantifying emotion.

Given the election results, one could assume that the female voters have registered a clear electoral message. They do not want to retreat into the margins of civic life. And why should they?