Emran Emon

On a seemingly ordinary Monday morning, August 2, 2010, the University of Chittagong witnessed an eruption of violence so grave that it carved itself into the collective memory of a generation. It was a day that turned the tranquil, green hills of Chittagong University into a battleground. Classrooms remained locked, lectures were suspended, and instead of academic discussions, the campus echoed with the sound of police boots and shouting. Tear gas filled the air where learning once thrived, and students—who had gathered for education—found themselves surrounded by fear and force instead.

To truly understand the gravity of this day, we must trace back to the root cause. In July 2010, the then university administration unilaterally announced an unprecedented and sudden 200% hike in tuition and related fees. For a public university that serves thousands of students from working-class and rural backgrounds, this decision was more than a financial burden—it was a blow to the very principles of accessible education. Unsurprisingly, students responded with peaceful protests, sit-ins, and rallies that began on July 26 and gained momentum with each passing day.

What followed, however, was not negotiation or understanding. Instead, it was an aggressive show of force by university administration. On August 1, law enforcement forces violently cracked down on protesting students in Sholoshahar and the city’s Gate No. 2 area. Tensions escalated precipitously. By the following morning, the entire campus was under siege, patrolled by over a dozen platoons of police and paramilitary forces, joined by units of the Rapid Action Battalion (RAB) and fire services. The university resembled a fortress preparing for war rather than an institution of higher education.

Students, undeterred by the earlier violence, began marching back to campus early on August 2, determined to continue their protest. Instead of being met with dialogue, they were met with rubber bullets and tear gas. What happened next defies the values any democratic society should uphold.

Hundreds of female students emerged from their residential halls, witnessing the brutal treatment of their fellow students. As they joined the protests, the situation escalated further. Law enforcement forces responded with equal, if not more, violence—cornering the unarmed girls and indiscriminately firing rubber bullets and tear gas into their ranks. Many were injured; many more were traumatized.

But instead of retreating, these dauntless girls led a historic march to the central Shaheed Minar of the campus. Their voices, defiant and unified, echoed across the hills of the university. Their courage brought together hundreds more students, forming a human wall around the monument—an emblem of dignity, memory, and resistance.

As journalists arrived and cameras started rolling, the administration took its most reprehensible step. Security forces, allegedly acting on direct orders from top officials, launched an unprovoked and full-scale assault on the protestors at the Shaheed Minar. Over a hundred students and several members of the media were injured in the ensuing chaos. Students, barefoot and unarmed, fled in terror. The ground was strewn with sandals, notebooks, and banners—silent witnesses to the horror that unfolded.

But even amid blood, smoke, and fear, the spirit of unity among the students was unbreakable. In a courageous act of solidarity, male students moved swiftly to shield their female peers, only to be met with ruthless force—bludgeoned with batons, kicked down, and humiliatingly dragged by their hair. No medical aid was offered. Only arrests followed—dozens at first, then hundreds. Before sunset, nearly 400 students were detained from their residential halls. The next day, around 500 students found themselves facing fabricated criminal charges. The administration wasted no time in declaring the university closed indefinitely, sending a chilling message to all who dare to raise their voices.

August 3’s national newspapers printed the shameful truth in bold red headlines about the Black Day of August 2 in the history of the University of Chittagong. Civil society, media outlets, academics, and human rights groups condemned the crackdown. But the scars remained. For two months, the University of Chittagong remained paralyzed—its libraries fell into silence, lecture halls lay abandoned, and an entire generation of students was thrust into an imposed quietude they neither sought nor sanctioned.

And yet, something powerful was born that day—something that still resonates with those who lived it. That fateful August 2 forged a sense of solidarity among students that transcended ideology, background, and even gender. In the face of rubber bullets and batons, students stood by one another. They formed human shields, offered shelter, tended to the wounded, and fought—nonviolently—for a vision of education rooted in equality.

The struggle of those students wasn’t just about numbers on a fee structure. It was about the fundamental right to education for all, regardless of economic status. They fought to ensure that the gates of knowledge wouldn’t be closed on the poor, the rural, or the disadvantaged. Thanks to their resistance, the proposed fee hike was eventually withdrawn. Today, many students continue to benefit from affordable tuition, unaware that their education was safeguarded by the sweat and blood of those who came before them.

But as we commemorate August 2, we must also ask difficult questions of ourselves and of the current generation of students. Where is that collective spirit now? Have we become too complacent, too fragmented, too wary of resistance?

The times have changed. The platforms of protest have evolved—marches have moved to hashtags, slogans to social media posts. But injustice still persists. Rising costs, political interference, and administrative apathy continue to threaten public education in Bangladesh. Surveillance has become subtler, suppression more sophisticated. Yet the necessity for student vigilance remains as vital as ever.

The University of Chittagong, like all great institutions, must not be reduced to a place where obedience is valued more than critical thinking. Education is not just about academic excellence; it is about moral clarity, civic courage, and the freedom to question. The legacy of August 2 is a reminder that campuses must remain spaces of dissent, discussion, and democratic engagement.

Administrators must remember that students are not enemies of the state. Protest is not a threat to stability; it is a sign of a healthy academic environment. When students raise their voices, it is often because they care too deeply, not because they are disruptive. What happened on August 2, 2010 must never happen again—not in Chittagong University, not anywhere.

As we mark fifteen years since that Black Day, let it not be remembered only for its horror but for the bravery it uncovered. Let us honor not just the pain but also the power—the power of a generation that refused to bow.

To the students of today: the freedom you enjoy was paid for by the courage of your predecessors. Guard it. Cherish it. And when the time comes, be prepared to stand—not with stones or sticks, but with the enduring fire of justice and unity. That is the true legacy of August 2.

The writer is a journalist, columnist and global affairs analyst. He can be reached at emoncolumnist@gmail.com