The Night Dhaka Went Dark: Shapla Massacre and the Silence That Followed

When night fell over Dhaka on May 5, 2013, it wasn’t just the streetlights that went out—it was as if the entire city held its breath. At Shapla Chattar, thousands of madrasa students and Hefazat-e-Islami supporters sat crowded under the open sky, clutching banners, Qurans, and hope. Most of them were teenagers—barefoot, hungry, but determined—demanding something they believed in, even if the country was sharply divided over what that meant.

One by one, TV stations went off the air. Phone signals faltered. And in that eerie blackout, the silence broke—not with words, but with gunshots, boots, and smoke. Security forces moved in from every direction. No warning. No cameras. Just shadows swallowing the square.

By morning, Shapla Chattar was empty. Bloodstained sandals littered the ground. Banners were trampled into the mud. The government said a few had died. Witnesses said they saw trucks carrying bodies away in the dark. The truth was lost in silence, the kind that doesn’t fade with time. That night wasn’t just a crackdown. It was a turning point—a wound stitched in secrecy, still aching in the heart of Bangladesh. When a writer asked one survivor, “Has anything changed for you since that night?” he paused for a long moment, eyes heavy with memories. Then he said quietly, “Since that night, nothing has been the same. My trust in the state is gone—it doesn’t protect people like us, it doesn’t even hear us. I was only 15 back then, still holding on to hope. Now I’m 27, and though years have passed, the fear hasn’t. It followed me into adulthood, quiet but constant, like a shadow I can’t outrun.”

Hefazat-e-Islami emerged in the public eye as a conservative religious group representing the voices of traditional Islamic seminaries, or madrasas. The organization rose to prominence amid growing debates over secularism, freedom of expression, and the role of religion in public life. Their rhetoric was polarizing, their tone uncompromising—but for many rural and religious communities, Hefazat spoke to a feeling of cultural alienation in an increasingly modern and politically polarized Bangladesh. Their 13-point demand read like a manifesto for reshaping the country’s secular foundation: reintroduce blasphemy laws, curb what they saw as “immoral” behavior in public life, restrict the mixing of men and women in public institutions, and enforce Islamic values in education and governance. Tensions had been escalating for weeks. In April, protests turned deadly in Chittagong and other districts as Hefazat’s rhetoric clashed with secular activists and government forces. But it was the mass gathering at Shapla Chattar on May 5 that triggered a national crisis.

The government, led by the Awami League, watched warily as the crowd swelled. Negotiations broke down. Fear of escalating unrest—compounded by concerns over the group’s ties to other Islamist movements—pushed authorities toward a decision they would never fully explain: to end the protest, completely and swiftly, no matter the cost.

Twelve years later, we begin to unpack the widespread lack of response to the state’s violent actions during Hefazat-e-Islam’s May 5th demonstration. Despite the brutality, the ruling authorities behind the crackdown were illegally re-elected on January 5th, 2013, backed by international development partners and strategic allies—further silencing the voices of those who were harmed or lost loved ones.

Dhaka, May 6, 2013 — A joint force of police, Rapid Action Battalion (RAB), and Border Guard Bangladesh (BGB) launched a sudden and forceful operation late Sunday night to disperse thousands of Hefazat-e-Islami supporters from the capital’s Shapla Chattar in Motijheel, triggering widespread condemnation and raising questions about the government’s handling of the Islamist protest.

The operation began shortly after midnight and was completed within hours, as security forces moved in to clear the area where Hefazat had been staging a sit-in protest throughout the day. The government claimed the move was necessary to restore order and ensure public safety following violent clashes earlier in the day that had left parts of Dhaka paralyzed. Electricity in the area was reportedly shut off before the raid, and media coverage was abruptly interrupted, with several television channels forced off-air. Eyewitnesses described scenes of chaos and panic, as law enforcement personnel used rubber bullets, tear gas, and batons to drive out the demonstrators, many of whom were students of Qawmi madrasas from across the country.

The Ministry of Home Affairs stated that 11 people were confirmed dead and insisted that the operation was "measured and necessary." However, opposition parties and human rights groups allege the true death toll is significantly higher, with some unconfirmed reports suggesting dozens, or even hundreds, may have died in the crackdown. Due to the government's tight control over information and restrictions on the media, these claims remain difficult to verify independently. Understanding and addressing such a serious state crime will require deep reflection, effort, and societal change. To contribute to that process, we share the story of a survivor and protest organizer. This is vital because, although the events of May 6th remain etched in public memory and have even been referred to the International Criminal Court (ICC), both domestic and international institutions continue to distort human rights and development narratives to hide their own involvement and protect their influence, audiences, and funding.

In the early hours of May 6, 2013, around 2:30 AM, Bangladeshi security forces launched a violent operation to remove unarmed protesters gathered at Shapla Chattar in Dhaka’s Motijheel area—a symbolic site commemorating the 1971 War dead. The electricity had been deliberately cut off, leaving tens of thousands in the dark and unaware of the massive deployment of forces surrounding them. The day before, an estimated one million protesters had marched from six different points across the capital. They wore national flags and voiced grievances including religious discrimination, blasphemy, and violence against their community. Along the way, many were attacked by ruling party operatives and government forces using firearms and close-combat weapons. Even worshippers seeking refuge in the national mosque were targeted by gunmen on motorcycles. Graphic injuries, witness testimonies, and footage shared online revealed the brutal nature of these attacks. Some dead were carried on stretchers to the protest site, while hospitals overflowed with the wounded.

An eyewitness described watching security forces shoot protesters, then hand them over to ruling party members for further beatings. Ironically, these religious scholars and students were later accused of burning the very Qur'ans they revered. The protesters had no idea of the scale of violence awaiting them—not only in Dhaka but also during their journey home. One young professional shared that several men from his village who attended the protest were killed both in Dhaka and again upon returning, when local police collaborated with ruling party thugs. Till today, fear, mistrust, and repression dominate public life in Bangladesh, making it difficult to hear the voices of the victims—unless we make a conscious effort to listen.

The mainstream media largely failed to report meaningfully on the massacre. For instance, BBC Bangla covered the Rana Plaza tragedy, which happened just weeks before the crackdown, highlighting its survivors and victims. But when asked why a similar focus wasn’t given to the victims of the May 6th massacre, the BBC Bangla editor offered no response. Amid the silence, political figures like former Dhaka Mayor Sadeque Hossain Khoka claimed that thousands were killed, sparking a distracting debate over numbers. This focus on statistics diluted the human suffering involved, reducing victims and their families to abstract figures—ironically, in a way that even capitalism hadn’t managed to do in their most vulnerable moments. Contrast this with the post-9/11 death toll in New York, which was determined through a transparent, well-resourced investigation.

British journalist David Bergman, known for his coverage of Bangladesh’s war crimes trials, was shown videos and taken to hospitals where he identified at least 24 bodies. Yet he downplayed talk of a massacre, opting for softer terms like “state brutality.” Despite his access and influence, he showed bias by misrepresenting the victims and failing to even get their names right. Like many others, he framed the issue through the simplistic lens of “religious vs. secular,” appealing to uninformed foreign audiences. Al Jazeera’s reporting on the crackdown also shifted over time. Former correspondent Nicolas Haque had to leave the country due to pressure over his war crimes coverage. His successors at the network offered tamer, less critical reports, avoiding the raw realities on the ground.

Although some smaller local outlets, like the Dhaka Courier and Holiday, initially covered the incident, they soon went quiet—likely due to limited resources. The expectation was that international human rights organizations, with their global reach and specialized skills, would step in. But they too fell short. In the field of human rights advocacy, not all victims are treated equally. The attention and support victims receive often depend on how well their stories align with the agendas of donors and professional activists. In Bangladesh, the human rights sector has proven largely unaccountable—especially to those victims deemed politically inconvenient or unworthy of recognition.

International human rights organizations like Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch (HRW) depend heavily on local partners for information. However, these gatekeepers are not without bias—they carry personal and institutional preferences that affect their reporting. One such group, Ain o Salish Kendra (ASK), led by Sultana Kamal, took over ten days to issue a lukewarm statement regarding the massacre.

The first substantial report came from another local group, Odhikar, on June 10. Their findings were ignored until the government tried to confiscate their victims' list. When they resisted, the authorities arrested Odhikar’s secretary, currently serving as the Advisor of the Present Interim Government, accusing him of fabricating information. This incident finally drew a reaction from the U.S. State Department—though their statement notably omitted any reference to Odhikar’s report on the massacre. It’s worth noting that around the same time, the U.S. had been training Dhaka police in crowd control tactics. Following this, the government-allied media began attacking Odhikar’s credibility, citing alleged flaws in their methods. Despite being nominated for international human rights awards, Odhikar has remained largely silent on the issue since then. Their recognition, including the Gwangju Human Rights Award, linked the May 6th violence to the 1980 Gwangju Massacre in South Korea—another example of brutal repression by a regime supported 

by Western powers.

Human Rights Watch eventually released a report titled Blood on the Streets in August, 2013, where the May 6 crackdown was mentioned, but in sanitized language and lumped together with other unrelated events like the murder of a blogger and the Shahbagh movement. While the report included testimonies from victims, it distorted the nature of the protest and reduced the scale of violence, presenting a misleading picture. This selective advocacy can be traced back to the reliance on biased local sources and the strategic priorities of international organizations. Despite claiming to be neutral and professional, their reporting and operational decisions often reflect political convenience. Confronting the government and challenging sensitive topics like this massacre is risky. A case in point: HRW’s former Dhaka staffer, Tasneem Khalil, was tortured by the military regime in 2007—a fact later confirmed through U.S. diplomatic cables published by WikiLeaks.

In a country with diverse political voices, the dominance of ideologically similar individuals in both media and human rights sectors leaves many vulnerable. For Bangladeshis seeking justice and dignity, the failures of the international human rights system are a sobering lesson in the need for deeper accountability. A common question that arises after reviewing the events of the massacre is: Why hasn’t this been reported more widely? The answer lies in a combination of factors, including the indifference of international donors, the spread of disinformation, the ineptitude of the opposition, and the marginalized status of the victims. However, the most critical factor is the state’s deliberate

repression of the media.

When a state commits such atrocities, the ability to report on it and challenge those in power becomes a dangerous endeavor. Journalists and media outlets without sufficient protection can find themselves at risk of violence, property damage, or imprisonment.

Several opposition media outlets, which might have otherwise reported on the massacre, were effectively neutralized by the government. On the morning of the crackdown, two private opposition TV stations, which were broadcasting live coverage of the events, were abruptly shut down by the government. The Information Minister, Hasanul Huq Inu, justified the shutdowns by claiming the stations had violated “license conditions” and were inciting disorder.

Just weeks prior to the massacre, Mahmudur Rahman, the editor of Amar Desh, a prominent opposition newspaper, was arrested under highly questionable circumstances. Rahman had been confined to his office under heavy police and intelligence surveillance for over a month. After being tortured, he was charged with inciting violence. His newspaper had been a key voice in mobilizing opposition to the government’s actions, including its handling of the Hefazat protests. The government’s crackdown on Amar Desh silenced an important outlet that had been attempting to give voice to the victims and their families. Meanwhile, the remaining media outlets, which could have covered the events fairly, were either intimidated into silence or forced to practice self-censorship. A state crime is never committed in isolation—it is always supported by the actions, policies, and silence of others, including those in media and information. For a sustained scrutiny of such atrocities to occur, public accountability must be prioritized. This means holding not only the government accountable but also the media and international organizations complicit in hiding or downplaying the truth of the massacre. State crimes, such as the massacre at Shapla Chattar, do not occur in a vacuum—they are orchestrated through the coordinated actions of government forces, media, and external actors, all of which play a significant role in either facilitating or obscuring the truth. Understanding and addressing such crimes require a collective effort to ensure transparency, accountability, and justice.

The incident of May 5th, like many other state-sponsored atrocities, is not only about the actions of the perpetrators but also about the failure of both national and international institutions to act with integrity. Public accountability for these crimes is essential for preventing future abuses and for providing justice to the victims. Yet, as we have seen in Bangladesh, those in power often manipulate information, use the media to distort facts, and leverage international support to avoid scrutiny. A comprehensive examination of the massacre is needed, one that takes into account the roles of local media, human rights organizations, and the government itself in suppressing the truth. Without this, the voices of the victims will continue to be ignored, and the perpetrators will remain unpunished. The international community must recognize its complicity in these events and take responsibility for the role it played in enabling such violence to continue without consequence.

True justice requires that those responsible for the massacre be held accountable—not just for the immediate violence, but for the systems and structures that allowed such brutality to occur and remain unchallenged. Till today, no one exactly know the actual casualties of 5th of May massacre. Even the victim’s families never come forward because of the fear of the government’s repression. But unofficially different organization including the Hefaza-e-islami have claimed that 3,000 of their supporters and activists lost their lives while peacefully assembling at Shapla Square in front of Bangladesh Bank in Dhaka. Various political parties, civil society representatives, and human rights organizations have called for an independent judicial inquiry into the incident to clarify the situation and remove any confusion.

The Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP), the main opposition party in the parliament, has demanded an "international neutral investigation" into what they consider a "genocide" that occurred during the operation on May 6th, aimed at removing Hefazat-e-Islam activists from Shapla Square. In a statement issued on May 7th, the BNP urged people to peacefully protest against the killings and demand a fair trial. They expressed shock at the government's brutal actions, which they described as barbaric, especially considering the use of paramilitary forces and law enforcement officers armed with weapons typically seen in war zones. The BNP compared this event to the government's refusal to protect army officers during the BDR mutiny in 2009.

Foreign media reports and other sources indicated that between 2,500 to 3,000 people were killed, with over 10,000 others injured in the Shapla Square operation. The government has not released any official statements or casualty figures regarding the operation. The BNP condemned the government's suppression of media coverage and the restriction of news outlets, such as the shutdown of Diganta and Islamic TV channels. The ruling party's actions were seen as exposing the "fascist" nature of the government, particularly in the way they silenced dissent and controlled the narrative around the event. The BNP also claimed that the government had planned the operation in advance, as evidenced by the mobilization of armed Awami League activists and the restrictions placed on journalists.

The events surrounding the May 6 operation have left a lasting impact on Bangladesh’s political and social landscape. They exposed deep divisions within the country’s political system, with accusations of authoritarianism, political violence, and the abuse of power. The violence that unfolded in the streets of Dhaka raised questions about the  then Awami League government's ability to govern peacefully and responsibly, as well as its willingness to engage with opposition parties and address their concerns. For many, the crackdown also symbolized a broader struggle between secularism and religious conservatism in Bangladesh. The Hefazat-e-Islam protests were not just about political power but also about the religious values that many believe are under threat from the secular policies of the Awami League government. The use of force against religious protestors exacerbated the sense of division between these two ideological camps.

The events of May 6, 2013, continue to shape the political discourse in Bangladesh. The brutal crackdown on Hefazat-e-Islam protestors remains a painful chapter in the country’s recent history. The call for justice, transparency, and accountability remains unanswered, while the country grapples with the consequences of the then government's actions. As political tensions persist and the international community remains largely silent, the voices of those affected by the violence continue to call for justice, with many hoping for a future where such brutal tactics are no longer a tool for political control. The tragic events of that night serve as a reminder of the ongoing struggle for democracy, human rights, and political freedom in Bangladesh. A decade later, the Shapla Chattar crackdown remains a shadow on Bangladesh’s conscience. It’s not just about what happened, but about how little we’re allowed to know. How easily truth can be buried. How deeply silence can wound. The people of Bangladesh also raised a haunting question: if a group of unarmed students could vanish into silence overnight, what else could disappear? In a country still negotiating its identity between religion, democracy, and development, May 5 is not just a memory—it’s a warning.