The most recent example, the Murad Nagar rape case, was not just tragic because of the crime itself, but because of what followed. Instead of focusing on the needs of the survivor or ensuring a thorough and fair investigation, attention shifted to political blame games. Advisers from the interim government and political leaders from various parties began accusing one another, some claimed it was a BAL supporter, others pointed fingers at BNP-affiliated groups. The conversation moved so far from justice that the identity and well-being of the survivor were barely mentioned. When rape becomes a matter of political point-scoring rather than an urgent issue of safety and accountability, it reveals a system fundamentally disconnected from the people it is meant to protect.
But in the first place, whether the survivor had any political connections, or who exactly brought her into that setting, or what “version” of the story would benefit which side these discussions should have been secondary. The immediate and primary concern should have been to arrest the rapist, and to take swift action against those who filmed and circulated the video online. But that didn’t happen. Instead, the public and political machinery turned it into a layered narrative, while the survivor’s trauma remained an afterthought.
This case didn’t come out of nowhere. It followed a long and steady decline in how our institutions and social circles handle gender-based violence. Just a few months earlier, several sex workers were beaten publicly. Videos of the assault were recorded and widely shared online. Rather than sparking public outrage, many comments justified the violence, saying they deserved it. This wasn’t just an isolated reaction; it reflected a mindset deeply rooted in classism, moral policing, and the impulse to sensationalize. In this worldview, the dignity of a woman is considered negotiable not just based on her profession or clothing, but also depending on whether the backstory is juicy enough to shift blame or justify harm.
There’s a growing trend of weaponizing morality to excuse or even celebrate gendered violence. Men who publicly assault women for wearing certain clothes are applauded, sometimes literally handed flowers. Their actions are reframed as acts of religious or cultural protection, while the women they harmed are erased or vilified. In the most disturbing cases, even rapists are shielded by courts or communities. When legal institutions allow rapists to marry their victims as a form of “resolution,” they reinforce the idea that rape is not a violation of rights but a mistake that can be corrected through marriage or negotiation.
We have seen this scenario recently in the Singer Noble case, where a court permitted the accused rapist to marry the survivor. The implication was clear: rather than addressing the assault through justice, it could be “resolved” through a coerced marital arrangement. Such rulings not only deny justice but also normalize abuse as something that can be bargained away.
The media often plays a role in this too. In the Muradnagar incident, footage of the survivor and the accused was widely circulated online. Instead of a due process carried out with sensitivity, we saw a spectacle. A performance. A performance of blame-gaming, a performance of moral justification, a performance of distancing oneself from responsibility. In multiple videos, the survivor is even seen giving interviews stating that her husband and in-laws were pressuring her to withdraw the case. Reportedly, her husband told her, “You don’t have any honor left,what’s the point of a police case now?” This is not justice. This is a public undoing of a woman’s agency, with her trauma reduced to a bargaining chip in a larger social drama.
But who is this performance for? And who does it serve? Not the survivor, who remains sidelined. Not the public, who are fed a curated narrative rather than a transparent process.
At every level, the handling of these incidents sends the same message: women’s lives and trauma are secondary to political narratives, social judgments, and viral content. We are not just witnessing injustice. We are participating in it by watching, sharing, debating, and moving on.
The issue isn’t that people don’t know rape is wrong. It’s that the public, the police, the courts, and even protestors are caught in a system where the moral panic around women’s behavior is louder than the call for justice. Even well-intentioned activism sometimes ends up focusing more on punishing women than protecting them.
If anything is clear, it’s that Bangladesh doesn’t lack laws, it lacks the will to apply them impartially and swiftly. What it also lacks is empathy. Not as a feeling, but as a practice. Justice for survivors should not depend on their social status, the clothes they wear, or the media value of their stories. It should be consistent, quiet, and strong.
What we need is a shift not just in policy, but in attitude. Rape should never be treated as a moral issue, a political strategy, or a social media event. It is a violent crime. And every time we treat it as something else, we fail the survivors. We fail the women of this country.
Mahmuda Emdad,Operational Editor,Muktipotro
