Editor,
“When a tribunal meant to heal a nation becomes the stage for its deepest political rupture, can any verdict truly claim the name of justice?”
Bangladesh confronts this uncomfortable question as the International Crimes Tribunal (ICT) delivers an unprecedented death sentence to former Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina, ironically, through a law she herself created in 2010 to prosecute 1971 war criminals. The decision has set off a political earthquake not only in Dhaka but also across the border in New Delhi, where Hasina has lived in exile since fleeing the country on August 5, 2024.
The crisis traces back to the student-led movement against the reinstated quota system for government jobs, which rapidly escalated into the “July Uprising.” What began as a protest against perceived inequality spiralled into nationwide dissent against Hasina’s tightening grip on power. Reports of hundreds of deaths during the crackdown, internet shutdowns, and deployment of security forces using live ammunition, helicopters, drones, and alleged arson deeply damaged her legitimacy. When the army withdrew support, Hasina’s political empire finally collapsed.
The interim government under Nobel laureate Muhammad Yunus redirected the ICT’s mandate toward prosecuting Hasina and top officials for “crimes against humanity.” Its 453-page judgment portrays her as the “mastermind” of lethal repression. Hasina, in turn denounces the tribunal as a “rigged, politically motivated charade,” insisting she never ordered violence against unarmed protesters.
The political stakes are high, and not only for Bangladesh. India now sits at the centre of an international dilemma. Dhaka has formally demanded Hasina’s extradition under the bilateral treaty, calling it India’s “mandatory responsibility.” Yet that same treaty allows India to refuse extradition if charges are political in nature. New Delhi’s cautious response, emphasising peace, stability, and constructive engagement, suggests it sees the verdict as deeply political. Returning Hasina could set a dangerous precedent of acknowledging a politically tainted trial; keeping her may invite accusations of shielding a leader convicted of crimes against humanity.
This tension exposes a broader regional question, what happens when the quest for justice collides with geopolitical reality? For Bangladesh’s interim government, securing Hasina’s return is essential to cementing its legitimacy. For India, handing over an ally who governed Bangladesh for 15 years, including during periods of strong bilateral cooperation, risks destabilising the relationship and empowering hardline forces.
Yet India’s refusal could also raise uncomfortable questions about moral responsibility. If New Delhi shelters a leader convicted of mass killings, even if the conviction is contested, what does it signal about its commitment to human rights? Conversely, if India extradites Hasina, does it implicitly legitimise a tribunal many view as a tool of political revenge?
Bangladesh hurtles toward the 2026 elections with uncertainty hanging heavy over Dhaka. The region watches as the fate of one leader becomes a test for two nations. And so we are left with a question that defines this moment:
Is this justice served, justice manipulated, or justice delayed, and how long can India stand at the crossroads before choosing a side?
Yours etc.,
Krish Marwein,
Via email
A new caste system in Tribal Meghalaya
Editor,
I walked into the Cherry Blossom Festival 2025 having purchased a fanpit ticket, believing it would give me a good experience without needing to spend an absurd amount on the higher-tier passes. On entering the venue, I first stepped into the dome and the smaller stage area which was compact, but lively. There were colourful stalls, a range of food outlets, and the whole space felt organised and welcoming. For a moment, it lifted my expectations. If this smaller area was so well managed, surely the main stage would be even better.
But the moment I moved towards the main venue, everything changed.
The first thing I noticed was the chaos. The lines were long, slow, and unregulated. What made it worse was that the entry and exit points for both the general area and the fanpit were the same. This section had the largest crowd, but surprisingly the weakest management. It felt unsafe, and certainly unfair.
To avoid the mess, I took a detour and walked around the outskirts of the venue. That was when I noticed something that unsettled me even more: separate entry points marked “Government Officials.” Further away, there was another special passage for the so-called “Backstage 250” pass holders. I had heard that these backstage passes were expensive, and to be fair, they seemed to provide what was promised. But seeing the clear physical divide between people based on how much they could spend or who they knew, left me with an uncomfortable feeling.
When I finally entered the main stadium, any remaining hope I had disappeared. The management in the GA and fanpit areas was shockingly poor. Crowds were pushed into tight spaces, facilities were limited, and basic comfort was absent. Meanwhile, the government officials who entered with free passes—just metres away but worlds apart—were offered free food and drinks. People in those restricted zones were relaxed and enjoying themselves without a worry. On the other side, we were paying almost triple the normal price for food inside the venue. The contrast was painful and a reminder of a truth we often ignore: the rich always find a way to get richer, and the poor—no matter how hard they try, end up paying more for less.
Pushing my way through the crowd I finally reached the front of the fanpit and expected things to get better. Instead, the view from the front only made the divisions clearer. Right beside us was a fenced-off zone labelled “Fanpit+” — an area reserved for the expensive Backstage 250 ticket holders. At first, I assumed it was simply another premium section. But what surprised me was seeing several high-ranking government officers comfortably seated inside.
This left me utterly confused. If these officials already had access to an exclusive government lounge with free food and drinks, why were they also occupying a space meant for people who paid a huge amount for their tickets? It felt like lines were being crossed, and not by accident. The more I watched, the more I felt a growing discomfort — not just about space, but about fairness.
Standing there, pressed among the fanpit and general crowd, I felt reduced to the lowest rung of this unspoken hierarchy. At that moment, I couldn’t help but feel like a “shudra” — the group pushed to the bottom. The people in the regular VIP zones looked like the “vaishyas”, comfortably enjoying better facilities but still having to pay for amenities. Those in the government lounges resembled the “kshatriyas”, protected and privileged. And the Backstage 250 section — filled with officers, their families, and those with connections , felt like the seat of the “brahmins”, placed at the very top even when they had already been given more than enough.
The irony is hard to miss — a state with no caste system now watches the Cherry Blossom Festival create one through its own arrangements. The message was clear: the festival was not designed for everyone equally. It was built on layers, determined by money, influence, and power.
Festivals are supposed to bring people together. They are meant to celebrate culture, community, and joy. But Cherry Blossom 2025 made me question whether those values still stand. The event may have been beautiful on posters, but inside the grounds, it was a system designed to separate people into layers of privilege.
I left the festival with a lesson I didn’t expect to learn: sometimes the things that divide us are not ancient traditions or old prejudices, but modern decisions made without thinking about fairness. And unless we speak up, such divisions will only grow!
Yours etc.,
Name withheld on request,
Via email
