The recent wave of horrific child abuse cases reported across Bangladesh once again exposes a disturbing contradiction at the center of the country's public moral discourse. In recent weeks alone, Bangladesh has witnessed one horrifying incident after another. In Chattogram, a four-year-old child was a victim of brutal rape. In Pabna, a six-year-old girl faced horrific assault after being lured with food. In Banasree, a ten-year-old madrassa student was found dead inside the institution, with reports of injuries and signs of possible sexual abuse triggering nationwide outrage. Newspapers continue to report disturbing incidents involving child abuse, rape, torture, intimidation, and suspicious deaths linked to madrassas, hifzkhanas, schools, and other institutions meant to protect children.
Yet the social and religious reaction to these incidents has not been consistent. That inconsistency is not accidental; it reflects a deeper culture of selective morality and institutional protection.
Whenever a brutal crime against a child or woman occurs outside religious institutions, a section of religious influencers and conservative commentators immediately enters the debate with sweeping moral explanations. They blame "Western culture," "free mixing," pornography, TikTok, women's clothing, or "Islamic decline." Social media becomes flooded with demands for Sharia law, stricter control over women, and moral policing. The narrative is clear: violence against women and children is presented as the inevitable result of secularism and modernity.
But what happens when the alleged abuse occurs inside a madrassa, mosque, or religious institution?
Suddenly the language changes. The same voices that speak endlessly about morality become cautious, defensive, or entirely silent. The problem is no longer described as systemic. Instead, the public hears familiar phrases: "not all madrassas," "isolated incident," "media exaggeration," or even "conspiracy against Islam." The institution itself becomes sacred and untouchable, while the victims disappear from the center of the conversation.
This pattern reveals an uncomfortable truth: for many religious moralists, morality is not truly child-centered or justice-centered. It is institution-centered.
That distinction matters enormously. If morality were genuinely about protecting children, then every allegation of abuse - regardless of where it happens - would trigger equal outrage, equal demands for accountability, and equal pressure for reform. But that is not what Bangladesh repeatedly witnesses. When abuse happens in universities, public spaces, or secular settings, it becomes evidence of "moral collapse." When similar abuse emerges inside madrassas, the priority often becomes damage control.
Recent reports demonstrate this contradiction vividly. Cases involving madrassa students allegedly facing sexual abuse, children found dead under suspicious circumstances, or students showing signs of abuse have sparked concern online. Yet widespread institutional introspection remains rare. Very few influential religious figures publicly demand independent safeguarding systems, mandatory reporting procedures, psychological screening of staff, or external oversight mechanisms for religious boarding institutions.
Instead, public discussion is redirected toward protecting the image of the institution itself. This culture of silence is dangerous because child sexual abuse thrives precisely in environments where authority is unquestionable and scrutiny is discouraged. Across the world - whether in churches, boarding schools, sports organizations, or religious institutions - abuse scandals tend to emerge in systems built on secrecy, hierarchy, and fear of reputational damage. Bangladesh is not unique in experiencing such crises. What matters is how societies respond to them.
In many countries, large-scale abuse scandals inside churches and religious organizations eventually led to independent investigations, institutional reforms, compensation systems, mandatory reporting rules, and public accountability. Religious status did not exempt perpetrators or institutions from scrutiny. Painful as those processes were, they represented an acknowledgment that protecting children matters more than protecting institutional prestige.
Bangladesh, however, still struggles to reach that stage of honest confrontation. Too often, victims' families reportedly face pressure to remain silent. Local mediation attempts replace legal accountability. Community leaders fear "bad publicity" more than repeated abuse. In some cases, questioning religious authority itself becomes socially risky. This creates a culture where perpetrators can exploit institutional respect as a shield.
That is why simplistic explanations blaming "women's clothing" or "Western culture" collapse under scrutiny. When a child inside a conservative religious environment becomes a victim of abuse, the standard narratives no longer work. There is no co-education, nightclub culture, revealing fashion, or TikTok dancing to blame. The existence of abuse in such settings exposes a reality many ideological narratives try to avoid: violence is fundamentally about power, vulnerability, secrecy, and lack of accountability - not merely cultural liberalism.
The deeper issue is that parts of Bangladesh's moral discourse have transformed violence against children into a political weapon rather than treating it consistently as a human tragedy. Crimes are selectively amplified or minimized depending on who the accused represents ideologically. If the perpetrator symbolizes secular modernity, the crime becomes proof of social decay. If the perpetrator belongs to a religious institution, the same voices suddenly emphasize caution, uncertainty, or institutional honor.
This selective outrage weakens public trust and ultimately harms victims. Another important issue concerns the repeated romanticization of Sharia law as a magical solution to violence against women and children. Many conservative activists frame harsher punishments as the primary answer, implying that moral and religious enforcement alone would eliminate abuse culture. Yet historically, the legal treatment of such crimes within classical jurisprudence was often far more complex than modern slogans suggest. In practice, many societies - religious or secular - have struggled with evidentiary barriers, victim intimidation, and institutional bias.
The reality is that no legal system can protect vulnerable people without transparent investigations, independent courts, victim support systems, child safeguarding mechanisms, trained law enforcement, and a culture that encourages reporting abuse rather than suppressing it. Severe punishments alone do not solve crimes when institutions remain opaque and victims fear social stigma.
Most importantly, the current discourse often treats women's behavior as the central moral problem while ignoring abusive power structures inside male-dominated institutions. This imbalance reveals a profound contradiction. Regulating women is socially easy; regulating religious authority is politically and culturally difficult. As a result, public morality frequently becomes obsessed with female visibility while remaining strangely indifferent to institutional accountability.
The consequence is a society where protecting the reputation of authority figures can become more important than protecting children.
None of this means every madrassa is abusive or every religious scholar is complicit. That would be unfair and intellectually dishonest. Many religious institutions serve communities sincerely, and many scholars genuinely oppose abuse. But acknowledging that reality cannot become an excuse to deny systemic vulnerabilities. Institutions that house children, especially residential institutions, require the highest levels of transparency and safeguarding precisely because children are vulnerable.
A serious conversation about child protection in Bangladesh must therefore move beyond ideological tribalism. Abuse cannot be selectively condemned depending on whether it supports one's political or religious narrative. A child victim inside a madrassa deserves the same outrage as a child victim outside it. A murdered madrassa student deserves the same demand for justice as any other victim.
Anything less is not morality. It is image management.
And societies that prioritize institutional reputation over children's safety eventually pay a devastating price - not only in repeated abuse scandals, but also in the erosion of public trust, justice, and humanity itself.
Finally, every recent incident - from Chattogram to Pabna to Banasree and countless other underreported cases across the country - deserves a transparent, impartial, and independent investigation. Those responsible must face justice regardless of religious status, institutional influence, or political connections. No child's suffering should ever be hidden to protect reputations or preserve authority. Bangladesh's children deserve safety, dignity, accountability, and a society where justice matters more than image management.
The writer is a journalist, The Daily Observer
