Cricketer Nayeem and the sting of police brutality

The discourteous treatment meted out to cricketer Nayeem Hasan by police has triggered a wave of condemnation. Immediate action has been taken against those involved though whether it amounts to even minimal punishment, let alone an exemplary one, remains to be seen. This country has talked endlessly about the force’s misconduct, yet nothing has ever come of it. As a result, their audacity now knows no bounds.

Among those speaking out today, how many have themselves never been harassed, insulted, or tortured by this force or will never be in future? Countless ordinary “Nayeems” face such torture somewhere in the country almost every day, get entangled in false cases, or simply disappear. Yet the very duty of these officers is to ensure public safety and curb crime.

Nayeem Hasan said, “I survived because I’m a cricketer. But what would have happened to an ordinary person?” This question raises a serious concern about the safety and dignity of ordinary citizens. According to Nayeem’s account, he feared he might be forcibly disappeared, since instead of being placed in a police vehicle, he was put into an auto-rickshaw. Had local people not rushed to help upon hearing his cries, he might have disappeared that day or the next day’s headlines might have read “Smuggler leader, cricketer Nayeem arrested.” If an international cricketer is forced to publicly plead for help to ensure his own safety, it shows just how precarious ordinary citizens’ security really is. Had you or I been in Nayeem’s place, we too could have been branded hardened criminals despite being innocent, locked up for a long time, entangled in countless false cases.

Because case-trading by this force, framing the innocent to pad their own records, and extracting hefty “bribes” from victims’ families have become routine. 
Dissecting the Nayeem incident brings several old questions back into sharp focus. First, how acceptable was the language police used with Nayeem? Second, does the police have any right to physically torture someone merely on suspicion? Third, why is there no guarantee of proper investigation and trial for police crimes? And despite so much controversy, so many crimes, even the force’s role during July-August of last year and the public anger that followed, why has there been no reform of this institution?

Nayeem claims police told him, “You’re the accused, shut up, don’t say a word.” The question is- can police address anyone as “tui” (a demeaning form of “you”)? And even granting, for argument’s sake, that Nayeem was suspected of some “wrongdoing,” can he be called an “accused”? Under the law, even if police arrest someone, that person can only be termed an “accused” after investigation establishes evidence and a charge sheet is filed naming them in court. Under Bangladesh’s constitution and law, any suspect or accused person is presumed “innocent” until proven guilty. Thus, police addressing anyone as an accused before that point is both deeply insulting and unlawful. Treating someone as a criminal before guilt is proven runs directly counter to the rule of law.
Another question arises regarding a plainclothes individual accompanying police, a reported police informant named Mohammad Sohel, who allegedly struck Nayeem with a pipe. Under what authority or law can such a person assault anyone?

A particularly jarring linguistic detail, which also reflects police attitudes and standards of conduct toward ordinary people, emerged after Nayeem was taken to the station: the officer-in-charge (OC) of Khulshi police station, Md. Arifur Rahman, repeatedly told him to “speak with your eyes lowered.”

In an institution like a police station, the relationship between state employees and citizens should be one of service provider and service recipient. When the service provider instead orders the recipient to lower their gaze while speaking, intimidating or humiliating them, it shows they have grown accustomed to seeing themselves not as public servants but as a power that rules over the public.

According to police, the operation was launched because an informant provided information about smuggling. But does an informant’s tip or mere police suspicion justify physically torturing someone? Under sections 94 and 96 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, police may conduct searches for specific documents or objects only with magistrate permission or a search warrant. Someone under suspicion may be questioned or taken to the station, but public caning or physical assault violates the police code of conduct. Under the Torture and Custodial Death (Prevention) Act, 2013, subjecting any person to physical or mental torture or even threatening them is a punishable offense. Under this law, the accused officer bears personal responsibility for his actions, and that responsibility does not extend to the entire force. Conviction under this law can result in 5 years to life imprisonment depending on the severity of the offense. But enforcement of this law in Bangladesh remains extremely limited.

There are allegations that when victims or their families muster the courage to file a case, they later face pressure and threats, relatives sometimes get implicated in false cases, and they are sometimes offered “settlements.”

Sections 46 to 53 of the Code of Criminal Procedure state that no more force than necessary may be used to arrest someone (such as if they attempt to flee). Under the Police Regulations of Bengal, 1943, police cannot use physical or psychological coercion to extract confessions or information. Police may only resort to caning or force in situations like riots or unlawful assemblies where public safety is gravely threatened. Striking someone with a stick is therefore a serious violation of law. Furthermore, Article 35(5) explicitly states that no person shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman, or degrading punishment or treatment.

Debate over the role of Bangladesh’s police is nothing new. While they have contributed to maintaining law and order and public safety, allegations of abuse of power and harassment of citizens have also repeatedly surfaced. This has created an invisible distance between public trust and the police.

At the root of this lies a culture of impunity and lack of accountability. Police crimes in Bangladesh go uninvestigated and untried largely due to a “conflict of interest.” Because police investigate police. Experts have long called for establishing an independent commission to investigate police crimes, since existing laws and regulations, instead of ensuring internal oversight and accountability, have become a shield protecting the force. This has obscured the fact that no state institution or individual is above the law, and that creating fear of illegal detention or enforced disappearance in the name of law enforcement is unacceptable in a democratic state.

After last year’s uprising, many believed the state’s institutions would also transform along with it. After the questions, anger, and controversy that erupted nationwide over the police’s role during the July-August 2024 mass uprising, many hoped for fundamental reform of the force that it would look at itself anew in the mirror of self-criticism. But time has shown that changing uniforms is easy; changing culture is hard.

The force meant to symbolize public safety has, under the long shadow of the political system, repeatedly tasted impunity rather than accountability. Controversy has piled up, anger has grown, but reform has not progressed. History teaches that impunity is the greatest refuge of injustice. As long as the dignity of law does not surpass the dignity of power, new incidents will keep occurring, and the same old questions will keep returning. A state’s strength lies not in the barrel of a gun, but in the trust of its people. Once that trust is broken, restoring it is the hardest reform of all.

Withdrawing a few officers or forming an inquiry committee is not a permanent solution. What is needed is a police system where citizens’ dignity is treated as the state’s strength, and where abuse of power is swiftly met with accountability. 

Nayeem’s case, then, is not merely one cricketer’s experience rather it is a repetition of that old, unanswered question Bangladesh still seeks to resolve- will the state be ruled through fear, or guided by trust?

- The writer is a journalist and lawyer