“Education system of Bangladesh is responsible for my death”

“The education system of Bangladesh is responsible for my death”—this one sentence screams out what kind of system we have built, where a young student found his final refuge in death. The suicide of Dhrubajit Karmakar from Mymensingh Engineering College is not just the tragic news of a death, it reveals the cruel, dark mirror of our education system. The demise of a young life is painful, but his suicide note shakes our conscience—have we truly built an education system, or merely a number-based machine of psychological oppression?

In Dhrubajit’s suicide note, it was written—“I simply couldn’t bear the pressure”—this single line exposes the brutal reality of our entire education system. It is not just the helplessness of an individual student, but a scream against a rotten, cruel, and compassionless system. We have built an education system devoid of the joy of learning, filled only with constant anxiety, fear, and a suffocating struggle to survive. Students are forced to fight more for survival than for acquiring knowledge. Education has become a cruel race, where even a slight lag earns a choking declaration—“You’re a failure, you’re unfit, you’re a burden to society.” Does this system educate, or does it function like a licensed machine of mental torture that kills the consciousness of students?

Dhrubajit was caught cheating in an exam—many may wash their hands upon hearing this: “He made a mistake, he deserved punishment!” But hasn’t this question become our greatest inhumanity? A young student, studying at one of the country’s top technical institutions, who had dreams, a future, and potential ahead—was he merely a “cheater”? Or was he a young man crushed by mental pressure, who ended his life under institutional oppression?

Why he cheated—this question is never asked in our education system. We all know cheating is wrong; but how have we built such a horrific mental and social structure where being caught once means extreme humiliation, social disgrace, loss of dignity, and the end of life itself? A student committed suicide just hours after his exam paper was confiscated—is this merely a personal weakness, or a reflection of a deeply inhumane system?

Was Dhrubajit punished for a wrong decision, or by an education system that doesn’t see students as human beings but wants to turn them into machines? His death points a finger at our eyes—it shows how we have forgotten the “human” aspect of a student. In the classroom, in the exam hall, in the teacher’s eyes, he no longer deserves empathy—only punishment for breaking the rules. This punishment is not just for Dhrubajit—we are all being punished, every day, in every institution, by silent inhumanity.

In our education system, making a “mistake” equals being “unworthy,” and failure becomes a shameful stigma. There’s no room in the classroom to learn from mistakes—only humiliation and scolding await. If someone performs poorly in exams, no one says “go die” outright; but the behaviour of teachers, peers, and the whole system conveys that message loud and clear. When a student cheats or breaks under mental pressure—do we see them as human, or discard them as defective products? Do we ever ask—why did this happen, how are you doing, can we help? Instead of counseling or compassion, we burden them with humiliation, abuse, and the threat of expulsion. So the question arises—are we truly trying to create humans, or merely robots in a factory of grades? If the real purpose of education is to build character and awaken self-respect, then this system is nothing but a graveyard of that ideal.

After Dhrubajit Karmakar’s death, there may be a few Facebook posts, some news with “tragic” headlines, even one or two inquiry committees to deflect responsibility—then what? Will we forget again, cover everything up, and return to that shameless cycle of the education system, where a student is just a roll number, a result sheet, a “marked criminal” if they make a mistake? The question is, after this death, will counseling really be introduced in educational institutions? Will teachers step down from their ‘elite’ positions and look into a student’s eyes with compassion? Or will another Dhrubajit be caught cheating in an exam hall, beg in tears, be humiliated, while we quote rules and policies and say—“But he broke the rules”?

Let us not forget—education is not just a degree or a ladder to a job; it is a tool to shape life. And to teach life, we must first grant the right to make mistakes, and the courage to rise again after falling. Suicide is not a personal failure—it is the collective outcome of our social, cultural, and institutional cruelty. So, if we are truly mourning Dhrubajit’s death, we must wipe our eyes and demand answers now—and hold ourselves accountable too.

Every educational institution must make mental health support mandatory, so that every student knows—they are not alone, there is a human teacher beside them, not a guard. The student-teacher relationship must no longer be mechanical, but a dialogue of the heart. A student caught cheating in an exam should not receive the message that all their dreams are over; instead, we must say—“You made a mistake, but you are the future. Stand up again.”

Dhrubajit’s final letter had one line—“The education system of Bangladesh is responsible for my death”—may this sentence become the title of our national soul-searching. We want a country where no student ever again has to write such a line. Where education means freedom, confidence, and love—not suffocating pressure.

Chiranjan Sarkar: Columnist.