Mob violence has long haunted the conscience of South Asia, but moments like the recent lynching of Dipu Chandra Das in Bangladesh – followed just days later by the brutal killing of 29-year-old Amrit Mondal (Samrat) in Rajbari’s Pangsha – force us to confront just how fragile human dignity has become in our societies. These are not isolated incidents that can be dismissed as unfortunate aberrations. They are chilling reminders of what happens when fear, identity politics, misinformation and rage blend into a mob and strip individuals of their humanity. In both cases, men were beaten, humiliated, murdered and, in Dipu’s case, his body was set ablaze — as if cruelty needed to be performed and witnessed. Bangladesh today is navigating political instability, a rise in extremist rhetoric and a charged public mood where rumours travel faster than reason. When tempers burn hotter than institutions can cool, streets begin to behave like courtrooms and mobs assume the authority to punish. That is the true danger: when social breakdown hides behind moral justification, when brutality feels righteous, and when public anger is weaponised instead of calmed.
Yet to point fingers outward and pretend this is a uniquely Bangladeshi tragedy would be dishonest. India too has lived through its own shameful chapters of mob lynching, whether driven by religious prejudice, suspicion around cattle trade, rumours of theft or the manufactured outrage of social media. These incidents were not only about the violence itself but about the normalisation of that violence. A society changes when people begin to speak of lynching with weary familiarity rather than moral horror. Too often, responses to violence in India have been disturbingly selective. Outrage depends on identity. Compassion becomes conditional. Political narratives sometimes twist themselves into knots to justify the indefensible or quietly signal tolerance for intimidation. That is how a moral compass is lost. A constitutional democracy cannot coexist with mob justice. Every lynching chips away at the promise of equal citizenship. Every unpunished mob becomes a rehearsal for the next one. India, with all its democratic experience and institutional strength, should have been the region’s moral anchor. Instead, it finds itself caught in the same dangerous cycle: anger amplified by misinformation, prejudice sharpened by politics, justice weakened by hesitation.
Pakistan’s experience offers its own grim reflection of what happens when mob power is allowed to grow unchecked. The murder of Sri Lankan factory manager Priyantha Kumara in Sialkot, dragged and beaten by a violent crowd on allegations of blasphemy, remains one of the region’s most horrifying examples of collective hysteria. In many such incidents, the mob is not spontaneous; it is encouraged. It is mobilised by rhetoric. It gains confidence when authorities hesitate. It becomes sanctified when politics finds it convenient. What Bangladesh, India and Pakistan share is not merely geography or culture but a dangerous tolerance for collective anger masquerading as moral righteousness. In each of these countries, the spark is different — a rumour, a religious charge, a whispered suspicion — but the outcome looks frighteningly familiar: a crowd gathers, facts vanish, empathy dies first, and a human life becomes expendable. The deeper tragedy is how quickly societies move on afterwards. There are condemnations, statements, promises of justice — and then silence. Meanwhile, the memory of the mob lingers, quietly teaching the wrong lesson: that outrage can overpower law, and that violence can be performed publicly without fear.
This region deserves better than a future defined by fear and retribution. Lynching flourishes where trust in institutions collapses, where justice feels slow or selective, and where identity politics rewards rage more than reason. Stronger policing is necessary, but policing alone will never be enough. Governments must speak with clarity and courage: violence in the name of religion, nationalism or honour is unacceptable, regardless of who commits it or who suffers. Courts need to deliver swift, credible justice, not symbolic arrests that fade with the news cycle. Political leadership must choose principle over expediency and refuse to wink at mobs for electoral benefit. Social media companies must treat South Asia as a priority threat environment, because misinformation here doesn’t just mislead — it kills. Education systems must consciously teach empathy, dialogue and civic responsibility, not merely history and slogans. Most importantly, societies themselves must reject selective outrage. Today, it is a Hindu man murdered in Bangladesh; earlier, it was Muslims, Dalits and Christians attacked in India; in Pakistan, it has been those accused, often falsely, under blasphemy pretexts. The identity changes. The victims change. The pretext changes. The pattern does not. If South Asia wants to claim democratic maturity and moral credibility, it must prove it by protecting the life of its most vulnerable citizen against the fury of its loudest crowd. That, ultimately, is the true test of civilisation — not how loudly we proclaim our faiths and patriotism, but how firmly we defend our shared humanity when it is hardest to do so.