The mob, the women, and the patriarchy: Ladyland still a dream

It was the first day of Hemanta, when the cool, crisp air of early winter whispered through Dhaka's streets, indicating the slow shift of seasons. 

The last day of the workweek had ended, and along with three of my friends —two male and one female— we decided to grab some food at an outdoor restaurant beside Dhanmondi Lake. 

The laughter, the food, and the comfort of familiar faces washed away the fatigue of the week. But then the sky suddenly broke open, unleashing a downpour. With only one umbrella between us, we scrambled for shelter.

My friend, the girl, had sustained injury from a brutal attack during the mass uprising on 19 July. 

Her spine still hurt, making it difficult for her to stand for long, so we found a wooden table beneath a tree for her to lean on and took shelter there, hoping the rain would ease. 

An hour passed, and we were still waiting, evening turned to night. The rain showed no signs of stopping. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a group of 10-12 boys (I'm calling them boys as none were above 20 years old) appeared, moving towards us with aggression in their strides.

One boy, eyes flashing with authority, shouted at my male friends, "Maye manush niye ondhokare oi chipay keno gesen, eidike eshe daran" (Why are you standing in the dark corner with two women? Come to a more visible spot).

The words stung, not just because of their condescending tone, but because of the underlying assumption — that as women, we only exist in relation to men. 

The boys hadn't even bothered to address us directly as if we were lesser beings whose existence didn't matter. 

Our male friends immediately reacted with anger, demanding, "What do you mean by that? What business is it of yours?" The group approached closer, fists clenched, their presence menacing.

We had heard of a similar incident just days before, where a group of men attacked three others for trying to protect a woman from harassment in the same area. 

Knowing that the situation could escalate quickly, my friends calmed down and tried reasoning with the boys. 

What struck me most, however, was that the boys, even in their misplaced concern, seemed to believe they were acting as the protectors of societal virtue. 

In their minds, it was their duty to ensure that nothing "indecent" was happening in their neighbourhood. But their sense of duty had erased the reality of two women standing right before them, with their own agency and autonomy. 

We were not being "protected." We were being diminished.

This encounter was not an isolated incident. It's part of a larger phenomenon of mob violence rooted in patriarchal mindsets that permeate post-uprising Bangladesh. 

It seemed even over 100 years after Begum Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain penned her famous "Sultana's Dream" depicting a feminist utopia, the essence of it remains elusive. 

While we have come close to solar power, machinery farming and soon, even flying cars, a safe space for women is as far as it has ever been. 

Mob violence patterns against women 

A report by Mahila Parishad in The Daily Star reveals that violence against women increased by 27% in September 2024, indicating a sharp rise in gender-based aggression in the post-revolution climate. 

Another incident in Savar, where the dismembered body of a housewife was discovered, highlights the alarming brutality women face across the country.  

From analysing social media posts, several patterns emerge:  

1. Social conditioning and victim-blaming: Posts like Anjila Jerin Anjum's recount how local men blame women for the violence inflicted on them. A security guard's comment, "Before, they used to rape and leave women alive; now they kill them to avoid exposure," reflects a chilling normalisation of violence and the scapegoating of women. 

2. Fear of public spaces: Ila Lala's post outlines how women carry the constant burden of fear in public spaces, armed with tools like scissors for self-defense and battling internalised expectations to remain vigilant. Her lived experiences resonate with countless other women who feel unsafe in a society that doesn't see them as equals.  

3. Institutional failures: Sifat Khan's detailed critique of societal complicity in re-embracing known rape apologists reflects how entrenched misogynistic views are, even within academic and professional spaces.  

Mapping the patterns

From Dhanmondi to Savar, the patterns of mob violence against women follow a chilling consistency:  

Dehumanisation: Women are reduced to symbols of honour that must be controlled.  

Misplaced morality: Mobs operate under the guise of protecting cultural norms.  

Absence of legal repercussions: Weak law enforcement emboldens perpetrators.

As the country continues to navigate the aftermath of the recent upsurge, we see how societal structures are slow to change. Instead of progressing towards equity, certain negative tendencies—such as mob violence and violence against women—have become even more profound.

While the uprising itself sought to dismantle forms of discrimination, it also unintentionally reinforced certain power dynamics. 

Men, particularly those with a misplaced sense of social responsibility, see themselves as enforcers of cultural norms. These norms, which view women as inherently subordinate, lead to public shaming and mob attacks in the name of "protection."

Structural Functionalism explains how every part of society has a role that contributes to social stability. However, in a patriarchal structure, that role often involves keeping women in a subordinate position to maintain traditional power dynamics. Mob violence, particularly against women, serves as a tool for reinforcing these roles, especially in a society experiencing rapid change after the uprising.

As societal norms are questioned, those who benefit from the status quo—predominantly men—use violence to maintain control. In post-uprising Bangladesh, this power struggle has resulted in gender-based violence as a way of upholding male dominance.

One of the most unsettling aspects of this behaviour is how quickly groups of men form to "enforce" these norms, effectively acting as a patriarchal police force. They believe they are protecting morality, but in reality, they are perpetuating control over women. 

Symbolic Interactionism helps us understand how these mobs are formed. Collective interpretations of "deviant" behaviour—such as women simply existing in public spaces—lead to group punishment. The mob sees itself as a collective, acting to "correct" behaviour that deviates from patriarchal expectations.

In the aftermath of the upsurge, cases of mob violence have disproportionately targeted women. The Dhanmondi incident wasn't an exception—it's part of a pattern. 

In countless situations across the country, mobs of men are stepping in, not to protect, but to regulate the public behaviour of women, reducing them to symbols of honour that must be guarded or punished.

Breaking the chains of ignorance

In the shadow of a rising nation, one thing remains unshaken—patriarchy's grip on society. Recent incidents of mob violence against women are not anomalies but rather the ugly, unrelenting face of a system designed to confine and control.  

This systemic repression has deep historical roots. A century ago, when Begum Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain began her revolutionary work in female education, she stood against a society where patriarchy dictated every aspect of a woman's life. 

Education for women was seen as unnecessary, even dangerous. The imposition of these beliefs stemmed from a fear of disruption—of challenging the gender norms that kept women confined to the domestic sphere.  

Rokeya, born in 1880s Bengal, was an anomaly in her time. Growing up in a conservative Muslim family, she saw firsthand how women were denied access to knowledge and agency. Her elder brother, defying family norms, secretly taught her Bengali and English—small acts of rebellion that would shape her lifelong mission.  

Rokeya's writings, including "Sultana's Dream", presented a utopian vision of a world where women's intellect and autonomy were celebrated. But her resistance extended beyond literature. 

In 1911, she established the Sakhawat Memorial Girls' School in Kolkata, a sanctuary for girls from conservative families, offering them education against all societal odds.  

This wasn't just an act of defiance; it was a declaration of war against patriarchy. 

Her courage inspired a generation of women to see education as a path to freedom, not a betrayal of tradition. Her efforts laid the groundwork for women's increasing participation in public life, paving the way for the workforce dynamics we witness today.  

The parallels between then and now

Fast forward to present-day Bangladesh, while women now occupy roles in every sector—science, journalism, politics—the echoes of Rokeya's struggles are far from silenced. 

Patriarchy, though weakened, is still resilient. The mob violence we witness—such as the incident at Dhanmondi where women were attacked for their mere presence in public and thousands of others consistently—is not unlike the societal backlash Rokeya faced. Both are born from the same patriarchal impulse to control and dominate.  

Rokeya's lifelong journey was a triumph over ignorance and oppression. Her work reminds us that true progress requires not just policy changes but a shift in cultural values. Her vision was not limited to education; it was about empowering women to dream, to think, and to lead.  

The cultural and psychological underpinnings

Our culture has long devalued women, leading to widespread impunity for those who engage in violence. This is not solely a religious issue, as many would claim. Rather, it is about a patriarchal social order that sees women as possessions—be it of their families or, in this case, the public at large.

Psychologically, mob violence taps into deeper elements of human behaviour. Groupthink, the desire to conform, and the fear of social rejection play critical roles in how people behave within these mobs. 

The threat of being ostracised for not defending traditional values pushes individuals to participate in violence. Cognitive Dissonance also comes into play, where individuals reconcile the contradiction between their violent actions and their belief in a "just" cause by dehumanising someone, especially women in the process.

This mindset is further solidified by the socialisation of gender roles, where men are taught to dominate, and women are conditioned to submit. In moments of mob violence, these psychological pressures—combined with social expectations—compel individuals to act aggressively toward women. 

The murders of Tofazzal and Renu, though different in the circumstances, share a common thread rooted in patriarchy's role in mob violence. 

Tofazzal, a person with intellectual disabilities, was beaten to death at Dhaka University on 18 September 2024 after being suspected of theft, while Renu, a single mother, was lynched by a mob in Dhaka's Badda after being falsely accused of child abduction on 20 July 2019. 

Both incidents are prime examples of how patriarchal norms fuel mob mentality, where suspicion or deviance from social norms leads to brutal enforcement of "justice" by self-appointed guardians of society.

In Tofazzal's case, the mob consisted of men who, under the guise of protecting the community, acted violently without evidence, reflecting the patriarchal belief that men must uphold law and order. 

Similarly, Renu's murder demonstrates how mobs, influenced by patriarchal views of women as either mothers or criminals, swiftly turned against her. The mob dehumanised her based on unverified rumours, reflecting the entrenched patriarchal idea that women, particularly when seen outside their traditional roles, are suspect and unworthy of protection.

In both cases, patriarchy played a critical role in emboldening the mobs. 

For Tofazzal, his perceived violation of societal norms allowed the mob to enforce their own version of justice. In Renu's case, the fact that she was a woman — and thus seen as inherently vulnerable — made her an easy target for collective violence. 

Both tragedies reveal how patriarchy not only sanctions violence but also perpetuates a system where mostly men feel entitled to control, and women and marginalised, often seen as powerless, are left to suffer its consequences.

This psychological underpinnings of mob mentality, often mistakenly attributed solely to religious orthodoxy, are more deeply rooted in social structures that reinforce collective behaviour and power dynamics. 

Patriarchy, as an overarching system, fosters a sense of entitlement and dominance, particularly among men, who feel compelled to enforce societal norms through violence or coercion. This mindset is driven by psychological factors like conformity, where individuals within the mob align their behaviour with the group's perceived social norms, even when those norms lead to harm. 

While religious orthodoxy can serve as a vehicle for justifying these actions, the core issue lies in how society values control, dominance, and protectionism, particularly over women. The mob acts not out of genuine religious conviction but from a need to uphold patriarchal order, using religion as a shield to legitimise actions that are deeply entrenched in social control rather than faith.

The surge in mob violence after the uprising is a reflection of the state's failure to address the deep-seated societal tensions that have long festered beneath the surface. Incidents like these occurred even before the uprising, but the upheaval that followed created a volatile atmosphere where frustrations, uncertainties, and fears intensified. 

The state, in its focus on political control and stability, overlooked the need for meaningful social reform—failing to dismantle patriarchal structures and neglecting to educate the public on justice, equality, and human rights. 

As the social fabric frays, people feel abandoned by a system they no longer trust, leading them to take matters into their own hands. Without proper legal recourse or a functioning justice system, mobs become enforcers of misguided "justice," often targeting women and marginalised individuals as scapegoats. The state's failure to provide protection, enforce laws, or challenge harmful cultural norms has allowed this cycle of violence to grow unchecked, with tragic consequences.

The solution lies not just in addressing the immediate incidents of mob violence but also in challenging the deep-seated cultural and psychological roots of this behaviour. 

In a society where patriarchy silently pulls the strings, mob violence isn't just an isolated act of chaos—it's a reflection of how deeply broken our social fabric is. It's not just about men asserting power over women or defending tradition; it's about a collective fear of change, of losing control over a world that's evolving beyond old, rigid structures. 

In the aftermath of the revolution, as Bangladesh stands on the precipice of transformation, it's heartbreaking to witness that, for many, the instinct to suppress rather than uplift still prevails. 

I think back to that night by the lake, sheltered under a tree with my friends, and the chilling realisation that, despite the rain, what really soaked through was the cold indifference of a system that reduces women to lesser beings. The rain felt like a metaphor for the storm of indifference and control women face daily. 

We had done nothing wrong, yet we were seen as something to control, something to question, something to protect—not as individuals with agency but as mere extensions of men. And that is what must change. 

This isn't just about one incident or one mob—it's about every woman who has ever been made to feel like she is something less, every person who has been brutalised by a society that clings to its old ways.

Change won't come through silence. It won't come if we continue to avert our eyes, hoping the storms of violence will pass. It will only come when we tear down the structures that allow mobs to thrive when we challenge the mindset that sees women and the vulnerable as targets, and when we rebuild from the roots with compassion, empathy, and, most of all, equality. This is the fight that remains long after the revolution—and it's one we cannot afford to lose.

Zarin Tasnim is an Online journalist at The Business Standard

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard