On July 22, 2025, yesterday a tragedy unfolded in the skies over Dhaka—and landed with devastation on the grounds of Milestone School and College. A Bangladesh Air Force (BAF) F-7 training fighter jet, reportedly suffering from a mechanical fault, crashed directly into the two-story school building during active class hours. What followed was not merely a horrific accident but a collapse of the state’s most sacred responsibilities: to protect, to respond, and to tell the truth.
At 1:18 p.m. local time, while young students were immersed in their studies, the decades-old jet slammed into the campus like a flaming symbol of systemic decay. The aircraft’s failure became the nation’s failure. But what shook the nation even more was not the crash itself—it was what came after. In place of rapid, humane rescue efforts, Bangladesh witnessed chaos, negligence, and a grotesque display of military overreach.
A Scene of Panic, Not Preparedness
Despite the Air Force being the direct agent of this catastrophe, there was no field medical response ready to assist the wounded. No mobile emergency hospital. No trauma unit. No coordinated deployment of life-saving personnel. Civilians—teachers, students, parents, and local residents—rushed to help the injured children with nothing but bare hands and horror-struck hearts. Ambulances arrived late. Firefighters and volunteers acted heroically, but lacked support to rescue children from the classrooms.
The military, on the other hand, arrived swiftly—but not to save lives. Witnesses described troops mobilized the crash site, not to rescue but to restrict. Their apparent mission was not medical, but media management.
According to the Dhaka Tribune, a local media report quoting students, the scenarios were, “Minhaz, a ninth-grade student at Milestone, said: “I was eating in the school canteen when suddenly I heard a loud noise. I saw the plane hit the seven-storey building and then crash into the two-storey building. Immediately, the fire broke out. Everyone was screaming and running. Many younger students caught fire.”
Miraj, an 11th-grade student, said: “I saw many young students burn right before my eyes. Some were dismembered. I could not believe if I was dreaming or it was real.”
Shahriya, another 11th-grader, said: “We were having class in the adjacent building when the explosion shook the area. Looking through the window, I saw fire engulfing the two-story building. Within seconds, the entire building was ablaze.”
Onik Sheikh, also in eleventh grade, said: “For the first time in my life, I saw death so close. The sounds of fire, smoke and running still echo in my mind. Our school turned into a death trap in an instant.”
Nuruzzaman Mridha, a teacher at Milestone School and College, said: “Classes for grades five, six and seven were held in the building where the plane crashed. Although classes ended around 1pm, many students were waiting for private coaching. Many of our students were injured and have been sent to various hospitals.”
Silencing the Survivors
Students and teachers who tried to speak to the press were harassed, silenced, and in some cases, beaten. The military seemed more focused on suppressing death facts than addressing wounds. How many children died? Who was missing? What could have been prevented? These questions were met with stone-faced silence or threats.
Instead of accountability, there was intimidation. Instead of openness, there was obstruction. The military appeared desperate to control the narrative—to hide its own recklessness in flying outdated jets over one of the most densely populated areas in the country.
Public Outrage and the Student Uprising
In the aftermath, protests erupted on the ground and social media. Not just from Milestone students, but from neighboring institutions across Dhaka. The young—those who saw friends die and buildings burn—stood up. They demanded justice, transparency, and reform. Their six-point demand list was simple, humane, and deeply reasonable:
- Disclose the full names and identities of the deceased.
- Publish an accurate and verified list of the injured.
- Issue a public apology for the military’s assault on teachers at the crash site.
- Provide compensation to the families of the victims.
- Decommission outdated aircraft and replace them with safer, modern planes.
- Relocate and redesign Air Force training routes away from civilian zones.
These demands are not political—they are moral.
Flying Over Danger
This tragedy is not without warning signs. For years, Dhaka residents have complained about military jets flying low over their homes, their schools, their workplaces. Those complaints were dismissed as paranoia. Now they ring out as prophetic. Military aviation experts globally agree: no air force should conduct training flights over civilian neighborhoods. That the BAF continues to do so is not only poor judgment—it is potential negligence.
Who authorized this flight path? Were proper maintenance checks conducted on the aging F-7 aircraft? Why was it still in service? These are not idle questions. They are life-and-death matters—and the public deserves answers.
A Government Missing in Action
Dr. Yunus led government’s response has been equally disgraceful. Bangladesh’s Chief Advisor and advisory cabinet failed to offer timely leadership. There was no national address. No emergency briefing. No expression of sorrow that matched the magnitude of the grief felt across the country. While families mourned, the state disappeared—ceding space to a military force more concerned with self-preservation than national healing.
This morning, Law Adviser Asif Nazrul, Education Adviser CR Abrar, and the Chief Adviser’s Press Secretary Shafiqul Alam had arrived at the Diabari campus in the morning and faced the student anger. Soon after their arrival, the students surrounded the advisers, refusing to let them leave until all demands were fulfilled.
When Protectors Become Perpetrators
Perhaps the most disturbing element of this tragedy is what it reveals about the character of the Bangladeshi military: untrained in civilian emergency protocols, unaccountable to the public, and more eager to preserve its image than to uphold its duty. Their conduct on the ground turned a disaster site into a hostile zone. Parents searching for children were treated like intruders. Journalists were kept at bay. Teachers were brutalized.
This is not a military trained to protect citizens. This is a force trained to protect itself—from truth, from criticism, from justice.
The Collapse of the Social Contract
Milestone School and College should have been a sanctuary of learning, not a graveyard for dreams. Now, it stands as a monument to failure—governmental, military, and moral. If schoolchildren are not safe from the skies above, if the very institution meant to defend the country brings death to its classrooms, then no citizen is truly safe.
Indeed, the time for scripted condolences is over. The time for reforms, resignations, and reckoning has come. Because if even one child’s death is met with silence and spin, then we have lost more than lives—we have lost our humanity.
