Remembering Arefin Siddique on his first death anniversary: The humane face of Dhaka University
13 March marked the first death anniversary of Professor A A M S Arefin Siddique, the 27th Vice-Chancellor of the University of Dhaka. For the country, he was an eminent academic and administrator whose stewardship left a lasting imprint on higher education in Bangladesh. For many of us who knew him more closely, he was also something rarer: a man of composure, civility, moral clarity, and deep human warmth.
I have had the opportunity to work with many respected academics and public figures over the years. Very few, however, left on me the kind of quiet and enduring impression that Professor Arefin Siddique did. On this first anniversary of his passing, I remember him not only as a former Vice-Chancellor, but as a person whose conduct gave dignity to the office and whose humanity gave meaning to authority.
There are individuals whose significance rests primarily on the positions they hold. There are others whose character enlarges the institutions they serve. Professor Arefin Siddique belonged to the latter category. He was not a man of spectacle. He did not rely on grand gestures or rhetorical flourish. His presence was steadier than that: measured in speech, disciplined in conduct, attentive to others, and guided by an inner sense of responsibility that never seemed performative.
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Some of my clearest memories of him are built not around formal occasions, but around seemingly ordinary moments. I was then serving as Director of the Biotechnology Research Centre at Dhaka University. One afternoon, a meeting of the board members was scheduled in the Vice-Chancellor's meeting room. Everyone was waiting, so I went to inform Professor Arefin Siddique. Just as he rose from his chair, a young admission-seeking student entered and said he wished to speak.
The student, clearly anxious, said that his father was poor, that he came from a village, and that he wanted to study at Dhaka University. Professor Siddique replied calmly: "Apply and sit for the admission test. If you pass, you will certainly be admitted." The student then asked, "What if I do not pass?" Professor Siddique answered, with equal calm, "Then there is nothing to be done." But the student persisted and pleaded, "Sir, in any case, please admit me."
What remains with me to this day is not the exchange itself, but Professor Siddique's manner. There was no irritation in his eyes, no trace of disdain, no impatience. He did not dismiss the young man harshly, nor did he indulge him with false assurance. He listened, explained, and only after courteously concluding the conversation did he come to preside over the meeting. It was a small incident, but in it one saw the essential qualities of the man: kindness without sentimentality, authority without arrogance, and principle without harshness.
During his tenure as Vice-Chancellor, one could enter his room without the elaborate gatekeeping that often surrounds power. This was not administrative laxity; it reflected something about his temperament. He did not believe that authority needed theatrical distance in order to be respected.
His conversational habit also revealed much about him. He often ended discussions with the words "valo theko" or "valo thakben" — "stay well." These were simple expressions, but when he said them, they did not sound routine. They carried sincerity. After his death, one of his former students remarked on a television programme that mass communication and journalism were not taught only by him in the classroom; one could learn from his physical bearing and expressions as well. As his colleague, I understood exactly what was meant. His communication was not merely verbal. It was embedded in posture, restraint, tone, and the way he made others feel acknowledged.
It is often said that the people of southern Bangladesh are especially hospitable. Professor Arefin Siddique, who came from Narsingdi, reminded us that genuine hospitality has no geography. Even after his tenure as Vice-Chancellor had ended, and despite having no shortage of people around him who could have attended to guests, he would often receive visitors with his own hands. Whenever I went to his house, he would personally bring snacks on a tray and serve them himself. The last time he hosted me was on 30 December 2024.
That visit remains vivid for another reason as well. My teacher and colleague, Professor Dr Md. Shahadat Ali — former Dean of the Faculty of Biological Sciences and former Pro-Vice Chancellor of Dhaka University — had lost his wife on 18 December 2024. Professor Siddique, my teacher Professor Gulshan Ara Latifa, and I attended the funeral on 20 December. A few days later, on 29 December, Professor Siddique called me and said, "Shahadat Shaheb must be very upset; let us go and visit him." The next day, I went to his residence in Dhanmondi for that purpose.
I had taken off my shoes and was sitting in the drawing room in my socks. He immediately noticed and asked why I had removed my shoes in that winter weather. Before I could respond properly, he himself brought a pair of sandals and insisted, despite my objections, that I put them on. Then he brought snacks with his own hands and, in his affectionate way, made sure I finished them. These may appear to be minor details, but such details often reveal the truth of a person more clearly than public speeches do. His attentiveness to others was instinctive.
Professor Shahadat Ali, still deeply shaken by the loss of his wife, smiled during the conversation and said to him, "Arefin Shaheb, today, after a long time, it feels as though we are sitting at the Dhaka University Club, having tea and talking." That remark captured something larger. Professor Arefin Siddique had the rare capacity to restore ease, dignity, and warmth to a room burdened by grief.
On our way back to the car that day, we spoke at length. He spoke highly of the then Vice-Chancellor of Dhaka University, Professor Niaz Ahmed Khan. As far as I remember, he said that when he himself was Vice-Chancellor, Professor Niaz, then a department chair, had always seemed to him a positive-minded person. In the days following Professor Siddique's death, Professor Niaz Ahmed Khan also demonstrated profound respect for him and for the institution they both served. It reminded us that the Dhaka University family still retains reservoirs of value and collegial regard — values Professor Siddique himself articulated in so many of his speeches.
There was a time when the words "Arefin Siddique" and "Dhaka University" seemed almost synonymous. This was not simply because he held the office of Vice-Chancellor, but because he came to embody, in the public mind, a certain institutional ethos: dignity without distance, refinement without pretension, and authority without intimidation.
I never saw this selfless and notably ungreedy man visibly upset over matters of personal advancement. At one stage, I heard that he might become Chairman of the University Grants Commission. In the end, he did not receive the appointment. A few years later, I asked him about it. He smiled and said, "The head of government has to consider many things while running the country. In that sense, the right decision was made." It was a striking response. Where others might have expressed disappointment or grievance, he chose perspective. That ability to subordinate personal feeling to a larger view was one of his quiet strengths.
Yet his gentleness should never be mistaken for softness of principle. A Vice-Chancellor is, in many ways, the guardian of the teachers, students, officers, and employees of Dhaka University. Professor Arefin Siddique carried that burden with seriousness, and I know that he spent many sleepless nights doing so.
I was then serving as Chairman of the Department of Zoology when our first-year student Afia Jahan Chaity died on 18 May 2017 after being admitted to a private hospital. When I informed the Vice-Chancellor, he immediately said that the university was ready to do everything necessary for the student and her family. Later, the university authorities filed a case against the doctors concerned. Once the case was filed, doctors from across the country mobilised in protest, and a human chain was formed in Shahbagh. The atmosphere became tense. The university proctor told me to request the Vice-Chancellor to withdraw the case. Pressure mounted from different directions.
Professor Siddique's response was firm and unforgettable: "Give my student back, and I will withdraw the case."
That statement was not rhetorical. It expressed a moral position. Eventually, after compensation was provided to the family, the case was withdrawn. But in that difficult period, he demonstrated that administrative leadership at its best is not merely procedural; it is ethical. He understood that institutions have duties not only to order, but to justice.
He also had a distinctly democratic understanding of the university as a public space. From time to time, there were discussions about banning outsiders from entering the campus during holidays. One day, I asked for his view. He replied, "Dhaka University is for everyone. If people cannot come here, where will they go? Children and young people will come, see the university, and dream." That was entirely in character. He believed that a public university should remain connected to the aspirations of society. He often said that our capacity to adapt to one another, and to live with mutual regard, seemed to be declining. His own position stood in quiet contrast to that decline.
Just as he thought seriously about society, he also cared deeply about nature and ecosystem. In my own work through WildTeam, I had the opportunity to see this side of him as well. In 2012, on behalf of WildTeam, we organised a rally from Khulna city to Khulna University to raise awareness about tiger conservation and the Sundarbans under the banner "Sundarban Mayer Moton" — "Motherly Sundarbans." Professor Arefin Siddique joined us to inaugurate the programme. He understood well that the Sundarbans is not merely a forest, but a protective ecological shield — one that safeguards lives in the southwest, moderates storms and floods, and supports the livelihoods of hundreds of thousands of people. He also understood that if tigers do not survive, the Sundarbans itself is imperilled, and with it the wider ecological security of the region.
Later, in 2016, when we organised the USAID-supported national awareness campaign "Tiger Caravan," he again extended his support. His engagement with such initiatives was not superficial. He appreciated the civic, ecological, and educational significance of conservation. For those of us working in this area, his encouragement carried real meaning.
On a more personal note, I recall an instance of generosity that I have never forgotten. I had booked a room and an auditorium at the Centre of Excellence of Dhaka University for my only daughter Shahrin's 'gaye holud' ceremony. Later, I discovered that the director's office had mistakenly booked the same venue for a senior teacher on the same date. Disappointed, I went to Professor Siddique and explained the problem. With his characteristic gentle smile, he said, "Why are you worried? I can organise the event at my house and garden."
His words left me both relieved and embarrassed. In the end, the booking problem at the Centre of Excellence was resolved, but his offer has remained with me ever since. Even now, when I think of my grandsons, Tanzif and Tawfeeq, who are now 12 and 10 years old, I remember that moment. I often think that this is exactly how the guardian of Dhaka University should be — sincere, humane, and quietly supportive.
Another decisive moment in my own professional life also came through him. One afternoon, Vice-Chancellor Arefin Siddique called me and said, "I am giving you the responsibility of the Provost of Amar Ekushey Hall." I replied honestly, "Sir, I have never even served as a house tutor in any hall." Within moments, however, the official letter arrived. I accepted the responsibility, though I was then already passing through many challenges in my life.
At first, I did not find the life of a hall provost particularly appealing. Early on, I faced a tense incident when students of Amar Ekushey Hall were preparing to march toward Curzon Hall after hearing that students of Shahidullah Hall had beaten some of their peers. I immediately went outside, locked the main gate, and told the students that if anyone wanted to go out, they would have to go over me. My sole intention was to prevent further confrontation.
A few months later, feeling that my teaching and research were being disrupted, I requested the Vice-Chancellor to relieve me of the responsibility. He smiled and said, "This is also academic work, Anwar Shaheb." It was a brief remark, but a meaningful one. It changed my outlook. From then on, I took greater care of the students and the hall. In the end, I served as Provost for six years, while also serving three years as Chairman of the Department of Zoology. Over time, both my department and Amar Ekushey Hall became extensions of my family.
I do not know how much I was able to give, but I certainly received much in return. Even now, many of my former students remember me in moments of need and celebration. During my tenure as provost, the DUCSU elections were held, although by then Professor Arefin Siddique had already left office. With the help of colleagues, I tried my best to ensure a fair and orderly process. After sending the election results, I spent the whole night worrying whether I had made any error. The next morning, when I opened Prothom Alo, I found that the elections in Amar Ekushey Hall and Shamsun Nahar Hall had been reported as successful. It was a moment of relief.
On the day my tenure ended as provost, the hall students organised a large farewell reception. My wife and I spent a memorable evening with them. Afterwards, I felt a strong urge to inform Professor Siddique personally that my responsibility had ended. By then, he was no longer Vice-Chancellor and had no reason to know the exact date of my departure. When I met him and thanked him for giving me the opportunity to carry that responsibility, he smiled and said, "Your 'sons' will surely remember you." "Surely" was one of his characteristic words. When he said it, it always carried reassurance.
By virtue of my position as Provost of Amar Ekushey Hall, I also had to serve as convener of the Announcement Stage Committee at the Central Shaheed Minar during International Mother Language Day commemorations. Within three months of my appointment, February arrived, and Vice-Chancellor Arefin Siddique called a meeting at the Senate Hall to discuss arrangements for observing Amar Ekushey with due dignity. When the agenda concerning the Announcement Stage Committee arose, a colleague proposed that the responsibility be given to a professor from the Bangla Department rather than to the provost of Amar Ekushey Hall. I still do not know why such a proposal was made. Unexpectedly, I spoke into the microphone and said, "Honourable Vice-Chancellor, the Provost of Amar Ekushey Hall also speaks Bangla." The Senate Hall fell silent for a few moments. Professor Siddique then calmly moved to the next agenda item. In the end, I served as convener of the committee for five years.
Even today, the emotion of breaking the midnight silence of 21 February remains vivid. Every detail — whose voice would be heard, which songs would be played, how the programme would unfold — was arranged with care and with the Vice-Chancellor's approval. One year, while making the stage announcement for the arrival of the Chief Justice, I said: "The Honourable Chief Justice of the Government of the People's Republic of Bangladesh is approaching the main altar to pay tribute to the great martyrs." Professor Siddique gently came toward the stage and corrected me: not "of the Government of the People's Republic of Bangladesh," but "the Honourable Chief Justice of the People's Republic of Bangladesh." I corrected the announcement immediately. Even now, I remember that moment with respect. It reflected his sensitivity to language, institutional propriety, and the symbolic accuracy of public ceremony.
After his death, former Vice-Chancellor Professor A K Azad Chowdhury spoke to me movingly after the namaz-e-janaza at Dhanmondi Eidgah Mosque. Later, at the memorial service on 9 April 2025, the then Vice-Chancellor Professor Niaz Ahmed Khan captured what many of us felt when he said that Professor Arefin Siddique won the hearts of many people through his extraordinary personality, human values, and character. The then Pro-Vice Chancellor Professor Mamun Ahmed similarly remarked that such remembrance reflects the beauty of Dhaka University itself.
That, perhaps, is Professor Arefin Siddique's most enduring legacy. Not only the offices he held, but the values he practised. Not only the policies he oversaw, but the culture of conduct he embodied. Not only the responsibilities he carried, but the assurance, dignity, and kindness with which he carried them.
On his first death anniversary, I remember him with deep respect and gratitude — as a Vice-Chancellor, certainly, but also as a teacher beyond the classroom, a guardian of the institution, a man of refinement, and a humane presence in public life. We can only hope that he will remain alive in our memory, in our practices, in our celebrations, and in our prayers.
The author, Dr Md Anwarul Islam is a former professor of Zoology at the University of Dhaka and the CEO of WildTeam
