Why our students need an upgraded curriculum

Illustration: TBS

As I stood before my class, with my eyes scanning the glowing screens of smartphones, tablets, and laptops, I realised the world of education had shifted without warning. 

The sterile, white walls of my classroom, bathed in cold fluorescent light, felt more like a waiting room than a space for intellectual growth. In place of the humble chalkboard, an interactive smartboard blinked quietly in the corner, underused and overlooked.

Standing at the crossroads of eras is surreal. I taught from a 2010 textbook while my students Googled quantum physics in real-time. The dissonance was deafening. For years, I'd marched to the rhythm of a curriculum that belonged to a bygone world. But my students had begun to resist—not with rebellion, but with quiet defiance. They refused to accept an education that no longer served them.

The quiet collapse of an outdated education system

If you're a teacher in Bangladesh, you've likely felt it—the creeping irrelevance of our curriculum. The days when memorising historical dates or reciting algebraic formulas by heart constituted an "education" are long gone. Yet, our system clings to these relics, not out of tradition, but because no one knows how to let them go.

In this digital age, students are no longer confined to textbooks. They carry more information in their palms than past generations could accumulate in a lifetime. Yet, we expect them to sit through lectures on material they could access more thoroughly—and often more engagingly—online.

Take Reza, for example. One of my brightest students, his curiosity couldn't be contained by the rigid curriculum. After a trigonometry class I struggled to make interesting, he stayed behind to ask, "Sir, why are we still learning this way when everything we need is online?"

His question seemed simple, but it carried a deeper critique. Reza, like many of his peers, wasn't jaded by the subject matter but by its outdated delivery. He was drained by a system that acted as if the internet didn't exist, as if knowledge were still hoarded by a select few. This is the quiet collapse of our education system: students capable of learning, innovating, and creating are stifled by an infrastructure stuck in the past.

The globalisation dilemma: Preparing for a world without borders

Bangladesh is no longer isolated from global currents. Today's students, connected through Instagram, TikTok, and global friendships, live in a borderless world with limitless horizons. Yet, their curriculum remains parochial, as if preparing them for a life confined to national borders.

In contrast, countries like Finland, Singapore, and Japan have embraced globalisation, blending national pride with global competitiveness. Finland focuses on critical thinking and creativity, while Singapore combines hard sciences with entrepreneurial training. Meanwhile, Bangladesh remains fixated on exam results, prioritising rote memorisation over skills like creativity and adaptability—qualities essential in a world driven by algorithms and innovation.

This outdated approach isn't just irrelevant; it's harmful, locking students into a system ill-equipped for the global market. The world isn't waiting for Bangladesh to catch up. Our students aren't just competing with each other—they're competing with the world.

The curriculum needs to become relevant again

After a particularly dull faculty meeting—where we debated, yet again, whether to update a syllabus referencing "current technologies" from 2010—I realised how badly we were failing our students. We were so focused on preserving the curriculum's sanctity that we forgot education's purpose: to prepare students for the future, not the past.

The students were already ahead of us. They demanded a curriculum that wasn't just national but global. They wanted to integrate the best of IB and GCSE programs, not to erase their cultural identity but to compete in an interconnected world.

They weren't asking for less of Bangladesh—they wanted more. More relevance, depth, and connection to the global economy and the marketplace of ideas. They envisioned a curriculum blending our cultural heritage with modern skills.

Students are leaders too, not just learners

One of the most profound shifts I've witnessed over the past year is the way my students have begun to see themselves not just as learners but as leaders. And not just in the future, but now. They're no longer waiting for the system to change—they're changing it themselves.They're forming study groups where they teach each other coding, financial literacy, and creative writing—subjects that aren't even on the national curriculum but that they know will be essential in the world they'll inherit.

This isn't just a rebellion against the old ways. It's a constructive movement, one that seeks to build something better, something more relevant. They don't want to tear down the system; they want to take ownership of it.

One of my students, Zayed, has already started a tech club that connects Bangladeshi students with mentors in Silicon Valley via Zoom. They work on coding projects together, and through this virtual collaboration, Zayed and his friends are learning more than they ever could from a textbook. They're learning by doing, by leading. They're not waiting for us, their teachers, to catch up.

And then came glorious 2024. The youth movement exploded onto the streets, toppling an autocratic government that had long underestimated the power of its youngest citizens. But for those of us who had been paying attention, the revolution started long before the first slogan was chanted. It started in the classroom, in the quiet defiance of students who were no longer willing to accept anything unconditionally.

A generation ready to lead, not just follow

I had always seen my role as a leader or a guide—someone to help my students navigate the labyrinth of facts, figures, and historical dates. But the students of 2025 weren't interested in just being shepherded meekly. 

One day after class, one of my brightest students, Rafiq, approached me. He had always been the model student—quiet, diligent, never questioning authority. But that day, there was a fire in his eyes. "Sir," he said, "why do we learn as if the world ends at our borders? Why does our curriculum feel like it's preparing us for a past that no longer exists?"

He wasn't just talking about the textbooks, though they were embarrassingly outdated. He was talking about the entire structure of education in Bangladesh—how it thumped students into a narrow corridor of thought, teaching them to memorise and obey, but never to innovate. Rafiq's question haunted me because I knew he was right. The education system, the very one I had been a part of for years, was no longer serving our students. It was shackling them.

Normally, the word "homogenisation" often carries negative connotations—fears of losing what makes us uniquely Bangladeshi. But my students saw it differently. 

For them, it wasn't about erasing identity; it was about gaining the tools to thrive globally. They wanted to study Shakespeare and Tagore, learn coding and Mughal history, and master economics and AI ethics. They sought both a Bangladeshi and global education, understanding that skills must be marketable worldwide. 

Integrating standards like IB and GCSE wasn't about conforming to the West but enabling success anywhere while proudly retaining their identity. Countries like Finland and Singapore have balanced this—why can't Bangladesh?

Hasanul Banna Al-Maruf. Sketch: TBS

Hasanul Banna Al—Maruf is a teacher of English Language and Literature.

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.