Some buildings produce knowledge, and then there are buildings that produce patience, but in most cases, anger. The Registrar’s Building of Dhaka University, it seems, has perfected the latter into an institutional philosophy. Degrees may be awarded in lecture halls, but endurance is conferred in corridors where time stands still, files gather dust and the phrase “come after lunch” echoes with a permanence that even archival records might envy.
For generations of students, this building has been less an administrative hub and more a rite of passage. One does not simply graduate from Dhaka University; one survives the Registrar’s Office. It is here that the romance of higher education meets the bureaucracy of reality, where ambition collides with procedural inertia, and where the promise of global mobility is often held hostage by a missing signature or an unread email. It would be unfair, of course, to suggest that nothing has changed. The university has embraced the language of digitisation. Services are now, at least in theory, available online. Fees can be deposited electronically. Applications can be submitted without standing in serpentine queues under the unforgiving Dhaka sun. These are not trivial achievements. They signal an awareness that the world has moved forward. Yet awareness, as it turns out, is not the same as transformation.
Because even in this brave new digital system, the student finds themselves making a familiar journey back to the past. The online application is only the beginning. The process soon demands a pilgrimage to the residential hall for a provost’s signature. For a non-resident student, this is an inconvenience. For many female students, it is a logistical and sometimes emotional burden. The irony is almost poetic. In an age where documents travel across continents in seconds, the student must travel across the city for a signature that could, with minimal effort, be replaced by a secure digital verification.
On April 5, Dhaka University stated a recent certificate verification incident. The facts are simple and, in their simplicity, deeply troubling. A foreign institution requested verification of a student’s academic credentials. The university acknowledged receiving the email on March 4. The process was not completed because a specified fee had not been received. At one level, this is a procedural matter. A service requires a fee. The fee was not paid. The service was not delivered. Bureaucratically, the logic is impeccable. But education, especially higher education, is not supposed to operate solely within the logic of transactions. The more important question is not whether the fee was paid, but whether the student was informed. The answer, judging by the outcome, is painfully evident.
The student, after navigating the long and uncertain journey of applying abroad, preparing documents, sitting for interviews, and securing an opportunity, found himself stranded at the final checkpoint. The verification never arrived. The admission was lost. A future was deferred, not by academic inadequacy or lack of merit, but by administrative silence. There is something profoundly unsettling about this. Not because mistakes were made, but because no one seemed to feel responsible for the consequences of those mistakes.
Universities across the world routinely verify academic credentials through third-party agencies. Emails are exchanged. Confirmations are sent. The process is often seamless, almost invisible. It has to be. In a global academic ecosystem built on trust and mobility, verification is not a luxury. It is a necessity. Dhaka University, to its credit, participates in this system. But participation alone is not enough. The question is how it participates.
The decision to charge a verification fee, taken in a Senate meeting in 2015, may have been justified at the time. Administrative processes require resources. Systems need to be maintained. But policies are not sacred texts. They are meant to serve people, not the other way around. If a policy begins to obstruct the very students it was meant to support, it deserves to be revisited. Fifty dollars may not seem like an insurmountable amount in global terms. But the real issue is not the amount. It is the rigidity. It is the absence of discretion. It is the unwillingness to recognise that in certain situations, the cost of delay is far greater than the cost of service.
An official email account is not merely a technical tool. It is a bridge between the university and the world. It represents the institution’s credibility. It carries the weight of its reputation. Managing it requires not just competence, but sensitivity. An unread or unanswered email is not just an oversight. It is a statement.
This is perhaps the most troubling aspect of the entire episode. Not the fee, not the process, but the culture. A culture where responsibility is fragmented, where accountability is diffused, and where the human dimension of administrative work is often overlooked.
One is reminded, inevitably, of the familiar refrain that students hear so often. “Come after lunch.” It is said casually, almost reflexively, as if time were an endless resource. But for the student who is racing against application deadlines, visa appointments, and academic calendars in distant countries, there is no such luxury. This disconnection between institutional time and individual urgency lies at the heart of the problem. It is what turns minor delays into major setbacks. It is what transforms routine procedures into obstacles.
Students of Dhaka University are not confined to the boundaries of the campus. They are studying, researching, and teaching in institutions across the world. They carry the university’s name with them. Every successful application, every accepted offer, every verified credential contributes to the institution’s global standing. Conversely, every failed verification, every missed deadline, every administrative lapse erodes that standing, quietly but steadily.
In this sense, the Registrar’s Office is not just an administrative unit. It is a gateway. It connects the university to the global academic community. It shapes how the institution is perceived beyond national borders. A small act of initiative, a simple email, a timely phone call can make the difference between success and failure for a student. It does not require policy changes or budget allocations. It requires awareness. It requires empathy. And perhaps that is what is most urgently needed.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author
The writer is an academic, journalist, and political analyst. E-mail: [email protected]
