It was early 1991—my first day at the University of Dhaka. A group of new students stood chatting in front of the seminar room of the Mass Communication and Journalism department on the ground floor of Kala Bhaban. Then we saw him. A tall man walking down the corridor—suited, booted. A quiet buzz spread among us. "Arefin Sir, Arefin Sir!" I remember it vividly—he walked past, holding something like a file in his hand. How much space did that thin man occupy in the scene! Yet, it felt as if he was everywhere. He kept walking, passing us, and then—he smiled. That was his way of welcoming new students. He didn’t say a word, yet he spoke volumes. We all knew that smile of Arefin Sir. A smile that carried the weight of his brilliant memory. I wonder if he even greeted the Angel of Death with that same grin. Professor AAMS Arefin Siddique passed away on 13 March 2025. May that smiling face forever remain in our memories. Rest in peace, Sir.
I was talking about Arefin Sir! The tall, charismatic man who won hearts of the freshers with just a smile. And then, the day he walked into the classroom, he delivered his first lesson on communication. I—or rather, we—were mesmerized. Interpersonal communication, intrapersonal communication, mass communication—these weren’t just theories; in his classes, they came alive. He taught us communication models, ethics, encoding, decoding, interactions, molding, and the true essence of cohesiveness and even stereotyping. We delved into meta perspectives and even meta-meta perspectives—understanding not just what someone thinks, but what they think about what we think. He meticulously dissected communication disorders—lessons that remain ingrained in us, shaping our daily work and practice.
And now, when the DU authorities stage this drama—“Janaza was not held on campus because the family did not want it,”—only to paradoxically declare a one-day university holiday, we see through it all.
Let’s not dive into communication analysis or critique Dhaka University’s decisions. One thing is certain—any student who learned communications from Arefin Siddique can easily decipher the intentions behind such actions.
Back to the memories with Arefin Sir. A few months ago, when he visited the U.S. to see his daughter in Virginia—where both she and her husband study at the prestigious Johns Hopkins University—some of us from the MCJ family gathered at Dr. Subrata Shankar Dhar’s home. Spending time with Sir that day was pure joy. He told us, "We could only become teachers because you were students." Later, I wrote on Facebook: If there’s one person who truly knows how to credit students for a teacher’s greatness, it is Arefin Sir.
Sir remembered each of his students by name. He understood us individually—because he listened us. Every meeting began with, "Bolo, Menon." I can bet—never once did Arefin Siddique say "suno" or "listen." He always said, "Bolo"—"Speak."
Later, in New York, we had another MCJ gathering at the home of former students Ashraful Alam Khokon and Rizwana Nupur. Once again, we saw Sir's rare ability to listen with patience. I wrote on Facebook: He is unparalleled as a teacher… I’ve always seen him as an attentive listener. In front of elders, we mostly listen, barely speak. But with Sir, I always felt heard.
That’s why students went to him—not just for academic guidance, but for personal struggles, concerns, and advice. Sir listened intently, absorbing every detail, and then, more often than not, he would utter a single word: "Dekhi." (Let's see.) That one simple word—unassuming yet full of promise. And he delivered. Every student who sought his help knew that when Sir said "Dekhi," it wasn’t just a polite dismissal—it meant something would be done.
But truthfully, not everyone went to Sir with problems. Many visited just to meet him. His doors were always open. Sometimes, late at night, after an Alumni Association meeting, we would drop by his house—just to spend time with him.
Back then, he lived in the Vice Chancellor’s residence on campus, which made it easier. But even before and after his tenure as VC, we would still visit him at his home. There was always tea, coffee, and sweets. And time. He gave us his precious time.
When I translated 1984 by George Orwell, I gifted a copy to Sir. Much later, during another visit, he said, "Menon, you should translate all of Orwell’s works. Your literary translations are excellent."
I was taken aback—despite his busy schedule, he had not only read my book but also encouraged me to translate more. I told him, "Animal Farm" has already been translated. Sir replied, "So what? You do your own translation." That day, he also recommended Orwell’s Keep the Aspidistra Flying. "Translate it," he said. "It’s a remarkable novel."
His words stayed with me. I began working on it. But now, heartbreakingly, I will never be able to hand him a copy.
Much has been said about his time as DU Vice-Chancellor. But I believe his greatest legacy lies in teaching. He thrived in the classroom. Whenever we spoke, he would say, "I feel most at home with students." Even as VC, he continued taking regular classes. He often told me, "I want to return to teaching." And despite the challenges of university administration, he achieved something remarkable—ending session jams. Because of him, thousands of students graduated on time. Those who suffered through years of delay before him would understand how significant that was.
Yet, Sir never sought to glorify his achievements. Instead, he always looked for ways to improve. I interviewed him three times in my journalism career—he answered every question, whether simple, difficult, or even naive. He spoke openly of his failures.
I remember when the university canceled an admission test due to leaked question papers. The exposé was published through an in-depth report on the news portal I was editing. It threw the university into crisis. Sir must have felt embarrassed—but he never held it against me. Instead, I believe he was proud. Proud that his student had upheld the principles of ethical, investigative journalism—even when it came at his own expense.
This was Arefin Siddique. Professor Dr. AAMS Arefin Siddique. Who left us forever on 13 March. But he left behind something eternal—his smile, his lessons, his unmatched presence.
For thousands of his students, his image remains crystal clear in memory. And it will stay there, floating before our eyes—for a long, long time.
Mahmood Menon Khan, assistant professor, Washington University of Science and Technology.
