Democracy cannot be reduced to a moment. It has to become a practice. One that is reflected in institutions, in policies, and in everyday interactions.
When I sit down to write this, I am carrying a grief that feels both deeply personal and painfully political. I lost one of my closest friends in a road accident. It happened just days after Eid, just days after an election that was supposed to symbolize renewal, stability, and democratic promise. A new government was in power. There was talk of mandate, legitimacy, and moving forward.
And yet, during that same Eid period, more than 400 people were killed in road accidents across Bangladesh, according to multiple national reports. Thousands more were injured. Highways turned into corridors of mourning. Families who had just gathered to celebrate were instead forced to bury their loved ones.
The contradiction is difficult to ignore. What does a democratic transition mean if the most basic conditions of safety and dignity remain unchanged?
The grief does not stop there. In recent weeks, Bangladesh has seen a troubling rise in measles cases. Health authorities and news reports suggest that over 100 children have died from measles outbreaks in the past year, with thousands more infected, particularly in vulnerable and hard-to-reach communities. Measles is not an unknown disease. It is preventable through vaccination. The Expanded Programme on Immunization in Bangladesh once achieved over 90 percent coverage, but recent disruptions, misinformation, and gaps in outreach have allowed outbreaks to re-emerge.
At the same time, members of the Bawm community in the Chittagong Hill Tracts continue to face arbitrary detention. While exact numbers are often difficult to verify due to limited transparency, rights groups and local reporting indicate that dozens of individuals have been detained in recent operations, often without clear evidence or due process. Entire communities are placed under suspicion. The line between security and collective punishment becomes dangerously blurred.
And in everyday life, misogyny continues to shape how women are seen, spoken to, and treated. A 2025 national survey by the Bangladesh Bureau of Statistics found that over 70 percent of ever-married women have experienced some form of intimate partner violence in their lifetime. Online spaces reflect the same hostility. Women in public life, especially those who speak out, are subjected to relentless harassment, slutshaming, and threats. Cases of rape and gender-based violence continue to be reported with disturbing frequency, often followed by victim-blaming narratives that shift responsibility away from perpetrators.
So the question becomes unavoidable: what exactly has changed?
Elections, by themselves, are not enough. They are a mechanism, not a guarantee. Without strong institutions, they can become symbolic rather than transformative. Without social change, they can coexist with deeply entrenched inequalities.
Democracy is often framed as a turning point. Elections are presented as moments of transformation. But in Bangladesh, the lived experience of many people suggests something far more sobering. A change in government does not automatically translate into a change in institutions. And even when institutions begin to shift, social norms often remain stubbornly intact.
There are at least two layers to this crisis. The first is institutional. The second is societal. They are deeply intertwined, but they do not move at the same speed.
Institutional reform, in theory, is the more straightforward task. Laws can be rewritten. Policies can be introduced. Enforcement mechanisms can be strengthened. Governments can prioritize road safety by regulating transport systems, enforcing traffic laws, and addressing corruption in licensing.
But the reality tells a different story. Bangladesh records over 5,000 to 7,000 road accident deaths annually, depending on the source, with many experts arguing that the real number is significantly higher due to underreporting. Despite the Road Transport Act and repeated promises of reform, enforcement remains weak. Unfit vehicles continue to operate. Drivers without proper licenses remain on the roads. Speed limits are ignored. Accountability is rare.
Public health reveals similar patterns. Bangladesh has long been praised for its immunization success, yet the resurgence of measles highlights structural gaps. According to UNICEF estimates, millions of children globally missed routine vaccinations during the COVID-19 pandemic, and Bangladesh was not immune to this disruption. Rebuilding trust and coverage requires sustained investment, not just emergency responses after outbreaks occur.
Legal protections for minority communities also exist on paper, but enforcement remains inconsistent. Arbitrary detention, prolonged pretrial incarceration, and limited access to legal representation are not isolated issues. They reflect deeper weaknesses in the justice system. When certain communities are repeatedly targeted or marginalized, it signals not just policy failure, but institutional bias.
Gender-based violence laws have been strengthened over the years, yet conviction rates remain low. Survivors often face barriers at every stage, from reporting to investigation to trial. Social stigma discourages many from coming forward at all. The gap between law and lived reality remains wide.
These are not impossible problems to solve. They require political will, administrative capacity, and accountability. They require a state that sees its citizens not as subjects to manage, but as people to protect.
But even if every one of these reforms were implemented perfectly, there would still remain the second layer, the one that is far more difficult to confront. Society itself.
Misogyny is not just a failure of law. It is a failure of culture, of upbringing, of everyday interactions. It is present in the jokes that are laughed at, the comments that go unchallenged, the silence that follows violence. It is embedded in the idea that a woman’s character can be judged based on her clothing, her mobility, or her relationships.
Surveys consistently show troubling attitudes. A significant proportion of respondents in South Asia, including Bangladesh, still agree with statements that justify domestic violence under certain circumstances. This is not simply ignorance. It is normalization. It is reinforced when survivors are blamed, when perpetrators are excused, and when justice is delayed or denied.
Similarly, the marginalization of communities like the Bawm is not only about state policy. It is also about how difference is perceived and treated in society. Ethnic minorities in Bangladesh have long faced exclusion, both structurally and socially. Development disparities in the Chittagong Hill Tracts remain stark. Access to education, healthcare, and economic opportunities is uneven. Suspicion and stereotyping further deepen these divides. When these attitudes are widespread, institutions do not stand apart from them. They reflect them.
This is what makes the current moment feel so heavy. The democratic transition promised change, but for many, the structures of harm remain familiar. The faces in power may shift, but the systems that shape daily life often remain unchanged.
It would be easy to respond to this with cynicism, to conclude that democracy itself is meaningless. But that would be too simple, and perhaps too dangerous. The problem is not democracy as an idea. The problem is the gap between democratic form and democratic substance.
Elections, by themselves, are not enough. They are a mechanism, not a guarantee. Without strong institutions, they can become symbolic rather than transformative. Without social change, they can coexist with deeply entrenched inequalities.
So what is needed?
First, there must be a serious commitment to institutional accountability. This means more than passing new laws. It means ensuring that existing laws are enforced consistently and fairly. It means addressing corruption within enforcement agencies. It means creating systems where negligence has consequences, whether in road safety, healthcare, or law enforcement.
Second, public services must be treated as a priority, not an afterthought. Bangladesh spends around 2.3 percent of its GDP on healthcare, which is lower than many comparable countries. Increasing investment is not just about funding, but about strengthening delivery systems. Vaccination campaigns must reach every child. Health education must counter misinformation. Preventable deaths must be treated as unacceptable, not inevitable.
Third, there must be a deliberate effort to protect minority rights. Arbitrary detention and collective suspicion erode the very foundation of justice. A democratic state cannot afford to treat any community as expendable or perpetually suspect. Legal safeguards must be strengthened, and more importantly, they must be respected in practice. Transparency in law enforcement operations and access to legal recourse are essential.
Fourth, and perhaps most challenging, there must be a long-term effort to shift social norms. This cannot be achieved through policy alone. It requires education, media engagement, community leadership, and sustained public dialogue. School curricula must address gender equality. Media narratives must challenge harmful stereotypes rather than reinforce them. Religious and community leaders must play a role in reshaping attitudes.
This is not a quick process. Changing attitudes takes time. It involves discomfort, resistance, and setbacks. But without it, institutional reforms will always have limited impact.
There is also a role for civil society, activists, and ordinary citizens. Bangladesh has a long history of grassroots activism, from language movements to labor rights to feminist organizing. These efforts matter. Public pressure can push institutions to be more responsive and more accountable.
At the same time, it is important to acknowledge the emotional toll of this ongoing struggle. Grief, frustration, and exhaustion are real. When personal loss intersects with systemic failure, it becomes harder to maintain hope. The death of a friend in a preventable accident is not just a statistic. It is a reminder of what is at stake.
And yet, even in this heaviness, there is a need to continue asking difficult questions. To refuse to accept that this is simply how things are. To insist that democratic transition should mean more than a change in leadership. Because ultimately, the measure of a democracy is not how it conducts its elections, but how it treats its people in the time between them.
Right now, in Bangladesh, that measure feels deeply uncertain.
The persistence of road accidents, preventable disease, arbitrary detention, and gender-based violence suggests that the foundations of justice and safety are still fragile. The numbers tell a story, but the lived experiences behind those numbers tell an even more urgent one.
Democracy cannot be reduced to a moment. It has to become a practice. One that is reflected in institutions, in policies, and in everyday interactions. One that values life, dignity, and equality not just in principle, but in practice.
Until then, the promise of democratic transition will continue to feel distant, and for many, painfully out of reach.
Image credit: MdsShakil, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
