When the state and the mob unite to censor history, democracy becomes a hollow word.
Following the recent elections, a political party has taken office in Bangladesh. This has raised hopes for a potential democratic restoration in Bangladesh after eighteen months of profound anarchy. However, before addressing the current situation—and the tumultuous period between August 8, 2024, and February 16, 2026—international readers must understand the historical context of the past few decades. The prolonged tenure of the Sheikh Hasina government (2009–2024) undeniably brought significant infrastructural improvements. Yet beneath this veneer of progress lay a pitch-black abyss of impunity.
For nearly eight years, starting in 2009, a series of assassinations targeted bloggers and freethinkers. Science writers Avijit Roy and Ananta Bijoy, academic Dr. Humayun Azad and others were brutally murdered. The state, however, failed to ensure exemplary justice. While radical Islamist ideologues like Shafiur Rahman Farabi and others were detained, the judicial process was marred by systemic delays, effectively signaling that the government was unwilling to displease certain radical groups.
This climate of fear forced many to flee the country while the state remained silent. The resulting authoritarianism, corruption, and suppression of dissent eventually fueled a massive public uprising in July 2024, which, under the guise of a quota reform movement, led to the fall of the Hasina regime through complex domestic and international maneuvers. The legitimate student movement that ensured Hasina’s downfall, however, was manipulated. Following the regime’s collapse, Nobel laureate Professor Muhammad Yunus emerged as the head of an interim government, backed by foreign powers.
Democracy is not merely a change of power; it is a safe space where history can be debated and dissent respected. If writers, secularists, and minorities must live in a constant state of self-censorship, we are not heading toward a new dawn, but descending into an abyss of intolerance. The common people of Bangladesh desire only the basics: food, clothing, and a safe life. Yet even these most basic expectations have remained out of reach for decades.
While the public initially hoped for peace, the reality was a catastrophic failure in security. Shockingly, the interim administration began releasing imprisoned terrorists and militants who then joined ‘mobs’ to terrorize the nation. Most galling was the release of ATM Azharul Islam on May 24, 2025—a notorious leader of the 1971 pro-Pakistani Al-Badr militia who had been sentenced to death for genocide and crimes against humanity. Today, this man, who never recognized Bangladesh’s sovereignty, sits as a member of the National Parliament.
After the July 2024 uprising, widespread attacks, arson, and looting of police stations occurred across the country between August 5 and the following days. Many police officers were killed. The dead bodies of some were even hung on city streets as displays of mob terror.
The key question remains: Who carried out these nationwide attacks and killings in the name of “students and the masses” after Hasina stepped down?
Instead of investigating these incidents, the recently departed interim government issued a blanket indemnity, halting all trials for killings committed between July 16 and August 8. Under the Constitution of Bangladesh, granting unrestricted indemnity for specific killings is legally complex and highly controversial. The Yunus government bypassed constitutional and legal constraints and issued indemnity without proper review.
Such blanket immunity contradicts the fundamental constitutional principles of the rule of law and justice. It undermines Articles 27 and 31, which guarantee equality before the law and protection of life and liberty through lawful procedures.
While successive regimes in Bangladesh have exhibited autocratic tendencies, the Yunus administration was particularly successful in branding the previous government as ‘fascist’ globally while failing to offer any democratic alternative during its eighteen-month rule. Nepotism and political vendettas remained rampant. As Professor Mohammad Tanzimuddin Khan noted, this period saw the political empowerment of extremists, marking it as a “Black Chapter” in our history.
Even Professor Yunus’s personal integrity came under scrutiny when he used his position to waive a massive tax burden of 666 crore BDT imposed on him and altered government shares in Grameen Bank to suit his interests. The “Yunus Era” was defined by a terrifying lawlessness; minorities were persecuted, and the Awami League was banned, leading to the mass incarceration of thousands of innocent people based solely on their political affiliation.
My personal experience is a microcosm of this instability. Both a webzine and a print outlet refused to publish my essay on Ritwik Ghatak’s centenary because I mentioned the destruction of his ancestral home and the symbolic burning of Dhanmondi 32 after August 5. An editor rejected my short story because it referenced the 1975 assassination of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. Digital platforms now treat words like “Joy Bangla” or reports on minority persecution as “radioactive” political risks.
I have learned from fellow writers that their stories were pulled for mentioning “Bangabandhu” or for using the word “Razakar” (collaborator), which was censored and replaced with “traitor.” This systematic erasure of history and the prohibition of national symbols like the 7th March speech—which are part of our collective identity, not private property—is a deliberate attempt to wipe out the memory of our Liberation War.
This darkness has spilled from the pages of books onto the streets. During the interim period, secular institutions like Chhayanaut and Udichi were set on fire, Baul shrines were destroyed across the country, and the long-standing Lalon memorial festival was suspended due to extremist threats. Even the spring and theater festivals in Dhaka were forcibly halted by radical groups. These acts suggest that the state and extremist elements are working in tandem to uproot our cultural foundations. The danger of dissent was further highlighted on March 9, 2026, when Rahid Khan Pavel, a student at Dhaka University, was tortured and handed over to the police simply for his political beliefs.
Even under the newly elected government, the situation remains deeply alarming. Following the BNP’s victory in the February 12 elections, there was widespread hope that this “mob culture” would finally end and that citizens would regain at least some semblance of freedom of speech. However, no one expected such a backlash over the playing of the historic March 7th speech by Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the architect of Bangladesh. Despite the speech being a recognized part of UNESCO’s Memory of the World Register and not being legally banned in Bangladesh, this government has unjustly detained students for playing it over loudspeakers. This raises a fresh wave of anxiety—a chilling sign that the dark forces of the past eighteen months remain very much active. When the state and the mob unite to censor history, democracy becomes a hollow word.
Furthermore, the decency of public discourse has vanished. A new generation of uneducated goons now dominates the digital and physical space, attacking even senior professors with impunity while the government remains a silent spectator. Extremist student groups now dictate to university authorities which teachers should be fired. We have even witnessed the desecration of Begum Rokeya’s legacy, a pioneer of women’s education, by students and teachers alike—an unprecedented disgrace in our 55-year history.
For those of us in the world of art and literature, the nightmare that began on August 5, 2024, persists. Militant groups that reject our national anthem and flag have gained control, attempting to revert the country to a pre-1971 state. Prominent secular voices, like journalist Shahriar Kabir, remain imprisoned on trumped-up charges, while many others have gone into hiding.
Although the 2026 elections brought some temporary relief, the shadow of extremism looms large. The new parliament is filled with representatives of these dark forces, primarily Jamaat-e-Islami and its new affiliate, the NCP. The current BNP-led government, despite its moderate trappings, has started its journey by compromising with these Islamists.
A heart-wrenching moment occurred on March 12, 2026, during the first session of the 13th Parliament, when a condolence motion was accepted for executed war criminals—a betrayal of the three million martyrs of 1971. Moreover, during the national anthem, members of Jamaat-e-Islami showed blatant disrespect, a crime under the 1978 National Anthem Rules, which the government ignored.
Throughout 2024-25, the Hindu community faced unprecedented violence under the guise of the “July Movement.” Houses and temples were destroyed in acts reminiscent of the Pakistani army’s atrocities in 1971. The brutal murder of Dipu Chandra Roy in Mymensingh is just one chilling example of this widespread persecution.
Similarly, indigenous communities continue to face marginalization. In Madhupur’s Dharati village, the Forest Department and security forces (Ansar) used guns to terrorize Garo families during an eviction drive. Seeing Shibli Mangsang standing with her child strapped to her back, holding a piece of wood to defend her home, was a haunting echo of the sacrifice of Piren Snal.
Democracy is not merely a change of power; it is a safe space where history can be debated and dissent respected. If writers, secularists, and minorities must live in a constant state of self-censorship, we are not heading toward a new dawn, but descending into an abyss of intolerance. The common people of Bangladesh desire only the basics: food, clothing, and a safe life. Yet even these most basic expectations have remained out of reach for decades.
Since independence, governments have risen and fallen—sometimes through elections, sometimes through movements or uprisings. Each transition began with revolutionary promises, but the fate of the common people never changed. The most recent shift in power, however, was unlike any other in the past 55 years. It was, in many ways, a profound deception. The very issue that mobilized the masses was abandoned the moment the government changed.
Instead, an unexpected and dangerous force emerged, leaving many to conclude that even Sheikh Hasina’s autocracy had been safer by comparison. During the 18 months of the Yunus-led interim administration, the country witnessed the resurgence of an Islamist political party. Jamaat-e-Islami—an organization that opposed the birth of Bangladesh—expanded its influence under various names, operating through both political fronts and seemingly progressive cultural platforms. But their core objective remained unchanged: to reshape Bangladesh into an Afghanistan- or Pakistan-style state.
During the recent election, the public voted against this tide of extremism. People brought the BNP, perceived as a relatively moderate force, into power. Yet the signs emerging after the formation of the new government suggest that the BNP merely wore a progressive mask to cross the electoral threshold. Their growing affinity toward Jamaat and other extremist factions is now unmistakable.
The parliament is meant to represent people of every faith and community. Yet the national emblem has been replaced with an explicitly Islamic creed—an exclusionary act that undermines the secular foundations of the state. The old mechanisms designed to push the Awami League out of political life remain firmly in place. Many innocent teachers and intellectuals aligned with the spirit of the Liberation War continue to languish in prison, while militants and war criminals roam freely through the halls of Parliament with impunity. The shadow of the vulture has not yet lifted from Bangladesh’s sky. We remain suspended in a state of foreboding, unsure when this ominous darkness will finally recede.
