“I am never voting in this country.”

Or at least, that’s what I thought.

Nearly two decades after becoming eligible to vote, and now in my mid 30s, I decided to do something that I never thought possible.

I also did something I usually don’t even do when bribed with my favourite delicacies. I went halfway across Dhaka, in a rickshaw, spending way too much money, to my polling centre.

And I cast my vote.

That tiny mark on my thumb that’s still visible as I type these words, one that’s already turned black, one that I still don’t know why it was put on, or why that specific spot, still feels odd.

Odd because it’s not as if I was overjoyed about voting. In fact, if I were being perfectly honest, regardless of who wins, I am not exactly hopeful.

I mean, we have been here before. August 5, 2024 itself was supposed to be this great reset, this watershed moment of transforming Bangladesh and setting us up for the future.

And 18 months later, we remain the same, for the most part.

As far as I am concerned, this remains a fundamentally broken country. With too many issues, too rooted within its very fabric, for one election to suddenly solve. Especially with certain forces vying for power that go against the democratic ideals that we are supposedly fighting for.

Yet, the fact that I did vote, and went out of my way to vote, must mean something.

It’s also the shared reality of millions. Millions in this country felt, no, were certain, that they would never vote. That their vote would never count. That it was an exercise in futility.

I can deny all I want, and I can bask in my cynicism, but the fact that I felt I could vote, and that such a vote would have value, and that this vote would count, means something.

I don’t know what will happen to this country. There’s little reason to believe that much will change.

History has been cruel, and five and a half decades of this nation have mostly yielded a string of disappointments, of administrations failing the people. Of failing to uphold democratic ideals.

However, for millions like us, even for the jaded cynics such as myself, February 12 offered at least a glimpse of what a functional democracy could be as far as elections are concerned.

And it offered millions deprived of having a say to finally have a chance, however small or minute it may be.

I tried looking at the people as I was taking my admittedly amazing leisurely rickshaw ride across the city and then my subsequent walk through Dhaka Cantonment on my way to the polling centre.

And I searched for emotions in these faces, the dozens, or maybe hundreds, that I tried to gaze upon but could only briefly focus on before they passed me by.

And one trait was undeniable: Hope

Whatever the future holds, at least on February 12, 2026, we, the people, were given a reason to believe that our voices mattered.

And that is reason enough for hope, if only momentarily. For a brief moment, as David Gilmour sings:

“The grass was greener

The light was brighter

The taste was sweeter.”

AHM Mustafizur Rahman is Editor, Editorial and Op-Ed, Dhaka Tribune.