Despite many uncertainties and deep misgivings that weigh heavily on our minds, the excitement of voting this time is inescapable. It is an election unlike any other, and definitely not like the one-sided, engineered elections we witnessed in 2014, 2018, and 2024where “victory” was as predictable as the possibility of nighttime following dusk. This time, there is real competition, with expectations that it will be fair and free, that the power is with the voters.
In this election, we are witnessing the return of Jamaat-e-Islami, a party that has gained significant support of late, despite its stigma of 1971. The emergence of the National Citizen Party (NCP), a new political party born out of the July uprising and now aligned with Jamaat, adds further complexity. And then there’s the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP), long repressed but now emerging with the legacy of two beloved leaders. Led by their son, returning after 17 years of being forced to stay abroad, BNP appears poised to make a serious run. The total absence of Awami League (AL) in the election is another factor that makes it so different.
The results of this election will reveal whether people’s July aspirations are aligned towards the religious right or the pragmatic centre. With a large number of swing voters—women, young voters, and traditional AL voters—the outcome is not as clearly predictable.
The January 2024 election seemed to be the last nail in the coffin of our democracy, and of course many of us didn’t even bother to vote. Then July happened, and we watched in disbelief and awe how scores of unarmed students, like their predecessors many decades before, led the stand against a ruthless regime.
It was the women in the university residential halls who took the first step—to defy a dictator who lost all connection with her people and chose to use fear, repression, and the flourishing of avarice to stay in power. Again, it was the female students who got mercilessly beaten by the Chhatra League goons, igniting the first spark that transformed a seemingly simple anti-quota, anti-discrimination movement into something much more consequential. And when Abu Sayeed stood, arms outstretched, his face frozen with disbelief, as bullets pierced his chest, making him the first martyr, the movement gained tremendous momentum as thousands marched the streets in anger and grief, the students leading and the people following. We watched in awe as the protesters, most of them young people, put forward their bodies in defiance, their courage catalysed by Abu Sayeed’s spirit. We watched in horror as the bullets kept coming, first from the police on the ground, then from helicopters, a killing spree that took around 1,400 and maimed thousands.
Then, on August 5, 2024, the impossible happened. The repressive ruler fled, and the country was free of her brutal regime. The celebrations of people from all walks of life were spontaneous, unadulterated, unanimous. Finally, there was hope. We dared to dream again.
When Prof Muhammad Yunus answered the call of the students and an unconventional cabinet of civil society members and student representatives was sworn in to form the interim government, there were expectations that our prayers had been answered and real change was coming. The shackles that bound us seemed to be breaking. Victims of enforced disappearances were freed, and political prisoners long held captive by the previous regime were released.
But all too soon, chaos returned as streets became a battleground of protests, each one demanding an immediate solution. All too often, the government, struggling to put out the fires, was forced to cave in. We were understanding of their predicament. We decided to be patient.
But fear, that insidious emotion that can cripple and corrode even the bravest among us, returned all too quickly. The need for justice for all the July killings and shootings predominated everything else. However, the justice process became diverted, selective, biased, and determined by the ones with the loudest voices and the biggest mobs. “Mobocracy” ruled everything—from arbitrary cancellations (and appointments with the current political colours) of posts at universities, schools, media houses, and the bureaucracy, to deciding who deserved to be beaten or burnt to death for “being a fascist sympathiser,” “hurting religious sentiment,” or being suspected of “theft.” The state, apart from often languid statements of condemnation, became passive bystanders. Law enforcers, with low morale, were ineffective, leading to lawlessness and brutal crimes to soar.
The legal apparatus was applied indiscriminately and sweepingly to punish the so-called fascist elements, resulting in innumerable cases and the incarceration of former AL politicians, party members, and journalists for crimes as serious as murder of victims of the July crackdown (regardless of how flimsy the claims were), with the denial of bail. While a large number of them could have been charged with corruption, they were accused of murdering protesters, a charge that would be quite a stretch to prove in court if due process was ensured. Meanwhile, many of the kingpins of AL’s worst crimes who had looted the country dry and others close to Sheikh Hasina who colluded with her during the crackdown escaped or were allowed to escape after months of hiding.
Women, who played a pivotal role during the movement, started to become invisible in politics but remained visible for being targeted by abusers, both online and offline. Certain political groups had the audacity to publicly hurl abuses at women’s groups—even the Women’s Affairs Reform Commission’s members—for recommending equal rights, weaponising religion to justify their misogynistic words. In fact, never before have religious groups become so obsessive about women: their movement, their attire, and their “place” in society. Major political parties even failed to field a bare minimum of female candidates. Only 83 out of the 2,028 candidates are women.
The interim government, despite its promise of major reforms, became subsumed by perpetual street protests, the push-and-pull of political parties and student groups, and endless discussions with political parties on the much-heralded July National Charter, which vows to bring about real change in our future and will likely be endorsed through a referendum today. Over the last 18 months, there have been some significant gains: in banking discipline, an end to looting of banks, stabilising foreign exchange reserves, and ordinances to ensure labour rights and create an independent judiciary, to name a few. But the disappointments have been crushing too. Women, minority, and Indigenous communities, the jobless, the poor—these groups have felt left in the lurch.
This election, therefore, is not just another political contest. It is the culmination of all our hopes and all our disillusionments. It represents the final card we can play if we are to secure a future that reflects the aspirations we so desperately sought during the July uprising.
We cannot afford to fail.
Aasha Mehreen Amin is joint editor at The Daily Star.
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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