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AS A navy veteran, the naval battles of Trafalgar and Jutland have always captivated my attention. These pivotal encounters, while defining moments in maritime history, have broader implications that resonate across continents and centuries. Their echoes can be heard in the struggles for freedom across the globe, including Bangladesh’s relentless pursuit of independence, where perceptions and narratives played a significant role alongside actual events. Trafalgar, often romanticised as a moment of unparalleled naval glory, was more than a tactical victory. While Nelson’s death on the Victory became the stuff of legend, the battle’s legacy was complex. The near annihilation of the Franco-Spanish fleet did not guarantee Britain’s dominance indefinitely, nor did it decisively end the threat posed by Napoleon. Instead, Trafalgar’s significance lay in its myth — a symbol of British naval prowess that would inspire generations, even as the reality was far more nuanced. A century later, the Battle of Jutland in 1916 would evoke similar themes. This clash between the British Grand Fleet and the German High Seas Fleet in the North Sea was marked by heavy losses on both sides. Though the British claimed victory, arguing they had thwarted German ambitions in the North Sea, the battle ended in strategic ambiguity. Jutland, like Trafalgar, became a battle as much of perception as of ships and sailors. It highlighted the limitations of military power and the often-illusory nature of decisive victories.

In the heart of Bangladesh, a land shaped by centuries of struggle and sacrifice, lies a tale of land, power, and the enduring spirit of a people. Our ancestors were once farmers and labourers, bound to the land owned by Zamindars, the remnants of a bygone era who held immense wealth and power. The seeds of change were sown during the British Raj. As the Raj began to crumble, many zamindars, fearing the loss of their privileges, fled to communication centres of British India. This exodus presented an opportunity for Bengali peasants, who had long toiled on the land, to acquire ownership. However, this acquisition was far from a simple transfer of property. It was a struggle, a battle fought with sweat and determination. Our ancestors, like countless others, had to work tirelessly, often under harsh conditions, to claim their rightful place on the land.

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The seeds of dissent

THE year 1947 was a watershed moment for what would later become Bangladesh — a time when the seeds of division and dissent were sown deep within its soil. Amidst the tumult of partition, many among the Bengali elite found a new source of pride: the sprawling estates passed down through their families. These estates, they believed, were a testament to the foresight of Mohammad Ali Jinnah, the man they saw not only as the founder of Pakistan but as the liberator of Bengali Muslims from the twin tyrannies of British colonial rule and Hindu landlordism. When Pakistan was born on August 14, 1947, Bengali Muslims tasted freedom for the first time — freedom not just from British rule but from the dominance of Hindu landlords. The Zamindari Abolition Act of 1950, which was enacted and gradually implemented by 1958, seemed to herald a new beginning. Yet this was merely the start of a longer, more arduous struggle.

The promise of independence quickly turned sour. East Pakistan, with its lush green deltas and rich culture, found itself tethered to a distant power in West Pakistan — a land more concerned with preserving its own authority than with fostering the growth of its eastern half. The Bengali people, though they formed the majority in the new state, found themselves treated as second-class citizens, their voices stifled by a central government that cared more about maintaining its own grip on power than addressing the needs and aspirations of its people.

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The growing divide

THE cultural and linguistic chasm between East and West Pakistan was deep and profound. It was a divide made worse by Jinnah himself, who, in a controversial move, declared Urdu the national language of Pakistan. While some prominent Bengali politicians like Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy and Khawaja Nazimuddin lent their support, many in East Pakistan saw this decision as a slight — a clear message that Bengali was to be reduced to a subordinate status, a dialect unworthy of official recognition. The first protest, the ‘Bhasha Andolon’, or Language Movement, was born not from political machinations but from the passionate response of cultural groups and students, who saw in this language imposition an existential threat to their identity. But language was just the beginning. The economic divide between the two regions was even more glaring. East Pakistan, blessed with natural resources and fertile lands, was slowly drained to feed the industrial appetite of the West. Poverty, hunger, and desperation became the daily realities of the people. The political power structure was dominated by a narrow clique in West Pakistan — a blend of military men, bureaucrats and feudal lords — who ruled with an iron fist. Even when Bengali politicians won at the ballot box, their victories seemed hollow, as they were sidelined and ignored, their voices drowned out in the corridors of power in Islamabad. The people of East Pakistan, fatigued by years of marginalisation, began to demand what they saw as their rightful share of autonomy. They called for a greater say in their own governance, for recognition of their cultural identity, and for a fair share of the nation’s economic wealth. But their demands were met not with dialogue but with disdain. The constitution-making process became a bitter battleground, with Bengali leaders fighting for their rights against a central government that seemed bent on maintaining its control at all costs.

This was the beginning of a long journey — a journey marked by resistance and resilience, a struggle for a more inclusive nation that would recognise the hopes and aspirations of all its people.

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The military regime and its propaganda

THE Pakistani military regime, established in 1958, had cultivated a specific institutional personality. It projected an image of strength, stability and efficiency. This image was carefully constructed through state-controlled media and a pervasive surveillance apparatus. The regime’s rhetoric emphasised national unity, progress and the need for strong central authority. Such an institutional personality had profound implications for public expectations. The people were conditioned to believe that the military was the only force capable of maintaining order and ensuring the nation’s progress. Consequently, there was a degree of deference towards the regime, even as discontent simmered beneath the surface. The legacy of the 1965 war with India also played a significant role in shaping public opinion. The military’s performance in the war had boosted its image as a defender of the nation’s honour. The slogan ‘Ayub is our leader’ became a rallying cry, reflecting the populace’s faith in the military’s leadership. However, the economic disparities between the two wings of Pakistan, coupled with the growing sense of political marginalisation among Bengalis, were creating deep fissures within the nation. The Bengali middle class, increasingly educated and politically aware, was demanding greater autonomy and representation.

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The Agartala Conspiracy Case: A tipping point

AGAINST this backdrop, the Agartala Conspiracy Case of 1968 emerged as a defining moment. The military regime, led by President Ayub Khan, sought to silence the growing cries for autonomy in East Pakistan by targeting Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the magnetic leader of the Awami League, and 34 others. They faced accusations of conspiring with India to orchestrate the secession of East Pakistan — a desperate and audacious claim. The regime aimed to quash the growing nationalist sentiment, but the strategy backfired spectacularly. Instead of suppressing the movement, the case ignited Bengali passions and strengthened the drive towards the eventual creation of Bangladesh. The allegations focused on supposed clandestine meetings in Agartala, India, where the plot for independence was allegedly devised. To the military, this was a clear act of treason. However, for the Bengalis, it was a transparent attempt to undermine their quest for self-determination. The trial itself turned into a powerful display of defiance. Bengali society rallied in unprecedented numbers, coalescing around a shared sense of injustice and resistance. Several figures among the accused became martyrs in the making. Lt. Commander Moazzem Hossain and Sergeant Zahurul Haq stood as symbols of a defiant East Pakistan, their arrests, and mistreatment sparking outrage. Zahurul Haq’s death in custody ignited further fury. What had been a controlled trial turned into a national awakening. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the principal defendant, refused to play the part assigned by his accusers. Unyielding, he transformed from a defendant into a national icon. Each government misstep only elevated him further, cementing his position as the face of Bengali nationalism.

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Political upheaval and a transfer of power

THE growing unrest shook the foundations of Ayub Khan’s rule. By early 1969, the political fabric of Pakistan was fraying. Protests over the Agartala Conspiracy Case, combined with widespread discontent in both East and West Pakistan, left Ayub Khan’s authority in tatters. He had lost the mandate to rule, and on March 25, 1969, he resigned, transferring power to General Yahya Khan, the army chief, in a last-ditch effort to restore order. General Yahya Khan faced a fractured nation and knew that force alone could not hold it together. His immediate response was pragmatic. On February 22, 1969, he withdrew the Agartala Conspiracy Case, releasing all the accused. For the Bengali nationalists, it was a vindication; for Yahya, a strategic retreat. Recognising that political engagement was unavoidable, he promised the country’s first general elections based on universal suffrage, to be held in 1970. It was a calculated gamble — an effort to placate the increasingly restless East, buy time, and maintain some semblance of control.

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The unravelling of a nation

THE Agartala Conspiracy Case, an ill-conceived effort to stifle dissent, inadvertently accelerated the fragmentation of Pakistan. Rather than achieving its intended goal, the case laid bare the profound fissures within the state, dispelling any remaining illusions of national cohesion. The 1970 elections, a democratic manifestation of the people’s will, handed a decisive victory to the Awami League, a party advocating for East Pakistan’s autonomy. However, the West Pakistani leadership, in a flagrant disregard for democratic principles, refused to cede power, igniting the final spark that would lead to a bloody civil war. The regime’s repressive tactics, aimed at quelling dissent, had the opposite effect. By silencing legitimate voices and denying the people their right to self-determination, the state only intensified the flames of discontent. The Agartala Conspiracy Case, emblematic of the regime’s authoritarianism, became a rallying cry for those seeking independence. The ensuing events serve as a stark reminder of the limits of power and the unpredictable nature of history. The regime’s attempt to control and coerce ultimately hastened its own downfall, a tragic lesson in the consequences of suppressing the human spirit.

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The Awami League’s triumph and its aftermath

THE 1970 general elections offered a chance for political transformation. The Awami League, under the leadership of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, emerged as the dominant force in East Pakistan, securing a landslide victory. This unexpected outcome challenged the established order and exposed the fragility of the military regime’s authority. The brutal crackdown on Bengali civilians during Operation Searchlight in March 1971 shattered the regime’s image as a protector, leading to widespread resentment and ultimately the liberation of Bangladesh. The liberation was driven by the masses — youth and marginalised populations — but the so-called educated elites and opportunists claimed the credit, portraying the Awami League as the sole agent of the liberation war. They shared their accolades with the Indian Army, constructing a narrative of their decisive victory over the Pakistani Army while indirectly disowning the contributions of the general populace.

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Bangladesh’s post-independence turmoil

THE euphoria of Bangladesh’s independence in 1971 was a fleeting mirage, soon replaced by the harsh realities of nation-building. Under the leadership of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the fledgling nation grappled with immense challenges, and the early years were marked by turbulence, turmoil, and a descent into political chaos. The Awami League, emboldened by its newfound power, quickly abandoned the principles of merit and impartiality. The civil service, a cornerstone of any modern state, became a mere reward system for political loyalty rather than a vehicle for competence and efficiency. The ‘Tofail Cadre,’ a network of loyalists appointed to government positions regardless of qualifications, became a symbol of this rampant patronage and nepotism. Political instability and violence were equally pervasive. Insurgencies and political assassinations became increasingly common, with over 2,000 politically motivated murders reported by the end of 1973. The Jatiya Rakkhi Bahini, a paramilitary force established by the government, became infamous for human rights abuses, including extrajudicial killings. Rather than providing stability, the force exacerbated tensions, contributing to a climate of fear and repression.

The crisis was further deepened by the devastating 1974 famine, one of the deadliest of the 20th century, which claimed the lives of between 27,000 and 1.5 million people. A combination of natural disasters, economic mismanagement and rampant corruption left millions in the grip of starvation and suffering, casting a dark shadow over the early years of the nation. The tragic climax of this period came on August 15, 1975, with the assassination of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. In a shocking military coup, Mujib was killed along with most of his family members. His death received a mixed reaction across the country. While the general masses celebrated, seeing it as a necessary change, the cronies of the Awami League were stunned, viewing it as a betrayal of the ideals of independence and a tragic end to the leadership of the man who had led them to freedom. The bloodshed did not end with Mujib’s assassination. Just months later, in November 1975, a series of counter-coups unfolded, plunging Bangladesh into even deeper instability. The ‘Jail Killing Day,’ in which four senior Awami League leaders were brutally murdered, and the ‘Soldiers-People Revolution,’ which saw the release of Major General Ziaur Rahman, marked a period of intense political turmoil.

The legacy of the Tofail Cadre, a symbol of the corruption and nepotism that plagued early Bangladesh, continues to reverberate through the nation’s history. It is a stark reminder of the dangers of unchecked power and the importance of upholding democratic principles.

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A brief interlude of meritocracy

ZIAUR Rahman’s emergence as a pivotal figure in the chaotic aftermath of Bangladesh’s descent into turmoil signalled a fragile return to stability. However, this stability came at a price: a creeping militarisation of governance that would cast a long shadow over the nation’s tenuous democracy. Despite the rhetoric of reform, the iron hand of military rule had begun to tighten its grip on the country’s fragile political landscape. Yet, amidst this authoritarian drift, there was a glimmer of hope. Under Zia’s watch, the civil service began to shed its layers of corruption and cronyism. Merit, for a time, became the measure. Appointments were increasingly based on competence rather than connections, and there was a new discipline in the way the state was run. This was a significant shift for a country that had seen its government machinery corrupted by years of patronage. Zia’s administration, for all its faults, seemed to understand that the credibility of the state depended on the integrity of its servants.

This cautious move towards professionalism and accountability did not end with Zia’s untimely death. His successor, General Hussein Muhammad Ershad, continued this trend, further entrenching a sense of order within the ranks of the civil service. Under Ershad, the civil service began to solidify its position as an institution not solely beholden to the whims of politicians, but as a disciplined body with its own standards and norms. Yet, the spectre of military rule remained ever-present, shaping the contours of what professionalism in governance would mean.

The true turning point came in 1991, when the Bangladesh Nationalist Party came to power. For the first time in decades, there was a genuine attempt to restore a semblance of democracy and to rein in the pervasive culture of favouritism that had plagued the country since its birth. The return to a parliamentary system brought with it a new framework of checks and balances, albeit imperfect, that began to curb the worst excesses of political patronage and nepotism. The civil service, once again, began to reclaim its lost integrity, positioning itself as a more independent entity, even if the scars of the past were far from healed.

This was no straightforward journey. Bangladesh remained a nation grappling with its demons, a country where the tug-of-war between authoritarian instincts and democratic aspirations played out in every corner of its governance. The legacy of these years — of Zia, Ershad, and the return to civilian rule — would remain complex and contested, a mix of hope and disillusionment that continues to shape the nation’s destiny.

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The return of the dark ages

HOWEVER, this progress was fragile. The 1996 political crisis exposed the fragility of Bangladesh’s democratic institutions and the enduring influence of authoritarian forces. The ‘Janatar Manch’ and the failed coup attempt were merely symptoms of a deeper malaise — a state plagued by weak institutions, military dominance and rampant corruption. The personal ambitions of individuals like Dr Mohiuddin Khan Alamgir and Lt General Nasim, coupled with the opportunism of politicians, further exacerbated the crisis. The absence of strong leadership and the prevalence of self-interest created a toxic environment that undermined democratic principles.

The Awami League’s return to power in 1996 marked a regression to the past. The party sought to control every aspect of the state, from the lowest-ranking official to the highest-ranking dignitary. The civil service once again became a pawn in political games, its independence eroded by the ruling party’s insatiable appetite for control. In 2001, the BNP-Jamat alliance maintained the same tempo, cloaked in a thin veil of righteousness. The so-called caretaker governments of 2006 and 2007 offered a brief respite, but the true disaster struck in 2009 when the Awami League returned to power with renewed vengeance. The party system, once a bulwark against corruption, was reduced to a farce as the ruling party sought to consolidate its power at any cost.

Bangladesh, a nation once brimming with promise, found itself trapped in a vicious cycle of patronage and nepotism. The civil service was weakened and corrupted, leaving the nation vulnerable to the whims of politicians and their cronies. The ghosts of the past, the dark days of the ‘Tofail Cadre,’ returned to haunt the land. The struggle for true freedom continued.Ìý

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The reign of authoritarianism: a struggle unfulfilled

IN RECENT years, Sheikh Hasina’s government increasingly drew comparisons to past regimes marked by authoritarianism and human rights abuses. Accusations of stifling dissent, suppressing opposition, and fostering a culture of fear cast a long shadow over Bangladesh’s democratic aspirations. Once powerful forces for change, such as student and political uprisings, faced severe crackdowns. Reports of killings, disappearances, and imprisonments of activists and dissenters highlighted the growing concerns over the erosion of democratic values and the consolidation of power within the ruling elite. The student movements that once ignited transformative moments in Bangladesh’s history were subdued by a government intent on maintaining control. The brutal suppression of opposition voices led many to fear that the nation was drifting away from its foundational ideals. The rhetoric of the ‘Spirit of 71,’ which once symbolised freedom and resilience, now rang hollow for those who felt trapped in a new cycle of exploitation and repression.Ìý

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A nation’s reckoning

BANGLADESH found itself at a critical crossroads. Five decades after the victory of 1971, the ideals that ignited that struggle — freedom, democracy and justice — seemed increasingly betrayed by those who once championed them. The country stood on the brink of what could only be called a third liberation, not from a foreign occupier but from a regime that had hollowed out the promises of 1971. Whispers of dissent grew louder, echoing the past and demanding that Bangladesh confront its own failings and renew its commitment to the democratic and just values upon which it was founded. The Liberation War of 1971 was more than a battle for independence; it was a revolutionary movement aimed at creating a just and united society. However, the dreams of that era were tarnished by a harsh reality where the very notion of liberation was co-opted by those in power. Under the guise of upholding the values of 1971, the government perpetuated a brutal, militarised state that mirrored the very authoritarianism it once opposed.

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The youth’s quest for reform

IN THIS context, the spirit of 1971 found new life in the Quota Andolon and similar movements. Disillusioned by pervasive corruption and the erosion of meritocracy, the youth of Bangladesh rose again, demanding reform and justice. Yet, like their predecessors in 1971, they faced violent repression — a stark reminder that the fight for true freedom was far from over. The Quota Andolon represented a grassroots movement driven not by a single leader but by a collective yearning for change, transcending social divides to unite students, workers, and ordinary citizens against entrenched powers. However, attempts to paint this uprising as the work of a solitary ‘theoretical guru’ or an isolated intellectual elite distorted its true nature. This was not a top-down revolution but a broad-based revolt against systemic injustice, fuelled by the collective will of the people.

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A continuation of an unfinished revolution

THE events of 2024 were not just a response to grievances accumulated over the past sixteen years, marked by corruption, misrule and repression; they were a continuation of the unfinished revolution of 1971. The government’s attempts to crush the movement through arrests, extrajudicial killings and torture only strengthened the resolve of ordinary Bangladeshis to challenge the status quo. True justice, they argued, required dismantling the oppressive structures that sustained the regime. It demanded impartial investigations into abuses, the removal of those guilty from power, and fair trials for all accused. Only then could there be a genuine dialogue about reconciliation and a way forward.Ìý

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A tale of two seas: naval battles and political narratives

IN THE broader historical context, the battles of 2024 and 1971 shared similarities with iconic naval conflicts like Trafalgar and Jutland. These naval battles, fought on vast expanses of the seas, were not just military encounters but reflections of the broader political and strategic landscapes of their respective eras. Trafalgar, for example, saw the charismatic Admiral Nelson lead the British fleet to a decisive victory against the combined French and Spanish navies, securing Britain’s naval dominance. In contrast, Napoleon’s strategy, marked by indecision, led to defeat. Similarly, the Battle of Jutland a century later featured a different kind of naval confrontation. Admiral Jellicoe of the British Grand Fleet adopted a cautious strategy, aimed at preserving forces while maintaining a defensive stance. Although criticised for his reluctance to engage decisively, his approach prevented a major British defeat. On the German side, Admiral Scheer sought to inflict maximum damage, yet his aggressive tactics failed to secure a decisive victory, leaving the strategic balance unchanged.

These naval battles provided a compelling analogy for the narratives that shaped Bangladesh’s post-independence history. The legacies of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and Ziaur Rahman, two towering figures of the Liberation War, were shaped and reshaped by their respective political parties — the Awami League and the BNP. Each party sought to enshrine its leader as the singular architect of the nation’s liberation, often at the expense of acknowledging the other’s contributions. Mujibur Rahman, revered as ‘Bangabandhu’ (Friend of Bengal), was a visionary leader who inspired the people to unite against Pakistani oppression. Ziaur Rahman, on the other hand, played a crucial role as a military leader, embodying a more pragmatic, action-oriented approach. Their contrasting leadership styles, much like the differing strategies of Nelson and Scheer, shaped the trajectory of Bangladesh’s post-war development.

The selective narrative-building by the Awami League and the BNP mirrored how national and political narratives were crafted around the legacies of Nelson, Jellicoe, Napoleon, and Scheer. Each sought to frame historical events in ways that served their contemporary political objectives.

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A cycle of betrayal and repression

AS BANGLADESH moved further into the 21st century, the legacy of the liberation war took on a complex and troubling dimension. The Mukti Bahini, once revered as national heroes for their role in the 1971 struggle, promised a free and sovereign state. However, as the nation navigated the political landscape of 2024, it was evident that the government, which once symbolised hope and freedom, had adopted the very authoritarian tactics it once fought against. The response to the Quota Andolon — a movement advocating for educational and employment reforms — was not dialogue but repression: arrests, beatings, and the suppression of dissent. The liberation narrative, once a beacon of hope, was twisted into a tool of political expediency, wielded by those in power to justify their actions. Yet, in 2024, protesters, much like the Mukti Bahini of 1971, invoked the true spirit of liberation, demanding freedom from domestic betrayal rather than a foreign oppressor.

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Parallel struggles, divergent outcomes

WHILE the struggles of 1971 and 2024 resonated with each other, they differed in keyways. The liberation war was a fight against a clear, identifiable enemy — an occupying force intent on erasing the identity of an entire people. In contrast, the Quota Andolon, though significant, had not yet led to such dramatic transformations. The lines of struggle were blurrier now, with the oppressor being a government wrapped in the flag of independence, complicating the dynamics of resistance. Additionally, the international context has shifted. During the Cold War, superpowers with vested interests influenced the fates of nations like Bangladesh. Today, the Quota Andolon has remained a domestic affair, even as the world watched to see whether this small nation could once again chart a course toward true democracy.

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The forgotten freedom of 1947

BEFORE 1971, there was 1947 — a pivotal year that had largely faded from Bangladesh’s collective memory. The subcontinent’s liberation from colonial rule set the stage for all that followed. Yet, in the narrative of national identity, 1947 was overshadowed by the trauma and triumph of 1971. Ignoring 1947 overlooked the interconnected nature of the struggle, a tapestry woven from the threads of peasant revolts, anti-colonial resistance, and the ongoing fight against internal tyranny. The echoes of 1947 reminded us that the fight for freedom was not a singular event but an ongoing process, requiring constant vigilance and renewal.

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A call for renewal

BANGLADESH’S journey since the 1970s is a testament to the cruel dance between authoritarianism and the desperate longing for democracy. In this country, so small and yet so vast with its hopes, there have been endless promises made and broken by politicians who masquerade as leaders of the people but, time and again, have proven themselves to be the very enemies of progress. The people handed them the captain’s wheel, entrusted them with dreams of a just society, but all they received in return were hollow speeches, stolen glories, and a parade of iconic personalities erected on the broken backs of those who dared to hope.

There have been flickers of light — yes, moments when it seemed as if change was within grasp. But the darkness of entrenched power structures and deep-rooted cultural attitudes has smothered those moments, preventing the growth of a truly democratic society. The crisis of 1996, with its naked display of institutional weakness and personal greed, served as a chilling reminder of the fragility of our aspirations. It is a call to constant vigilance against the powers that be, which cloak themselves in the language of democracy while plotting its demise.

And yet, hope stubbornly endures, like a wildflower growing through cracks in the pavement. The Quota Andolon, despite brutal repression, stands as a testament to the enduring spirit of resistance that courses through the veins of the Bangladeshi people. It reminds us that the battle for freedom is not a closed chapter in some dusty history book, but an ongoing, living struggle. Justice, equality, and human dignity — though betrayed by those who once claimed to champion them — continue to shimmer like distant stars. The task before us now is to reclaim the true spirit of 1971, to breathe life into democracy, to assert our sovereignty, and to demand social justice. To do this, we must confront our past failures with unflinching honesty and imagine a future that is ours to shape.

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The third liberation: a broader struggle

BANGLADESH stands on the brink of its third liberation — a liberation not defined by borders or flags but by the courage of its people to fight for their rights, to hold their leaders accountable, and to build a society that mirrors the values for which so many have laid down their lives. This struggle is not just Bangladesh’s struggle. It is part of a global reckoning, a worldwide struggle for justice, democracy, and human dignity. The world is watching, perhaps not with bated breath, but watching nonetheless. And the people of Bangladesh, with their history of defiance and their refusal to be tamed, have once again shown that they are ready to rise to the challenge, ready to show the world what it means to fight for freedom with every breath, every heartbeat, and every flicker of the human spirit.

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Abdul Monaiem Kudrot Ullah, a retired Captain of Bangladesh Navy, is a researcher and writer.