PROPORTIONAL representation is often praised for making electoral systems fairer. It can ensure more accurate vote-to-seat ratios, greater inclusion of small parties, better minority representation, and coalition-based governance that reflects diverse voices. However, it also comes with serious risks — policy gridlock, coalition instability, empowerment of extreme factions, and weakened accountability.
As Bangladesh’s National Consensus Commission considers adopting PR, we must ask: Are we politically ready for this change? In a country still recovering from authoritarian rule, with fragile institutions and rising political polarisation, PR could open the door for anti-democratic actors to enter parliament, not to advance rights or governance, but to block them. But as a political scientist and women’s rights advocate, I fear that this move — while seemingly democratic — could come at the expense of half the population: women. In the current political and ideological climate, PR could be a back door for regressive forces to gain institutional legitimacy and legislative influence to obstruct women’s rights from within. We cannot afford to ignore these risks.
Under a proportional representation system, parliamentary seats are allocated based on vote share. This often results in fragmented legislatures where no single party holds a majority, and coalition governments must negotiate across ideological divides. For example, imagine a parliament where no party wins more than 30 per cent of the vote. In such a scenario, five or more parties — some with drastically opposing views — must form coalitions. A party with just 12 per cent of the vote could hold 36 seats in a 300-seat parliament, giving it enough leverage to stall or veto legislation it opposes, especially if the coalition depends on their support to govern.
Now, consider what this means for women’s rights. Earlier this year, Islamist groups in Bangladesh attacked the Amar Ekushey Book Fair over stalls promoting women’s menstrual hygiene awareness, accusing the materials of ‘spreading obscenity’ and undermining Islamic values. If such groups gain parliamentary seats through PR, even with a small vote share, they could exert pressure to block national policies related to women’s health and education, policies as basic as distributing sanitary pads in schools or including menstrual health in the curriculum. This is not hypothetical fearmongering — it’s based on real, public actions by actors who openly oppose women’s autonomy. In a PR-based parliament, these groups could do from the inside what they now do from the streets: silence, shame, and suppress women’s rights.
Across Bangladesh, women have spent decades carving out space for themselves in the workplace, in leadership, and in public life — often against overwhelming odds. But the ideological and policy divide on women’s rights between the public and powerful political groups remains stark. Islamist factions, which stand to gain the most under a PR system, have shown little interest in gender justice. In fact, many of them have a history of supporting victim-blaming narratives and undermining efforts towards gender equality. Since the fall of the authoritarian regime, we have seen a disturbing increase in public rhetoric that blames women for harassment and restricts their mobility.
PR may open the door to more representation — but of whom, and for what purpose? Under PR, even parties with narrow or extremist ideologies can win seats if they capture a small percentage of the vote. In a country with rising conservatism, this could hand real legislative power to regressive forces with no commitment to gender equality. Unlike under FPTP — where winning requires broader public support — PR rewards small, well-organised factions. In a fragmented parliament, women’s rights could become collateral damage in endless coalition negotiations and policy bargaining.
The push for PR in Bangladesh is not primarily driven by a desire to serve the people. Rather, it reflects the desperation of political parties that have lost faith in the electorate. Unable to win majority support under the current system, they now seek guaranteed access to power, regardless of how many votes they receive. This shift isn’t about strengthening democracy; it’s about bypassing the people’s judgement.
Proponents often argue that PR leads to consensus-based governance and reduces authoritarian drift. But Bangladesh is not like New Zealand or Sweden, where democratic institutions are stable and independent. Our political history is riddled with authoritarian takeovers, military coups, and constitutional manipulation. In fact, we’re far closer to Nepal — a country whose PR system has led to frequent government collapses, legislative deadlock, and public frustration. In such fragile contexts, PR doesn’t guarantee better democracy; it often leads to instability, paralysis, and opportunism.
Let us be clear, Bangladesh does need electoral reform, but not at the cost of women’s security, democratic stability, or the people’s mandate. We must first build political literacy, strengthen civic education, and ensure that any reforms are grounded in public trust, not political convenience. A rushed transition to PR without addressing these foundational gaps could leave Bangladesh more divided, more unstable, and more dangerous for the very citizens reform is meant to empower.
If we want democracy to serve the people — especially its women — we must reform with care, not haste.
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Tasnia Symoom is a political scientist and currently a postdoctoral fellow at the Centre for Research on Violence Against Women at the University of Kentucky. Her research focuses on democratic institutions, identity politics, and violence against women.
