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HISTORY, for all its weight, often sits uneasily in the present. In Bangladesh, that tension has resurfaced with the recent revival of the International Crimes Tribunal and the sweeping amendments passed on May 11. On paper, the goal remains the same: justice for grave crimes. But peel back the legalese, and what emerges is a murky debate — about timing, intent, and the thin line where justice can start to resemble retribution.

The tribunal isn’t new. Bangladesh passed the original legislation in 1973 with the intent to prosecute those responsible for wartime atrocities in 1971. But intention alone didn’t carry the project forward. Political upheaval, military takeovers, and pragmatic diplomacy buried it. For decades, the law collected dust.

It was not until 2009, with the Awami League back in power, that the International Crimes Tribunal took form again. The party had long promised trials for war criminals. When it won in a landslide, that promise became policy. The law was updated. A tribunal was formed. High-profile leaders, especially from Jamaat-e-Islami — long accused of collaborating with Pakistani forces in 1971 — were brought to trial. Some were executed. Inside the country, the proceedings were met with support. Outside, the picture was more complicated. Legal analysts, human rights observers, and foreign governments raised pointed concerns: was this justice or political theatre dressed in judicial robes?

That question has never fully gone away. But recent events have turned it into something much sharper.

The country’s political order shifted dramatically in mid-2024. Following months of street protests — fuelled by anger over corruption, police brutality, and deepening economic strain — the Awami League was overthrown, with its leader fleeing the country. The government that replaced it was led not by a party but by an interim authority led by Muhammad Yunus. His arrival marked a clear break with the past. One of his administration’s first moves: to revisit the violence of the previous year, particularly the killing of demonstrators during the July unrest.

And so, the International Crimes Tribunal was called upon once more — only this time, not to dig into the crimes of the past but to look squarely at recent ones. That shift in itself was striking. But it was the changes to the law that followed which truly altered the landscape.

The 2025 amendment widened the tribunal’s reach. No longer confined to individuals, it could now prosecute entire political parties and affiliated organisations. The language was stark: if a party was found complicit in genocide or crimes against humanity, it could be banned, its assets seized, and its operations halted. Within moments, the Awami League found itself at the centre of the storm. Its activities were suspended under the Anti-Terrorism Act. Besides, the tribunal was tasked with determining its fate.

It’s difficult to view that sequence as coincidental.

Supporters of the amendment argue that it fills a gap. If parties can commit or abet atrocities, why should they be shielded from accountability? They say the move isn’t about politics but principle. After all, atrocities committed under a party’s banner shouldn’t be swept aside because of who holds the reins of power.

But opponents — and they are growing louder — see something else. The concern isn’t just about what the law allows. It’s about who it targets, when, and why. That the Awami League is the first party to face this expanded jurisdiction and that its ban came so swiftly after losing power raises questions that no legal framework can fully answer.

There are other worries, too. One amendment cut the preparation time for the defence from six weeks to three. For individual cases, that may already be tight. For a sprawling political party, with decades of history and hundreds of potential witnesses, it could be crippling. There’s also the issue of leadership: the newly appointed chief prosecutor previously represented Jamaat-e-Islami defendants — the very figures the tribunal once condemned. That reversal alone has left many uneasy.

What’s at stake here isn’t just the reputation of the International Crimes Tribunal. It is the broader integrity of Bangladesh’s political and legal institutions. The constitution guarantees the right to political association, with some limits. But international norms — from the Venice Commission to the UN — insist that banning a political party should be a measure of last resort. It should come through transparent judicial proceedings, not executive fiat dressed in legal clothes.

Bangladesh’s tribunal has always been unique: a domestic effort to address international crimes. That’s rare, and it’s to the country’s credit that such a process was even attempted. But the International Crimes Tribunal’s record has been mixed. Its earlier phases were marred by procedural shortfalls. International judges were absent. Appeals were restricted. And Article 47(A) of the constitution — which curtails some rights for those tried under the tribunal — remains deeply controversial.

In this context, placing an entire political party in the dock feels less like justice and more like a gamble. The risks aren’t abstract. When political systems lose their ability to accommodate opposition, when justice is seen as a weapon, and when laws change to fit the victors of the moment, the damage tends to outlast any single case.

There is no question that those responsible for abuses — past or present — must be held accountable. But how a country seeks that accountability matters. The process, the timing, the independence of the judiciary, the room for dissent — these are not minor details. They are the measure of whether a system is truly just or just convenient.

As the International Crimes Tribunal prepares for what may be its most consequential case yet, the tribunal itself is also on trial — not just for what it decides but for how it gets there.

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Md Ibrahim Khalilullah is a writer and analyst with expertise in the law and development sectors.