IN A dazzling twist that no playwright could’ve scripted better, the once-mighty Awami League — yes, the very party that lorded over Bangladesh for 15 and a half uninterrupted years — has now declared its own fall as the result of a grand, globe-spanning conspiracy. Naturally. Because when authoritarianism topples under the weight of its own hubris, what else could possibly explain it except the combined wickedness of ‘foreign powers’, the interim government, the student protesters, and maybe—just maybe — the alignment of Saturn?
They call it aÌýconspiracy theory, but we must give credit where it’s due: it’s one of the more creative political defence mechanisms in recent memory. Having spent over a decade silencing critics, stuffing institutions with loyalists, baptising bureaucrats in party colours, and redefining ‘elections’ as ceremonial coronations, the party now insists it was undone by mysterious hands lurking in the shadows. Not the people. Certainly not the angry youth. And definitely not their own mistakes.
No, Bangladesh didn’t erupt in protest because the public was exhausted by power cuts, inflation, police brutality, student beatings, media gags, and watching political cronies treat the treasury like a personal piggy bank. It was the foreigners. The traitors. The alphabet soup of NGOs. Maybe even a few rogue astrologers.
Now that the interim government has taken over — and is busy cleaning up the rubble left behind — it seems the Awami League’s primary occupation is not self-reflection, but spinning its political obituaries into Shakespearean tragedy. Hamlet may have brooded, but at least he didn’t call his uncle’s crime a ‘foreign plot.’
And in case you thought they’d lay low, show remorse, or maybe apologise for turning universities into warzones and imprisoning teenagers for slogans — no such luck. They’ve taken refuge across the border, rented a nondescript office in Kolkata, and are now operating from a flat that looks suspiciously like a poorly funded startup.
From the heart of India’s commercial capital, the digital resistance is on. Virtual meetings, encrypted Telegram chats, live sessions, and motivational Zooms. This is not exile—it’s a ‘telecommuting revolution’, Awami League 2.0. Now with faster WiFi, fewer batons, and no angry mobs. What they lost on the streets of Dhaka, they are determined to regain through bandwidth.
It would be comical if it weren’t so tragic. There was a time when the Awami League could boast of being the torchbearer of democratic ideals, when slogans of liberation and secularism weren’t used to justify surveillance and student torture. That time is clearly over.
Let’s talk about the students—the actual heroes of the uprising. A generation that grew up under the all-encompassing shadow of Sheikh Hasina’s governance, who were fed nationalistic fairy tales in school and censorship in their syllabi, finally said ‘enough’. And what did they get in return? Tear gas, bullets, arrests, and media trials. The nation watched in horror as the party that once prided itself on its Liberation War credentials launched a war against its own children.
Now, after their orchestrated fall, Awami League leaders claim they’re regrouping. Not on the streets, mind you — they wouldn’t dare — but on Facebook. One gets the sense they believe revolutions can now be crowdsourced, party morale restored through likes and shares, and the leadership of Sheikh Hasina sustained through Zoom breakout rooms.
Of course, no resurrection story is complete without a messianic figure waiting in the wings. Enter Sajeeb Wazed Joy, the crown prince of this digital dynasty. Joy, who spent more time in Silicon Valley than in the alleyways of Bangladeshi politics, is now apparently the new oracle of the party. One could say he’s ‘plugged in’ to the grassroots via fibre optics. Party elders insist he is ‘more active than ever’, which presumably means he’s replying to WhatsApp messages.
The elevation of Joy into the driver’s seat speaks volumes — not about his abilities, but about the party’s desperation. With most top leaders either hiding in India or holed up in suburban apartments, there’s little left to steer. If the Titanic had a younger captain with a LinkedIn profile, it would still be sinking.
As for Hasina, the matriarch remains in her undisclosed Indian location — rumored to be near Delhi — holding clandestine meetings with six or so exiled loyalists. A little less than what one might call a political bureau, but more than enough for a support group. Sources say she is in constant touch with union-level party workers. Whether that’s leadership or a prolonged group therapy session is unclear.
Meanwhile, the interim government has begun preparations for national elections in February, much to the dismay of the Awami League, who insist that any election without them is inherently ‘non-inclusive’. An ironic complaint coming from a party that perfected the art of exclusion — by jailing opposition figures, harassing journalists, and using the Election Commission as a rubber stamp for legitimacy. Now that the tables have turned, they cry foul. Poetic justice has a delicious aftertaste.
Their grievances don’t end there. They accuse the current government of turning the judiciary into a joke. One wonders what Awami League leaders were smoking for the past decade while the judiciary merrily validated every constitutional contortion they threw at it. Perhaps it was nostalgia.
Their concern for ‘inclusive politics’ now also extends to accusing the current administration of targeting students from Awami League-affiliated families. Suddenly, educational persecution is an issue. It wasn’t when Chhatra League operatives were holding dormitories hostage or when question leaks became state-sponsored events. But now, with their own side on the receiving end, it’s a national crisis.
Then there’s the money issue. The party that once boasted of development miracles is now reportedly crowdfunding its political comeback. Leaders are sending Western Union requests like influencers begging for Patreon subscriptions. Former ministers who once roamed Dhaka in Prados and Pajeros are now sharing flats in Kolkata and commuting via bus or bike. One can’t help but be impressed at the humility — forced though it may be.
Some leaders justify their exile by invoking 1971: ‘If the leadership had not migrated to India, would the liberation war have succeeded?’ Indeed. And if the BTV news anchor had not read the 6 pm bulletin, would the Padma Bridge have floated away?
The truth is simple. The Awami League was ousted not by foreign conspiracies, but by its own refusal to listen. Its intolerance of dissent, its orgy of arrogance, and its war on youth created the perfect storm. The party, once the architect of liberation, became the warden of suppression.
Now they are in exile, waging digital campaigns, blaming everything from conspiracies to karma. But as any seasoned politician should know, exile can offer perspective. It can also breed delusion. The danger lies in confusing the two.
If the Awami League wants to return, it must do more than conjure boogeymen. It must apologise. It must reckon with its crimes. And it must rebuild — not in party offices disguised as commercial flats, but in the hearts of a people it long stopped listening to.
Until then, all they’ll have is a webcam, a microphone, and a dwindling base wondering why the generals fled while the foot soldiers were left to burn.
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HM Nazmul Alam is a lecturer of English and modern languages at the International University of Business, Agriculture and Technology.