IN BANGLADESH鈥橲 political terrain, there is a philosophical puzzle that would have bothered Greek philosopher, Aristotle: how does a country that was founded on the highest ideals of self-determination end up fighting against the loss of the very principles that made it possible?
The question is not merely academic. When independence was declared in 1971, the political leaders invoked something deeper than territorial sovereignty 鈥� they summoned the moral imagination of a people who believed governance could be different, could be better. Yet 54 years later, we find ourselves asking: where did that moral vision go?
Political polarisation in Bangladesh has transcended mere disagreement 鈥� it has become, in the Hegelian sense, a fundamental rupture in the dialectic of national consciousness. The Awami League and BNP don鈥檛 simply represent different policy positions; they embody competing narratives of what Bangladesh means, what it was, and what it should become.
This is affective polarisation at its most corrosive. Citizens no longer see each other as fellow travellers on a shared journey towards national flourishing. Instead, we see enemies 鈥� threats to be neutralised rather than friendly neighbours with whom we must build a common future. The protests, the violence, the unwillingness to concede even obvious truths when they come from the 鈥榦ther side鈥� are symptoms of bad faith, a refusal to acknowledge our shared humanity because it threatens our constructed identities.
When Tagore wrote 鈥樴唳苦Δ唰嵿Δ 唳唳ム 唳唳多唳ㄠ唳�, 唳夃唰嵿 唳唳ム 唳多唳扳�� (鈥榃here the mind is without fear, the head is held high鈥�), he was articulating a vision of Bangladesh (then Bengal) as a space of intellectual and moral freedom. Today, that freedom is constrained not by colonial masters but by our own tribal allegiances. We have imprisoned ourselves in Ibn Khaldun鈥檚 asabiyyah or group solidarity that, while providing strength, also breeds insularity and conflict.
Bangladesh has rapidly adopted technology. From mobile banking to digital governance initiatives, we have leapt into the 21st century. Yet here lies a cruel irony that would fascinate the French sociologist, Jean Baudrillard: we have created an image of transparency with the appearance of openness without its substance.
Social media in Bangladesh has become less a tool for truth-telling and more an instrument of what Michel Foucault would recognise as disciplinary power. Facebook posts are monitored, dissent is digitally tracked, and the same platforms that could democratise information instead amplify propaganda and misinformation. The Digital Security Act, ostensibly designed to protect citizens, became a modern panopticon, creating self-censorship through the mere possibility of surveillance.
Meanwhile, traditional media operates under constraints both subtle and overt. When journalists practise self-censorship, knowing which stories will bring consequences, we witness the predictability of evil: not dramatic acts of oppression, but the quiet, bureaucratic erosion of truth-telling.
The classical Islamic scholars referred to amanah (trustworthiness) as a sacred obligation. We lose not only facts but also our ability to think morally as a group when information itself becomes untrustworthy and we can鈥檛 tell the difference between truth and manipulation. How can we practise shura (consultation) when we can鈥檛 trust what we are talking about?
If corruption in Bangladesh is considered听as a legal or economic issue, we are听missing听its deeper philosophical aspects. When a citizen has to pay a bribe to register land that is rightfully theirs, or when contracts go to people who are politically connected instead of people who are good at what they do, we are seeing more than theft; we are seeing the negation of the social contract itself.
The French thinker, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, argued that legitimate authority derives from the general will or the collective interest of the people. But when institutions serve private interests disguised as public policy, when the state becomes an instrument for wealth extraction rather than public service, we face a legitimacy crisis. The government may have power, but it lacks moral authority.
Think about the scandals in the banking industry, where billions of dollars disappear and enter听foreign accounts while common citizens struggle. This isn鈥檛 just an economic crime; it鈥檚 a betrayal of trust that makes it impossible for adl (justice) to occur. Adl is such an important idea in Islamic political philosophy that the Quran mentions it several听times.
Persian scholar, Al-Ghazali, wrote that a ruler who steals from the treasury steals not just from people鈥檚 pockets but from their hearts and destroys the spiritual bond between the governed and the governor. When corruption becomes systematic and exploitative, it becomes so normalised that people cease to imagine alternatives. The German sociologist, Max Weber warned that bureaucracy, while necessary for modern governance, risks becoming an 鈥榠ron cage鈥� that traps both officials and citizens in meaningless rituals. Bangladesh has realised Weber鈥檚 nightmare.
To get a simple document certified, one must navigate a Byzantine system of signatures, stamps and 鈥榮peed money.鈥� The bureaucracy doesn鈥檛 serve efficiency; it creates opportunities for rent-seeking. Every unnecessary step is a toll booth, every delay a negotiation.
Yet here鈥檚 the deeper problem: this system infantilises citizens. It creates the belief that one cannot navigate official channels without connections or cash. This is antithetical to the republican ideal of the active, empowered citizen 鈥� the nagorik who participates in governance as a right, not a client begging for favours.
The great German philosopher, Immanuel Kant, argued that enlightenment means humanity鈥檚 emergence from 鈥榮elf-incurred immaturity.鈥� Our bureaucratic culture enforces immaturity, treating citizens as children to be managed rather than as autonomous moral agents with rights and dignity.
American sociologist, Putnam鈥檚 鈥楤owling Alone鈥� thesis finds tragic resonance in Bangladesh. We were once a nation of samaj 鈥� vibrant community organisations, neighbourhood associations, cultural societies that formed the sinews of civil society. These spaces weren鈥檛 just social; they were schools of democracy where people learned to deliberate, compromise and act collectively.
These places are now disappearing. In Dhaka or elsewhere, young people are more likely to scroll through听Facebook than attend community meetings. The village salish, even though it had its problems, at least made it possible for people to settle their differences. Now, these are replaced by either court systems that are too expensive for most people or听political intermediaries who dispense听鈥檍ustice鈥� based on party loyalty.
This civic atrophy has profound implications. As French philosopher, Tocqueville observed, intermediate associations between the individual and the state are essential for democracy. They are where we practise the habits of citizenship 鈥� learning to see beyond our immediate interests, to compromise, to take responsibility for collective outcomes.
The Bengali philosophical tradition, from Rammohan Roy to Lalon Fakir, emphasised manusher jonno manush 鈥� humans for humans. But this requires spaces where we encounter each other as humans, not as partisan categories. Without civic engagement, we lose the empathetic imagination necessary for democratic life.
We need to move from a 鈥榩olitics as war鈥� model to some kind of pluralism where opponents are adversaries to be argued with, not enemies to be destroyed. This would require, first of all, constitutional reform that limits executive power and creates genuine checks and balances, preventing winner-take-all politics. Secondly, electoral reforms, including relational representation to force coalition-building and moderation. Thirdly, parliamentary strengthening for debates and discussions to become consequential, not theatrical. Last but not least, civil society dialogues convened by trusted neutral institutions (perhaps universities or cultural organisations) where cross-party conversations can occur.
But institutionally, we need a cultural shift 鈥� recovering the Islamic tradition of ikhtilaf (respectful disagreement) and the Bengali tradition of adda (open-ended, generous conversation). Political differences should be normalised, even celebrated, as necessary for collective wisdom.
We need to build a public sphere worthy of truth by recovering the enlightenment ideal of the public sphere 鈥� a space where citizens can reason together, test claims against evidence and form considered opinions. The classical Islamic concept of adab (etiquette) or proper conduct and refinement of character, should be recovered as central to leadership. Similarly, the Bengali bhadralok tradition, at its best, emphasised education, culture and service over mere wealth or power.
The German Marxist philosopher, Ernst Bloch, argued that hope is not naive optimism but an active principle 鈥� a commitment to actualising unrealised possibilities. Bangladesh carries within it the genetic memory of 1971, when ordinary people chose courage over convenience, when students, farmers and intellectuals united around a moral vision of self-determination and dignity.
That spirit isn鈥檛 dead; it鈥檚 dormant. The task of recovering ethical leadership is ultimately about reawakening our collective capacity to imagine and build a better political community. It requires what the Sufis call tawbah (repentance) not just apology, but fundamental turning, a change of heart and direction.
We must choose to see politics not as a zero-sum game of power accumulation but as the art of living together well 鈥� the highest human calling, as Aristotle emphasised. We must rebuild trust not through naive faith but through consistent, reciprocal actions that demonstrate trustworthiness. We must engage not because it鈥檚 easy but because disengagement guarantees that the worst among us will make decisions for all of us.
The great Bengali poet Kazi Nazrul Islam wrote, 鈥�Jatir porichoy noy, manusher porichoy chai鈥� (I don鈥檛 seek identity as nations, I seek identity as humans). Perhaps that鈥檚 where we begin: by recovering our common humanity beneath our political identities, by remembering that we share not just a territory but a destiny, and by accepting that the quality of that destiny depends on choices we make today.
The river still flows to the sea. The question is whether we will build bridges over it or drown in its currents.
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Dr Habib Zafarullah is an adjunct professor of public policy at the University of New England, Australia, and former professor of public administration at the University of Dhaka. He is the founding president of the South Asian Network for Public Administration.