By Mohammed Iqbal
Journalist & Creative Director
After seventeen years, he touched the soil of his birthplace again. He inhaled the scent of this land, felt its tenderness beneath his bare feet. The moment instantly recalled that deeply moving line:
“O my country’s soil, upon you I bow my head.”
In biting winter cold, millions of people waited from the previous day just to catch a glimpse of him. Eventually, the entire world witnessed that historic moment. He stepped onto the stage and addressed the nation, expressing sincere gratitude to all those who had contributed to the long struggle for the country and for democracy. Standing before nearly five million people, he said: we want a united Bangladesh—one free from revenge, hatred, and hostility. We want to build the country on the principles of justice and fairness taught by the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), a country where peace prevails and development truly serves the people.
At a time when the nation is exhausted, this call was as vital as oxygen is to keeping a human heart alive.
The people of Bangladesh are uncompromising when it comes to their rights—but they are not racist, not extremist, not militant, and not religiously fanatical. This nation knows when to resist and when to exercise restraint. When necessary, its people are willing to sacrifice their lives for the country and for freedom—but they never glorify hatred. They know how to become martyrs, not monsters.
History bears witness: in the struggle to establish democracy, ordinary young people like Noor Hossain, Abu Sayeed, Mugdha, and Osman Hadi stood unflinchingly and took bullets to their chests. They understood that compromising with authoritarianism does not merely betray a moment in time—it destroys an entire generation.
Following the mass uprising of 5 August, Bangladesh now stands at its most fragile and distrustful political juncture. Although a fascist government was removed through a joint movement, politics driven by power, revenge, and rivalry is now hollowing that movement from within. On one side, the forces of the July–August movement are clashing among themselves; on the other, the fallen autocracy is quietly regrouping, preparing for a dangerous return.
In this unstable and confrontational reality, ordinary people no longer want unrest or dirty politics. They want safety. They want peaceful family lives. Parents want their children to go to school and grow into human beings—not to return home as bodies.
Just as injustice can never produce justice, replacing autocracy with mob rule can never deliver accountability. Leaders, ministers, and officials of the Awami League government abused power and inflicted oppression upon the people. Failing to bring them to justice is a betrayal—not only of the martyrs of the July movement, but also of Ilias Ali, the army officers killed in the BDR massacre, and countless citizens murdered for political reasons, along with their families. At the same time, placing the burden of those crimes on ordinary Awami League voters or supporters is in no way justice.
The reality today is grim. Ordinary supporters are being targeted through mob violence, arbitrary arrests, and harassment. Meanwhile, those directly implicated in enforced disappearances, killings, and the July massacres—including Obaidul Quader, the former law minister, the former foreign minister, and many others—have been allowed to leave the country safely with state assistance. This double standard is not merely administrative failure; it is a profound moral crime.
For this, the current interim government and those who appointed it—the NCP and Jamaat—cannot escape responsibility. The rise of mob rule on one hand and state patronage on the other are now two sides of the same political coin. Attempts to derail elections and prolong power will push the country into deeper instability; the risk that political vengeance could drive Bangladesh toward civil conflict is no longer a distant or unrealistic fear. And if that happens, the consequence will be the devaluation of the sacrifices of the July movement and the clearing of the path for the terrifying return of Sheikh Hasina’s fascism.
Those who are once again contemplating this path—dreaming of clinging to power through an illegitimate system by curtailing the people’s right to vote—would do well to remember history’s lessons more carefully. The historical record clearly shows who stood where during the struggle for independence. When even forces aligned with the Liberation War were humiliated and forced into exile due to democratic deviation, prudence demands reflection on what the fate of others might be.
Therefore, abandoning the temptation to destabilise elections and instead preserving legitimacy and existence within a democratic framework is not only wiser—it is essential for the country and for all involved. History does not only remember those who hold power; it remembers, with ruthless clarity, those who abuse it.
When American society stood on the brink of civil war, Martin Luther King Jr. declared, “I have a dream.” His message was clear: not war, but peace; not revenge, but human dignity. Today, in a burning Bangladesh, a declaration in the same moral register has been voiced—“I have a plan.”
Now the responsibility lies with others. Those seeking to contest elections—Jamaat, the NCP, the Jatiya Party, or anyone else—must, like Tarique Rahman, clearly tell the people how they intend to change the country. In calm, responsible language, they must say: “We have a plan too.”
Because at this moment, Bangladesh does not need a struggle for power. What it needs most is stability, justice, and a genuine commitment to building a future for its people.
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