How the ‘liberals’ helped turning the right into a political bogeyman

Arifuzzaman Tuhin of Dhaka Papers has a problem with my argument. Unfortunately, it is not quite the argument I made.

In his response to my essay in Daily Waadaa, “The ‘liberals’ who mistook their monopoly for a voice,” Tuhin accuses me of misrepresenting Manoj De’s analysis in Prothom Alo, overlooking the growth of right-wing politics and employing the language of democracy to disguise an accommodation with majoritarian coercion.

These are substantial charges. They deserve a substantial response. But Tuhin’s essay contains a concession as well. He acknowledges that I distinguish between Islamist political parties, ordinary conservative voters and violent religious vigilantes. He even agrees that this distinction is correct in principle.

Then he moves on. The problem is, that very point was not a decorative qualification in my argument. It was probably the argument’s organizing pivot.

Bangladesh witnessed the systematic erosion of a distinction essential to any constitutional democracy for more than a decade. Under Sheikh Hasina, the ruling Awami League repeatedly presented an extraordinarily broad range of opponents as components of a single reactionary threat.

The BNP, a mainstream centre-right party, was politically coupled with Jamaat-e-Islami, an organised Islamist party carrying the historical burden of its opposition to Bangladesh’s independence in 1971. Through official rhetoric and sympathetic political commentary, this association could then be extended to religious extremism and violent militancy.

Different organisations, constituencies, ideologies and degrees of culpability were compressed into one threatening category.

The political consequences of that were profound. Once an opponent had been placed inside that category, defending his rights became an act of suspected sympathy with extremism. The person ceased to be merely a political adversary and became someone whose mistreatment could be explained away as an unfortunate necessity.

This is what my original essay sought to examine.

Tuhin acknowledges the broad-brush classification. But he does not adequately confront how that classification helped create an environment in which enforced disappearances and extrajudicial killings of political opponents were tolerated or even rationalised.

How political opponents became disposable

The Awami League refined the use of ideological association as an instrument of political exclusion. Consider the BNP.

It is a centre-right party with a nationalist political tradition, a history of governing Bangladesh and a substantial electoral constituency. Its political record is open to criticism, including its alliances, its conduct in government and its failures in opposition.

But the BNP is not Jamaat-e-Islami. And Jamaat is not a ‘militant’ organisation merely because it advocates Islamist politics. And a conservative citizen who votes for either party is not, by association, a ‘terrorist’. These definitions should be elementary. Yet the political language of the Hasina years often made them inconvenient.

In Awami-League’s universe, the BNP could be represented through Jamaat’s historical baggage, while Jamaat could be associated with a wider universe of religious extremism. The resulting narrative suggested that opposition politics constituted a single continuum of threats to the republic.

It was an efficient arrangement. A party could be condemned for its own actions, for those of its allies and, when necessary, for the presumed intentions of people with whom it shared little beyond a religious or ideological label. The issue was not simply unfair characterisation. Political parties routinely caricature their opponents. The danger emerged when these characterisations entered the machinery of state power.

A BNP activist accused of no terrorist offence could be treated as a security threat because of his political affiliation. A Jamaat organiser could disappear into custody, while public discussion concentrated on whether his party represented an ideological danger. The question of what the state had done to a citizen was displaced by speculation about what that citizen might have believed.

The victim became politically disposable.

This did not mean every liberal supported every abuse. Many journalists, activists, lawyers and human rights defenders challenged state repression at considerable personal risk. Some paid a heavy price for doing so.

But significant sections of the self-described secular and liberal establishment accepted the government's security narrative, defended the political order that sustained it or treated opposition repression as a secondary concern.

The question is how repression acquired sufficient political and social legitimacy to persist. Who helped construct the image of the opposition as an existential danger? Who repeated the argument that an authoritarian government, however unpleasant, was necessary to prevent something worse? Who treated the rights of Islamist and centre-right citizens as negotiable because their politics were objectionable?

And why did so much of the political and cultural establishment discover the full importance of constitutional liberty only when the distribution of political power changed? These questions cannot be answered by reminding readers that religious mobs are dangerous.

Of course they are. The existence of one danger does not explain away complicity in another.

Politics of selective accommodation

Tuhin believes he has identified a contradiction in my argument.

If Hasina's government was committed to excluding Islamist politics, he asks, why did it cultivate relationships with Hefazat-e-Islam, recognise Qawmi madrasa qualifications, accommodate religious demands in textbooks and maintain relationships with selected religious organisations?

The answer is because Hasina's political project was not at all about secularism. It was about retaining power. Tuhin however overlooks an important difference between the organisations Hasina cultivated and those she sought to neutralise.

Hefazat-e-Islam and the Qawmi madrasa establishment represent substantial religious and educational constituencies. Their influence extends through seminaries, clerical networks, hundreds of thousands of pupils and community institutions. They are not insignificant. Nor are they without political ambitions or organisational capabilities.

Yet they are not equivalent to a conventional political party like Jamaat-e-Islami seeking parliamentary representation through a national electoral organisation. Yes, Hefazat can mobilise supporters and exert pressure on governments. Jamaat can contest constituencies, build electoral alliances, develop a parliamentary programme and seek national political authority. These matters immensely.

An authoritarian government can often accommodate a religious pressure group without surrendering meaningful electoral power. It can recognise qualifications, revise textbooks or offer symbolic concessions while retaining control over the institutions that determine who governs.

A disciplined opposition party with a national electoral organisation presents a different challenge. Jamaat's historical association with the opposition to Bangladesh's independence in 1971 makes it particularly vulnerable to political delegitimisation. Its past deserves rigorous scrutiny. Individuals responsible for atrocities must be held accountable through credible legal processes.

But historical accountability cannot become a permanent exemption from the principles of individual responsibility and due process. The descendants, supporters and ordinary voters of a political organisation do not inherit criminal liability through ideological association. Nor does an organisation's objectionable history automatically justify denying its contemporary members ordinary constitutional protections.

This is where the question of political legitimacy becomes unavoidable. Jamaat's electoral performance in 2026 demonstrated that it represents a substantial constituency. That does not validate its ideology. It establishes that its supporters cannot be dismissed as an insignificant fringe without distorting Bangladesh's political reality.

Tuhin points to Jamaat's rise from 8.61% of votes in 1996 to 31.76% in 2026. It is a significant change. My argument never required denying it. I disputed the confidence with which this change can be attributed to a broad ideological transformation.

Thirty years separate those elections. During that period, party organisations changed, alliances shifted, younger voters entered the electorate, political identities evolved and competitive electoral politics suffered prolonged disruption. Jamaat's gains may reflect genuine ideological growth, improved organisation, protest voting, the redistribution of former BNP or Awami League votes and the political consequences of repression. These explanations are not mutually exclusive.

Indeed, an important possibility deserves more attention that prolonged exclusion may have strengthened the political appeal of some organisations by allowing them to present themselves as victims of authoritarianism and simply as an option which has never been tried.

Ironically, a revealing part of Tuhin's logic lies elsewhere. He acknowledges that the National Citizen Party, a non-religious party, cannot automatically be classified as right-wing simply because it entered an electoral alliance with Islamist parties. He then proceeds to discuss a broader right-wing bloc.

That hesitation should have prompted a more serious reconsideration of the categories themselves.

An electoral alliance does not necessarily establish ideological identity. A party's cooperation with Jamaat does not make every member of that party an Islamist. Nor does voting for an alliance imply agreement with every position held by its constituent organisations. This was precisely the problem with the political classification employed during the Hasina years.

The BNP's association with Jamaat was used to portray a mainstream centre-right constituency as part of a larger Islamist threat. That association could then be extended rhetorically towards militancy, creating an impression of collective ideological culpability.

Was Tuhin careful enough to recognise the danger of classification by association when discussing the NCP. Wasn’t he again upholding the politically convenient board-tent classification that Hasian so wisely used and the so-called liberals so gladly endorsed.

The issue is especially important because Jamaat still remains politically vulnerable to a narrative that treats its members as presumptively “non-belonging” citizens rather than political participants. Its 1971 baggage is real. So is the possibility that this baggage can be exploited to construct a new justification for exceptional treatment.

Electoral collapse is not evidence of its moral superiority

Tuhin also talked about Bangladesh's declining left. He notes that left-wing parties received only 0.36% of votes in the 2026 election, arguing that Manoj De's concern was not simply about the publication of liberal opinions but about the disappearance of rights-based politics from electoral representation.

This raises an interesting question. What exactly is the political significance of the left's electoral collapse? Tuhin appears to suggest that the diminishing parliamentary presence of left-wing parties represents the disappearance of an essential defence against majoritarian politics. 

Ironically, a party does not acquire democratic virtue through electoral failure. Nor does its lack of public support prove that society has become hostile to democracy. It may simply mean voters have found its politics unpersuasive.

Bangladesh's organised left has a long and complicated history. Left-wing movements contributed to labour organisation, anti-authoritarian struggles, intellectual debate and democratic mobilisation. Those contributions deserve recognition. But historical achievement does not guarantee contemporary relevance.

A political tradition must continually explain what it offers citizens facing current economic and social problems. For much of Bangladesh's recent history, sections of the organised left have struggled to develop a persuasive national programme beyond opposing particular political forces and invoking historical legitimacy.  

Some became associated with the Awami League's political project. Others maintained their independence and opposed Hasina's authoritarianism. These differences matter. But they do not eliminate the broader problem of political exhaustion. A party that cannot attract voters must examine its organisation, leadership, policy agenda and relationship with ordinary citizens.

It cannot assume that the electorate has failed an ideological examination.

The decline of the left may reflect changing class relationships, the fragmentation of traditional political constituencies, weak organisational structures, strategic errors and an inability to translate social criticism into credible governing proposals. These are questions of political economy and electoral strategy.

Yet Tuhin seems more interested in presenting the left's weakness as evidence of a society drifting towards ideological danger. That interpretation risks turning electoral irrelevance into a claim of moral distinction. The fewer people who vote for a political movement, the more indispensable its supporters may declare it to be.

Well, this is not a sustainable democratic argument. If the left believes it is uniquely capable of protecting workers, minorities, women and cultural freedoms, it must demonstrate that capability through organisation and political persuasion. It must explain what it would do about wages, inflation, unemployment, education, industrial productivity, healthcare and the distribution of economic opportunity.

Opposition to religious conservatism is a political position. It is not, by itself, a governing programme. Nor is defending minority rights the exclusive property of the left. Tuhin's argument would be stronger if it treated the left's electoral weakness as a political problem requiring explanation rather than as a warning that Bangladesh is losing its last reliable guardians of liberty.

There is also a historical difficulty with presenting the organised left as the natural custodian of democratic rights.

Some left-wing groups opposed Hasina consistently. But most defended or accommodated her government, often on the grounds that the alternative would empower Islamist forces. That lesser-evil calculation speaks of their moral weakness. If the defence of secular politics required tolerating an increasingly coercive state, what remained of the democratic principles supposedly being defended?

Danger of manufacturing consent 

Tuhin's strongest criticism concerns mob violence and cultural intimidation after the July Revolution. He cites attacks on Bauls and Sufi shrines, intimidation of minorities, restrictions on cultural activities and the failure of successive governments to protect vulnerable citizens.

These concerns are legitimate.

An assault on a Baul performer is an assault on the freedom of cultural expression. Vandalising a shrine is a criminal act. Threatening women or religious minorities is incompatible with equal citizenship. A government that fails to investigate these offences or allows perpetrators to operate with impunity fails its constitutional responsibilities.

Tuhin suggests that my emphasis on the right's political freedom amounts to downplaying these violations. It does not. The difference between peaceful conservatism and violent coercion is not a means of excusing mob violence. It is the necessary foundation for identifying responsibility accurately.

If a group attacks a shrine, prosecute those responsible. If an organisation directs or finances intimidation, investigate its leadership. If public officials tolerate criminal violence, hold them accountable. But do not convert those offences into an indictment of an entire ideological constituency.

That is the distinction Bangladesh failed to maintain under Hasina. It would be a considerable mistake to repeat the failure in the name of protecting liberalism. 

Tuhin also invokes the participation of progressive activists in the August 2024 uprising, including the Drohojatra mobilisation. He is right to do so. The July Revolution was not the property of the right, the left, liberals or any single political organisation. It drew strength from people with competing ideological commitments who shared opposition to authoritarian rule.

Many progressive activists resisted Hasina courageously. Some endured repression. Their contribution should neither be minimised nor appropriated by their political opponents. But recognising their role does not absolve other sections of the liberal establishment of responsibility for accommodating the previous order.

Tuhin's argument repeatedly approaches these uncomfortable nuances without fully addressing it. He points to liberals who opposed Hasina and appears to treat their record as an answer to criticism of liberals who supported, rationalised or overlooked her authoritarianism. It is not.

A political category can contain both principled dissenters and defenders of repression. My original essay explicitly recognised this nuance. The issue is not whether every liberal was complicit. The issue is whether a significant strand of self-described liberal politics helped normalise the exclusion of political opponents. The existence of courageous liberals does not make that question disappear. Nor does the existence of religious mobs make it less important.

Tuhin's final accusation is that my argument invokes the crimes of the Hasina government to discourage criticism of contemporary majoritarian politics. This reverses my position.

I am arguing that criticism must operate according to principles that remain consistent regardless of who exercises power. A religious conservative facing arbitrary arrest deserves the same legal protection as a secular activist facing mob intimidation.

A BNP organiser who disappeared under Hasina was entitled to the same concern that should now be extended to a Baul performer threatened by religious vigilantes. A Hindu citizen's freedom of worship and an Islamist citizen's freedom of peaceful political association are not competing concessions. They are applications of the same constitutional principle.

The state has no authority to withdraw these protections because a citizen's beliefs are unpopular. Tuhin worries that the language of pluralism can disguise majoritarian coercion. That is a reasonable warning. But the language of secularism can also disguise authoritarian exclusion.Bangladesh has already experienced the consequences of the latter.

Tuhin ends by warning against the use of past authoritarianism to excuse present coercion. I agree. But that principle must work in both directions.

Present concerns about religious majoritarianism cannot be used to minimise the historical process through which a secular-nationalist government and its sympathetic intellectual establishment helped make entire opposition constituencies appear undeserving of ordinary rights.

Nor should the fear of a future authoritarianism become the justification for another round of ideological exclusion. Bangladesh does not need to choose between religious coercion and secular coercion. It needs a political order that refuses both. That requires more than condemning the abuses of one's opponents. It requires examining the arguments through which one's own political camp once found repression tolerable.

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Faisal Mahmud is the Managing Editor of Daily Waadaa