Lock, stock and a State Minister

A sitting lawmaker, brandishing a pistol and chasing suspected drug users through a Dhaka slum in gleaming white sneakers, could easily be a scene from a Guy Ritchie black comedy.

There is the improbable protagonist and the low-level criminals. The weaponry and the chaotic pursuit. And, naturally, the camera. All that is missing is Jason Statham delivering a suitably deadpan observation about the stupidity of everyone involved.

Except this is not Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. This is Bangladesh. The protagonist is Ishraque Hossain, the country's state minister for liberation war affairs. And the performance took place on Saturday afternoon, October 17, beside a railway line in Gendaria.

Ishraque arrived with a handheld loudspeaker and a pistol. He jumped out of a vehicle, pursued several people and shouted at them to stop. At one point, he appeared to pull back the weapon's slide.

Another man in civilian clothes joined the pursuit, also carrying a firearm.

The entire spectacle was filmed and uploaded to the minister's Facebook page. The caption announced: "Ishraque in action: Drug den demolished, dealers handed over to police."

So, what exactly was a sitting state minister slash lawmaker doing?

Bangladesh has a police force. It has a Department of Narcotics Control. It has intelligence agencies, magistrates, prosecutors and criminal courts. The country even has a ministry responsible for home affairs.

Yet Ishraque apparently concluded that the missing ingredient in Bangladesh's drug enforcement machinery was Ishraque himself. And a Facebook livestream.

The police, meanwhile, appeared to be spectators to an operation conducted in their jurisdiction. Masud Rana, additional deputy commissioner of Wari Police, said the minister had not informed police beforehand. Officers learned about the operation afterward.

Six people were eventually handed over. Police said some unidentified powder had been recovered and would be tested. No confirmed yaba seizure. No established trafficking network. No judicial finding of guilt.

Just six suspects, some powder and an extraordinary amount of publicity.

The mayor who never was

Ishraq had contested the 2020 mayoral election against the Awami League's Sheikh Fazle Noor Taposh and was officially declared defeated. Five years later, an election tribunal overturned that result and declared him the winner.

Then his supporters occupied Nagar Bhaban, staged demonstrations and demanded his immediate swearing-in. By late May, the protests had continued for 16 consecutive days. The Supreme Court eventually left the question of his oath to the Election Commission. 

So, the mayoral office of a city of 20 million people became the subject of prolonged street pressure and institutional confusion.

Now Ishraque has moved from demanding the authority of a mayor to exercising what looks suspiciously like the authority of a police officer. The difference is that he currently holds a parliamentary seat and a ministerial portfolio.

And neither office makes him an arresting officer or the commander of a private anti-narcotics squad.

An elected representative has considerable power. He can demand explanations from the police. He can question ministers, scrutinise budgets, propose legislation and expose failures of enforcement. A member of the government can also press for coordinated action through the appropriate institutions.

These powers are less photogenic than chasing people along railway tracks. They are also rather more useful.

If Ishraque believes that Gendaria has become a major narcotics distribution centre, he should explain what intelligence was available, whether police had failed to act and what he had done through official channels to correct that failure.

If the police are incompetent, he should demand accountability. If they are corrupt, he should demand investigations. If drug networks enjoy political protection, he should identify the protection. Instead, the public received a video.

There is also the question of the weapon. Was it real? Was it licensed? Was its display lawful in these circumstances? What authority did the armed civilian accompanying him possess? What would have happened if a frightened suspect had run towards a crowded street?

A firearm is not an accessory to political enthusiasm. Even a licensed weapon does not confer police powers. And the fact that someone may be suspected of selling drugs does not suspend his legal rights.

Ishraque's promise that no drug trader would be spared, including members of his own party, sounds reassuring. But the test of that promise is whether influential traffickers face investigation and prosecution, not whether impoverished suspects can be chased before a camera.

The drug war that Bangladesh has already tried

None of this diminishes the seriousness of Bangladesh's narcotics crisis.

Yaba, the methamphetamine-based tablet commonly trafficked into Bangladesh from Myanmar, has devastated families and communities. Its distribution networks have penetrated urban neighbourhoods and border districts. Addiction, debt, petty crime and organised trafficking have created a market that successive governments have struggled to contain.

Drug enforcement is necessary. So are treatment, rehabilitation, border intelligence, financial investigations and prosecutions that can survive judicial scrutiny.

But Bangladesh does not need another politician discovering the pleasures of a drug war. Sheikh Hasina tried that in 2018.

Her government launched a nationwide anti-narcotics campaign, deploying security forces against suspected dealers and users. Within weeks, more than 100 people had reportedly been killed. Thousands were arrested.

Human Rights Watch subsequently reported that law enforcement officers were implicated in 466 alleged extrajudicial executions during 2018, many involving suspected drug offenders. The crackdown prompted international condemnation and serious allegations of politically motivated killings. 

The case of Teknaf councillor Akramul Haque became particularly notorious after his family released recordings that raised disturbing questions about the circumstances of his death during the campaign. 

The lesson should be obvious. A government cannot establish the rule of law by making its own agents exceptions to it. Nor can a serious narcotics strategy be measured by the number of suspects humiliated, detained or displayed to an approving audience.

Hasina's crackdown demonstrated the dangers of treating alleged drug offenders as people undeserving of due process. Ishraque's expedition is not comparable in scale or violence. No such outcome has been reported from Saturday's operation.

But the political temptation deserves scrutiny.

The popularity of such performances is understandable. Citizens frustrated by police inaction often welcome anyone who appears willing to confront criminals. That frustration is real. It does not make vigilantism good governance.

The deeper absurdity is that Ishraque is not an ordinary citizen protesting state failure. He is part of the state. He belongs to the government that is responsible for making the enforcement machinery work.

If a state minister must personally chase suspected drug users to demonstrate that the government is serious, what does that say about the government?

And if ministers are free to conduct their own armed operations, what prevents the next lawmaker from doing the same against suspected extortionists or political opponents?

Guy Ritchie would probably appreciate Saturday's footage. But in a Ritchie film, the absurdity is intentional. In Gendaria, the man holding the pistol also holds public office.

And that is where the comedy ends.

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Faisal Mahmud is the Managing Editor of Daily Waadaa