Explained : Opinion | A Fractured Bangladesh: Bengali Nationalism Vs The Politics Of Betrayal | Opinion News and Its Impact

This latest crisis has been triggered by the killing of Osman Hadi, an Islamist agitator and leader of Inquilab Mancha. He was known for openly promoting the slogan “Delhi na Dhaka”, a call that told supporters of the 1971 Liberation War that they had no place in Bangladesh. Shot by unidentified assailants in Dhaka on December 12 and later dying in Singapore, his death was quickly transformed into a symbol, while his words and actions were quietly erased from public memory.

What followed was not collective grief, but carefully directed anger.

Under the banner of protest, organised groups set fire to the homes of Awami League ministers and political workers. Media institutions, including Prothom Alo, were attacked for continuing to report independently. In several parts of the country, Hindu families saw their homes vandalised. A 25-year-old man, Dipu Chandra Das, who was a factory worker in Mymensingh city, was killed and his body burned in public, an act meant not only to end a life, but to spread fear through an entire community.

Indian diplomatic premises were also deliberately targeted during the unrest, most notably the Assistant High Commission of India in Chittagong. Beginning on December 17 and continuing through December 18, 2025, extremist groups operating primarily under the banner of “July Oikya” (July Unity) launched coordinated attempts to target Indian diplomatic missions across multiple Bangladeshi cities. The geographical spread and near-simultaneity of these actions point unmistakably to organisation rather than coincidence, and to planned mobilisation rather than spontaneous public outrage. The Indian High Commission in Dhaka, the Assistant High Commissions in Rajshahi and Khulna, and most seriously the Assistant High Commission in Chittagong were all identified as targets, indicating a deliberate effort to internationalise domestic unrest and draw a foreign state into Bangladesh’s internal political turmoil.

Under the Vienna Convention on Consular Relations, diplomatic and consular premises are inviolable, and the host state bears a clear and non-derogable obligation to protect them from intrusion, damage, or disturbance, irrespective of internal instability. That these attacks occurred without effective prevention, immediate containment, or visible accountability represents a grave failure of state responsibility. Historically, assaults on diplomatic missions have often signalled a deeper erosion of legal order, as they demonstrate that boundaries once regarded as sacrosanct, both domestic and international, are no longer respected. Equally troubling was the silence and delay that marked the state response, fostering the perception of a permissive environment in which such extremist groups believed they could operate without consequence.

Such perceptions embolden further violence, weaken diplomatic norms, and inflict lasting damage on a country’s international standing. Ultimately, these attacks were not merely acts directed against India; they were acts against law itself, undermining the principle that even in moments of internal crisis, certain rules remain inviolable. In the context of Bangladesh’s ongoing turmoil, the targeting of Indian diplomatic missions marks a decisive escalation, demonstrating that the crisis has crossed from the realm of domestic politics into that of international obligation, where failure carries consequences not only for bilateral relations but for the credibility and legitimacy of the state itself.

At the centre of this moment stands Jamaat-e-Islami Bangladesh, which has now called for an “all-party meeting” in the name of a Janaza for Osman Hadi. This is not an act of mourning. It is a political gathering presented in religious language, designed to mobilise the street and claim moral authority. The goal is increasingly clear: to bypass elections and force a transfer of power through pressure, disorder, and fear.

The killing of Osman Hadi must therefore be seen not simply as an act of violence, but as a trigger within a larger design. Jamaat-e-Islami is fully aware that it lacks the public mandate to win the national elections scheduled for 12 February 2026. Destabilisation has become its substitute for democracy.

Behind these events lies an older conflict that Bangladesh has never fully resolved.

The country remains divided between two opposing ideas of itself. One is rooted in Bengali nationalism, the belief that Bangladesh was born from language, culture, pluralism, and the shared struggle of 1971. The other rejects this foundation. It draws from a Pakistani-Islamist political imagination, one that opposed independence, collaborated with the Pakistani Army, and never accepted the legitimacy of a secular Bengali nation.

The assassination of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was not only the killing of a leader; it was an attempt to break the moral spine of the new nation. What followed in later years was a gradual reshaping of identity, away from secularism and towards religious politics. The tensions visible today are part of that unfinished conflict.

For ordinary people, the cost is immediate and human: fear of speaking, fear of belonging, fear of being visible. When minorities are attacked, journalists silenced, and elected leaders forced out, democracy does not collapse all at once; it fades, leaving behind confusion and exhaustion. What Bangladesh is facing today is not a revolution. It is a struggle over memory, belonging, and legitimacy.

The question is no longer only who will govern, but what kind of country will remain.

From this moment begins the deeper contest: Bengali nationalism versus the politics of erasure!

In contemporary Bangladesh, society stands sharply divided into two irreconcilable political and ideological camps.

On one side stand those who believe in Bengali nationalism, the very idea that gave birth to Bangladesh in 1971. This vision is rooted in Bengali asmita, linguistic pride, cultural pluralism, secularism, and the historic struggle against domination by West Pakistan.

On the other side stand those who were always opposed to the formation of Bangladesh itself, those who rejected Bengali identity, resisted the liberation struggle, and sought to retain a Pakistani-Islamist political identity. These forces, historically known as Razakars, collaborated with the Pakistani Army during the 1971 Liberation War. They opposed India, which played a decisive role in Bangladesh’s independence, and they opposed Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the undisputed architect of the nation.

It is no historical accident that Bangabandhu was assassinated. The murder was not merely the killing of a leader, but the assassination of Bengali nationalism itself. The political trajectory that followed, particularly under Ziaur Rahman, marked a deliberate shift away from a secular, Bengali-nationalist Bangladesh towards a religiously radicalised, Pakistan-aligned political identity. The course of the nation was consciously altered.

Bengali Nationalism: A Shared Legacy with India

One cannot understand Bangladesh without recognising the central role of Bengali nationalism in the Indian freedom movement itself. East Bengal’s contribution to India’s anti-colonial struggle was immense. Of the 551 revolutionaries sentenced to imprisonment in Tihar Jail, 395 were Bengalis, and 178 of these Bengali Revolutionaries were from East Bengal alone. Bengali nationalism was never parochial; it was one of the ideological engines of South Asian anti-imperialism.

To deny Bengali nationalism today is therefore not just to betray Bangladesh, but to erase a foundational chapter of the subcontinent’s freedom history.

The 2024 Quota Agitation: Protest or Political Engineering?

Against this historical backdrop, the 2024 so-called “quota protest” must be examined critically.

The quota in question was meant for descendants of Mukti Joddhas, families of those who sacrificed their lives to liberate Bangladesh and to establish it as a sovereign Bengali nation. Opposition to this quota was not merely administrative dissent; it amounted to denying moral and historical recognition to the very people who built the nation.

When the protest turned violent, it became evident that this was no spontaneous student movement. Despite Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina rolling back the quota in response to student demands, the agitation did not stop. Instead, a new slogan emerged, “Dofa ek, dabi ek, Sheikh Hasinar Podotyag,” demanding Hasina’s resignation. This exposed the real objective: regime change, not reform!

Betrayal of Democracy and the Return of the Razakar Mindset

What followed was unprecedented. The Bangladesh Army’s failure to uphold constitutional order forced a democratically elected Prime Minister to flee. Power was transferred not through elections, but through invisible designers operating behind the curtain, installing a compliant interim authority. This moment marked the return of the Razakar mindset, not through tanks, but through manipulation, street violence, and institutional betrayal.

The exclusion of the Awami League, the party that led the liberation struggle, from participatory politics proves beyond doubt that these forces are hostile to the very idea of Bangladesh. By overthrowing Sheikh Hasina illegitimately, they demonstrated that they are no different from those who once conspired to kill Bangabandhu.

Anti-India Politics and the Assault on Minorities

Their politics has since followed a familiar and dangerous path:

• Systematic anti-India campaigns
• Severe violations of minority rights, especially against Hindus
• Normalisation of Islamist radical forces within the political ecosystem

Statements and activities attributed to Muhammad Yunus, ranging from overtures toward Pakistan, calls for “forgiveness” from Islamabad, controversial remarks concerning India’s Northeast, and the release of hardened Islamist elements, fit into a broader pattern: a gradual ideological return to Pakistan, the very state that sought to crush Bengali nationalism under the boot of military authoritarianism and radical Islam.

The Final Question

This brings us to the unavoidable question:

Is this the “revolution” the students were told to fight for?

Is this the democracy the so-called revolutionaries promised?

A democracy where elections are bypassed.

A revolution that erases the liberation legacy.

A movement that empowers those who once opposed the very birth of its nation, Bangladesh!

If Bengali nationalism is dismantled, if secularism is abandoned, if the Awami League is politically outlawed, and if minorities live in fear, then what remains is not a revolution, but a restoration of the extremist forces who were defeated in 1971.

And history tells us clearly: Those forces were never on the side of Bangladesh.

Who Was This Revolution For?

Bangladesh was born in blood, but also in hope. It was born from language, from songs sung in defiance, from students who chose death over silence, and from ordinary people who believed that dignity mattered more than fear. That history is not an abstraction—it lives in families, in memories, in mass graves, and in the quiet pride of a people who once stood up to overwhelming power and said no. What makes the present moment so painful is not only the violence or the political intrigue, but the sense of betrayal.

Today, homes are burned in the name of justice. Minorities are attacked in the name of faith. Journalists are silenced in the name of order. Elected leaders are removed in the name of reform. And all of this is presented as a “revolution”. But revolutions are meant to expand freedom, not narrow it. They are meant to protect the vulnerable, not make them targets. They are meant to honour history, not erase it.

For many ordinary Bangladeshis, fear has returned in familiar forms: fear of speaking, fear of being identified, fear of being on the wrong side of an invisible line. Democracy, when hollowed out this way, does not fall overnight. It fades, slowly, quietly, until people wake up one day and realise that what they lost was not only power, but trust.

And so the questions must be asked, honestly and without illusion.

Is this the future imagined by those who fought in 1971?

Is this the democracy promised to students who believed they were resisting injustice?

Is this reform, or simply the replacement of one form of exclusion with another?

Most unsettling of all: how did it come to pass that those who always opposed the birth of Bangladesh, those who rejected its language, its secular soul, its liberation, are now being entrusted with the task of “democratising” it?

How did the guardians of erasure become the arbiters of reform? How did the inheritors of the Razakar mindset re-enter the centre of power, not through force, but through applause, slogans, and strategic silence?

History is watching, even when crowds are loud, and memory is short. And history has taught Bangladesh one lesson again and again: when the foundations of 1971 are compromised, it is not only governments that fall, it is the idea of the nation itself that begins to fracture.

The final question, then, is not about who governs today.

It is this: who will be allowed to define Bangladesh tomorrow, and at what cost to its soul?