Reassess the ballot before making a choice

History often grants political movements a narrow window after upheaval—a brief interregnum in which restraint, moral clarity, and institutional responsibility can convert popular anger into democratic renewal. Bangladesh’s July Revolution promised such a moment. Yet what has unfolded in its aftermath, particularly across campuses, neighborhoods, and rural power centers, suggests a far darker trajectory. The incidents emerging from Dhaka to Magura to Laxmipur are not isolated crimes; they are symptomatic of a political culture reverting to coercion, predation, and organized violence. At the center of this disturbing pattern stands the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) and its affiliated wings—Chhatra Dal and Jubo Dal—whose post-revolution conduct raises urgent questions about the country’s democratic future ahead of the February 12, 2026 elections.

This is not an argument built on rumor or partisan anxiety. It is grounded in a growing body of incidents that, taken together, outline a coherent—if deeply troubling—political method. From lethal campus clashes over control and illicit economies, to factional bloodshed over local dominance, to urban murders allegedly linked to extortion and protection rackets, the pattern is unmistakable. What is being practiced is not opposition politics; it is power acquisition through fear.

The death of Higher Secondary School student Sakibul Hasan Rana is emblematic of a broader collapse of student politics into organized violence. Rana did not die in a street protest or a clash with state forces. He died after four days in intensive care following a brutal confrontation between rival groups of Chhatra Dal inside the Tejgaon College hostel—reportedly over control, influence, and access to drugs. This detail matters. Student wings historically claim to represent ideological struggle or democratic mobilization. What transpired at Tejgaon College was neither. It was a violent dispute over informal economies and territorial dominance, conducted inside an educational institution meant to safeguard young lives. Rana, a student of the science department in his first academic session, became collateral damage in a power struggle that had nothing to do with education or dissent.

The allegations emerging from fellow students are even more alarming. They describe a climate of intimidation in which ordinary students are silenced through threats, smear campaigns on social media, and fear of physical reprisal. Hostel spaces—traditionally sites of learning and debate—are portrayed as zones controlled by politically connected enforcers, where outsiders allegedly gain residence through patronage networks, and illicit activities flourish under protection. Even more revealing are claims that figures now exercising authority within Chhatra Dal were previously associated with the banned Chhatra League, suggesting that ideology is incidental, while control is paramount. The political label changes; the method remains. This continuity of coercive campus politics undermines any claim that the post-July order represents moral renewal.

If campuses reveal the future generation being brutalized, rural Bangladesh reveals how old habits of domination have returned with vengeance. In Ramnagar village of Magura’s Hazrapur union, what began as a contest for local influence within BNP ranks escalated into lethal violence. Azizul Islam, caught in the crossfire of rival BNP factions, succumbed to his injuries while being transferred for advanced treatment. His death triggered further clashes, leaving at least 50 people injured and necessitating police intervention.

This was not a spontaneous eruption of anger. According to accounts from the area, the conflict stemmed from an earlier confrontation over expanding political dominance between supporters of local BNP leaders. In other words, it was a struggle over who would control the territory—its loyalties, resources, and rents. That such disputes are settled not through party mechanisms or law, but through machetes and mass brawls, speaks volumes about the internal culture of the organization.

The state’s response—deploying police and arresting a handful of individuals—treats the symptoms, not the disease. The deeper issue is the normalization of violence as a means of internal arbitration. When a party cannot regulate its own cadres, it cannot credibly promise to govern a nation of 170 million.

The violence is not confined to campuses or villages. In Mohammadpur, one of Dhaka’s densely populated neighborhoods, CCTV footage captured a chillingly efficient murder. A group of armed assailants moved swiftly toward a small tea shop, attacked Abul Kashem and his son Billal Hossain Babu, and fled within minutes. Babu died while attempting to protect his father; Kashem remains critically injured.

The family’s account points to a motive that has become depressingly familiar: extortion. The mother of the deceased alleges that the attack was retaliation for demanding the return of stolen money, and she names local Jubo Dal figures among those responsible. Whether the courts ultimately confirm these allegations is for the justice system to decide. But the pattern—demands for money, threats, prior attacks, and brutal enforcement—mirrors classic protection-racket dynamics. When political identities become shields for criminal enterprise, democracy erodes from within. The line between party activist and organized criminal blurs, and ordinary citizens are forced into silence or submission. The fear is not abstract; it is etched into neighborhoods where CCTV cameras record killings as if they were routine transactions.

Perhaps the most revealing aspect of these incidents is not their brutality, but their predictability. They follow a logic long familiar in South Asian politics: seize space quickly after political transition, establish dominance through fear, monetize control through extortion and informal markets, and neutralize dissent—whether from rival factions or civilians—through exemplary violence.

The murder of a BNP worker in Ramganj, Laxmipur, allegedly over unpaid ransom demanded by a Jubo Dal figure, further underscores this logic. Here, loyalty offers no protection; the machinery of coercion consumes even its own. Violence becomes self-perpetuating, feeding on internal rivalries as much as on civilian vulnerability.

This is not the behavior of a party preparing to govern through consent. It is the behavior of an organization rehearsing control.

The July Revolution raised hopes that Bangladesh might finally break from cycles of authoritarianism, patronage, and bloodshed. In theory, it created an opening for opposition forces to demonstrate restraint, discipline, and a commitment to institutional politics. In practice, the opposite appears to have occurred.

The incidents described above are not exhaustive. They are fragments of a much larger mosaic—hundreds of cases, across districts and sectors, that collectively suggest a strategic drift toward violence as political currency. The BNP’s defenders may argue that these are aberrations, or the actions of rogue elements. But when aberrations repeat with such frequency, they cease to be anomalies. They become structure.

This matters profoundly as Bangladesh approaches the 2026 general election. Elections are not merely contests of numbers; they are judgments of character and capacity. Voters are not only choosing who will win, but how power will be exercised the day after.

The central question facing Bangladeshi voters is stark: does the BNP’s current trajectory inspire confidence in democratic stewardship, or does it warn of a return to a politics where force substitutes for legitimacy?

A party that cannot prevent its student wing from turning hostels into battlegrounds cannot credibly promise campus reform. A party that cannot contain factional bloodshed cannot ensure local governance. A party whose affiliated activists are repeatedly accused of extortion and murder cannot claim to represent rule of law. This is not a call to political apathy. It is a call to political discernment. Democracies do not collapse only through coups; they erode when voters normalize violence as an acceptable prelude to power. The February 12, 2026 election will not simply determine who occupies office. It will signal whether Bangladesh endorses a future governed by institutions—or resigns itself to cycles of fear, coercion, and bloodshed repackaged as opposition politics.

Bangladesh stands at a crossroads where memory must inform choice. The deaths of students like Sakibul Hasan Rana, the bloodshed in Magura’s villages, the terror in Mohammadpur’s alleys, and the killings in Laxmipur are not disconnected tragedies. They are warnings.

Voting is not an endorsement of rhetoric; it is an endorsement of behavior. Based on the trajectory now visible, the BNP’s post-July conduct reflects a politics of killings, extortion, smuggling, and systematic intimidation—one that threatens to replace one form of authoritarianism with another, less centralized but equally violent.

For a nation that has already paid too high a price for political violence, the imperative is clear: do not reward the politics of fear with the power of the ballot. Democracy demands more than opposition; it demands responsibility. And responsibility, at this moment, requires saying no to the Bangladesh Nationalist Party.

Rifat Hasnat is a writer and columnist. His expertise extends to Bangladesh Studies, as well as the diverse perspective of Bangladesh's economy and human rights