The state of Bangladesh was born from the highest ideals of the Liberation War. After independence, Father of the Nation Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman envisioned a democratic, non-communal, and humane society. However, that path of state-building did not progress far.
The assassination of Bangabandhu and his family on August 15, 1975, marked the beginning of a state conspiracy, which effectively sounded the death knell for tolerance and humane politics in the country. Immediately following the killings, the constitution was amended, opponents of the Liberation War were rehabilitated, and military authoritarianism rose.
As a result, politics became centred on revenge, conspiracy, and the elimination of rivals.
In the first few years after independence, political disagreements existed, but Bangabandhu would sit at the table with his opponents and confront them with reasoned debate. After his assassination, the new rulers no longer recognized dissenting views as part of the state. Prohibition, repression, and the politics of persecution began.
The activities of the Awami League were suspended, many leaders and activists were imprisoned, while anti-Liberation War elements, Jamaat leaders, and pro-Pakistan supporters were reintegrated into politics. This reversal gradually eroded tolerance in society.
During the development of democracy in eighteenth-century Europe, it was repeatedly emphasized: “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” In other words, democracy thrives on the acceptance of dissent. In Bangladesh, however, after 1975, the dominant political mindset became: “You hold a differing opinion; therefore, you must be eliminated.” This mentality slowly spread across all political parties.
Even though movements against military rule emerged in the 1970s and 1980s, there was little scope for practising a democratic culture. From Ziaur Rahman to Ershad, rulers used the army, police, and intelligence agencies to suppress dissent.
Strikes, protests, and violent clashes became the language of the movements. Opponents were increasingly seen as “enemies.” The political tradition founded on popular solidarity during the Liberation War gradually shifted to one based on revenge and vindictiveness.
Although the mass uprising of the 1990s toppled Ershad, the tolerant, democratic culture that should have developed in society did not materialize. Instead, the rivalry between the Awami League and BNP took on the character of hostility. Boycotting parliament, elections, and street occupations all became tactics for destroying opponents. Whichever party came to power sought to weaken and suppress the other. In this way, the politics of revenge became entrenched in society.
It is important to understand this long historical backdrop, because the recent incidents—such as shoes being thrown at images of Bangabandhu, Sheikh Hasina, or artists—are not merely spontaneous expressions of emotion.
They are, in fact, a reflection of the long-standing culture of vindictive politics that has been imparted to every generation since 1975: the opposition is not to be defeated through reasoned argument, but humiliated and destroyed.
In this way, the culture of tolerance within society has also eroded alongside politics. Holding a differing political view now equates to enmity, and showing respect for someone is seen as “siding with the other”—a mindset that has become institutionalized.
The culture of revenge that became evident in politics after 1975 did not remain confined to parliamentary politics or the struggle for power. Gradually, this tendency spread into cultural arenas, educational institutions, and the world of sports—spaces that should have been open to free thought, the beauty of diversity, and creative freedom.
Immediately after independence, artists, writers, and intellectuals primarily aligned with the ideals of the Liberation War. Their work fostered a sense of nationalism, non-communalism, and the dream of independence. However, after Bangabandhu’s assassination, efforts began to undermine this tradition.
Anti-Liberation War elements were rehabilitated, and attempts were made to marginalize pro-Liberation War voices in literary and cultural spaces. During Ershad’s military rule in the 1980s, artists and writers continued to take part in movements, but many fell victim to state repression and the patronage of the military government.
When democracy returned, there was an expectation that cultural spaces would be free from partisan influence. The reality was the opposite. Both the Awami League and BNP turned the cultural arena into a space for asserting their political influence.
Artist associations, writers’ unions, and journalists’ organizations all became arenas of conflict based on party allegiance. Artists and writers were judged not on their talent or creativity, but on whether they were perceived as aligned with the Awami League or the BNP.
The world of sports was no exception. Cricket boards, football federations, and other sports organizations became politicized, with those close to the party in power taking control. As a result, merit and skill became secondary to political loyalty. This process has at times placed even stars like Shakib Al Hasan and other athletes in difficult situations.
The most unfortunate aspect of the cultural arena is that it should have been a space of national unity, but it has instead become a ground for division. An artist who showed respect for Bangabandhu is suddenly labelled an “Awami artist.”
Someone who criticizes Sheikh Hasina is marked as belonging to the BNP or the opposition. In this way, it is not the individual’s art or creativity that is measured, but their political opinion or personal social media posts.
As a result, an atmosphere of fear has taken hold in society. Many no longer wish to express their opinions openly, knowing that even a small gesture of respect could see their image featured tomorrow on a banner for shoe-throwing. This fear is, in fact, destroying our culture.
The recent incidents—throwing shoes at images of Bangabandhu, Sheikh Hasina, as well as Shakib Al Hasan, Jaya Ahsan, Shampa Reza, and Shakib Khan—are an outward expression of this long process.
Political hatred is now ravaging the body of art and culture. Yet all of these individuals are fundamentally artists, whose work brings people together and draws them towards beauty. Even they are being dragged into the mud of revenge.
The partisanization of the cultural sphere harms not only artists and writers but also gradually erodes the taste and humanity of society as a whole. If society judges an artist not as an artist but solely by their political affiliation, there is no room left for creativity. Only hatred, division, and vindictiveness remain. This is the consequence of the long-standing practice of political vengeance, whose roots have deeply penetrated our society.
This incident occurred in the context of Bangabandhu’s death anniversary, August 15. Remembering a national leader who gave his life for the country is entirely natural. In any other country, the founding leader or national hero is commemorated both socially and officially—whether George Washington in the United States, Mahatma Gandhi in India, or Nelson Mandela in South Africa.
There is never controversy over showing respect on their birth or death anniversaries. But in Bangladesh, the situation around Bangabandhu is entirely different. Simply commemorating him becomes a trigger for political division.
If someone honours Bangabandhu, they are considered part of the “enemy camp.” Likewise, if someone criticizes Sheikh Hasina, they are easily labelled “anti-state” or “conspirators” by others.
In other words, both sides seek to destroy their opponents psychologically and socially.
As a result, in a society where people should take pride in the Liberation War, Bangabandhu, or the spirit of democracy, these very symbols have today become sources of hatred and animosity. History is no longer viewed impartially.
To some, Bangabandhu is merely a symbol of the Awami League; to others, even mentioning his name is considered a crime. The truth, however, is that he is the founder of Bangladesh, and remembering him is the responsibility of both the state and society. His contributions can be debated and criticized, but turning commemoration into an offence is simply a manifestation of intolerance.
This situation sends us two major signals.
First, tolerance in politics has nearly vanished. Expressing an opinion now equates to “I am your enemy”—this notion dominates.
Second, the fields of art, culture, and education are being engulfed by the same divisions, further destabilizing society.
This incident highlights a stark reality: we have only learned the politics of destroying opponents, not the politics of coexistence.
First, we must remember that debate, criticism, and disagreement are the very beauty of democracy. Remembering Bangabandhu does not mean blindly supporting the Awami League; similarly, criticizing Sheikh Hasina does not mean opposing the state. The younger generation must be taught and encouraged to understand these fundamental truths.
Second, art, culture, and sports must be freed from partisanship. If an artist sings, acts, or makes films, they should be recognized solely as an artist—not labelled politically.
Third, educational institutions must teach debate through reason, not humiliation. If students come to see shoe-throwing as a form of protest, they will grow up practising only hatred. It is therefore essential to foster an environment of tolerance, compromise, and rational discussion in universities and colleges.
Fourth, young people must be taught history in its entirety. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman is a central figure in the history of independence; this is an undeniable truth. At the same time, his political life, including controversies and criticisms, can and should be discussed—but always through dialogue, not insult or distortion.
If the younger generation chooses tolerance over hatred, the future of Bangladesh will be a civilized, rational, and humane society. If they continue the politics of insulting opponents, as is happening today, we will move towards an even more divided and fractured society.
The future, therefore, lies in the hands of the youth. They will decide whether to perpetuate the politics of hatred or to build a new culture of respect and coexistence.
