BETWEEN UNIFORMS AND WORDS: Struggle for democratic soul, shaped by 1971
Abdul Monaiem Kudrot Ullah 26 March, 2025, 00:00
NINETEEN seventy-one arrived, not as a year, but as a violation, a savage tear in the thin skin of what we dared call life. I was a child, a splinter of a being, four years old, yet the tremors of that brutal rending still reverberate in the hollow spaces of my bones. They call it the Liberation War, a tidy phrase for a messy, monstrous thing. It was the air we choked on, thick with terror, the acrid smoke of burning homes a permanent, poisonous bloom on the horizon. Not history, then, but the raw, weeping present, the very earth beneath our feet, stained and violated.
Before the bloodletting, whispers of hope, fragile as spun glass. A child asks a beggar for forgiveness for not offering alms and she replies, ‘Baba ar koydeen deo – Sheikh re vote diyechi- se Pindi theke taka ene khaobe (wait, child, a little longer. I voted for Sheikh. He will bring money from Pindi and we will eat).’ But the fools of Pindi, blinded by their own arrogance, unleashed ‘Operation Searchlight,’ a grotesque parody of illumination, a festival of butchery on the night of March 25. Earlier, the whispers of betrayal, Brigadier Majumdar’s warnings to Sheikh Mujib, about the orders to spy on Bengali officers and the plan to prevent the Awami League from forming government, were ignored. Mujib, confident, believing in the hollow promises of Yahya. But the young majors, the soldiers, they knew. Ziaur Rahman’s defiant roar, ‘We revolt,’ a crack in the carefully constructed facade of power.
The flood came first, a rehearsal for drowning, water swallowing villages, leaving us adrift in the wreckage. Then, the exodus, a river of broken humanity, flowing past our doorstep, carrying their meager lives, their children, their ghosts. Their faces, masks of fear, became the cartography of my nightmares.
Violence, a constant, a low, throbbing hum beneath the surface. The Pakistani Army, those predators in uniform, turning our land into a slaughterhouse. Yet, even in this wasteland, a fierce bloom of defiance. Kushtia, a word spat out with venomous pride, where the people, against all odds, pushed back. Major Abu Usman Chowdhury and his ragged army, a defiant fist raised against the storm. Their victory, a spark in the darkness, a refusal to be extinguished.
Guerrilla fighters, shadows in the paddy fields, their lives a precarious dance with death. Their struggle, not just for land, but for the very right to breathe, to exist, to be.
But freedom, that treacherous illusion, revealed its true face. Even after the enemy was driven out, the hunters remained. The Rakkhi Bahini, those newly anointed guardians, turned their guns on the very people they were sworn to protect. The government, drunk on its own power, became the very oppressor it had overthrown. Extrajudicial killings, political purges, the stench of corruption — the ideals of liberation, a beautiful lie, shattered and defiled.
And so, new rebellions sprouted in the shadows. The Raat Party, the Naxals, phantoms in the night, rejecting the hollow promises of the post-colonial state. Their resistance, met with the iron fist of authority — curfews, crackdowns, the crushing of dissent. Even our cultural expressions, the vibrant Jatra, the defiant Lathi Khela, became acts of rebellion, a refusal to be silenced. Mujib, the once-idolised leader, plunged into the abyss of unpopularity, after 1973 his party unable to win a single parliamentary seat in the Greater Kushtia until the dubious victory of 2008.
Disillusionment, a poison seeping into the soul of the nation. The rise of false freedom fighters, those scavengers who profited from the sacrifices of others, eroded the last vestiges of trust. Modernisation, a seductive lie, bringing new forms of displacement, new anxieties. Migration, shifting religious practices — reflections of a society adrift, searching for meaning in a world turned upside down.
The war had ended, but the battle for justice, for true liberation, had only just begun. The wounds remained, festering, a testament to the enduring struggle against the forces that sought to control our lives, our minds, our very souls.
As Bangladesh commemorates another Independence Day, it is necessary to analyse the complex relationship between military leadership, political authority and intellectual critique — an interplay that has shaped the nation’s trajectory. Figures like MAG Osmani, Ziaur Rahman, KM Shafiullah and Khaled Mosharraf illustrate the military’s foundational role in state-building, yet history consistently reveals the structural tensions inherent in such transitions. The military, by its very nature, is an institution built on hierarchy, discipline and decisive action, while democratic governance demands negotiation, accountability and ideological pluralism. This fundamental disconnect has fuelled not only political instability but also persistent scrutiny from the intelligentsia and the press. Where civilian institutions are weak or ineffective, military actors inevitably fill the vacuum. In Bangladesh, as in other post-colonial states, military intervention has often been less a product of institutional ambition than of political disorder and administrative failure.
Despite this, the press and intellectual elite often portray military involvement as an inherent threat to democracy, reducing complex civil-military dynamics to overly simplistic narratives of authoritarianism. Paradoxically, while successive political regimes — particularly those led by the Awami League — have subjected journalists and intellectuals to censorship, surveillance and repression, these same groups have largely remained sympathetic to the party while adopting an overtly critical stance toward the military. The reasons for this asymmetry remain unclear, yet its effect is undeniable: a lopsided discourse in which the military is scrutinised relentlessly, while civilian leadership evades equivalent accountability.
Constructive critique of military influence is essential for democratic governance. However, when scepticism becomes indiscriminate or ideologically driven, it fosters a deepening mistrust that erodes national cohesion. The military’s role in governance warrants examination, but such analysis must acknowledge the structural deficiencies in civilian leadership that have, at times, necessitated its intervention. The real challenge, therefore, is twofold: to professionalise the armed forces while simultaneously strengthening civilian institutions, ensuring they are capable of governing effectively. Only then can the conditions that enable military involvement in politics be truly eliminated.
During Bangladesh’s 1971 Liberation War, the bifurcation of military command and civilian governance was not incidental but structurally imperative. General MAG Osmani’s leadership of the Mukti Bahini functioned within the broader strategic framework established by Tajuddin Ahmad’s Mujibnagar Government, which secured both political legitimacy and essential international alliances. This arrangement conformed to the classical model of civil-military cooperation in revolutionary conflicts: while the armed forces executed tactical operations, the political leadership ensured diplomatic recognition and resource mobilisation. Yet, as history has demonstrated, wartime unity does not necessarily translate into post-war stability.
The immediate post-independence period exposed the fragility of Bangladesh’s civil-military equilibrium. The military, having temporarily submitted to civilian authority, grew resentful as political leaders interfered directly in command structures rather than adhering to formal chains of command. Irregular recruitment practices, the siphoning of war booties by Indian troops and the allocation of material privileges — including basic cantonment supplies — fuelled discontent within the officer corps and rank-and-file soldiers alike. The preferential treatment granted to the Rakkhi Bahini, a paramilitary force loyal to the ruling regime, further exacerbated tensions, fostering perceptions of political favouritism and institutional marginalisation.
In the years following independence, Bangladesh faced the classical dilemma of post-revolutionary states: the consolidation of authority amidst factionalism, personalist rule and institutional underdevelopment. The administration of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, though emblematic of the nation’s hard-won sovereignty, struggled to impose a cohesive state order. Factionalism within the political class and competing centres of power within the military eroded cohesion, while a political culture of entitlement undermined institutional discipline. The assassination of Mujib in 1975 was not an isolated act of political violence but a structural rupture — one that signified the unravelling of the post-war political order and the reassertion of military interventionism. What followed was a cyclical pattern of coups and counter-coups, characteristic of states where civilian institutions fail to institutionalise control over the military.
Amid this turbulence, Ziaur Rahman emerged as the architect of a new political order, one that sought to integrate military authority with civilian governance. Unlike many military rulers who prioritise the suppression of political opposition, Zia’s early years were characterised by a focus on restoring discipline within the armed forces, recognising that the stability of the state was inextricably linked to the cohesion of its military. Having consolidated power, Zia transitioned from military command to civilian leadership, founding a political party that remains one of the dominant forces in Bangladeshi politics today. His military successor, Hussain Muhammad Ershad, refined the mechanisms of military governance, operating under a civilian guise while ensuring that the military retained its institutional primacy in national affairs.
The pattern of military involvement in governance is neither unique to Bangladesh nor an aberration in post-colonial political development. Across South Asia, Africa and Latin America, military elites have often assumed the reins of power, legitimising their rule under the pretext of stability and national security. Pakistan institutionalised military dominance through successive regimes led by Ayub Khan, Zia-ul-Haq and Pervez Musharraf, ensuring that civilian governance remained subordinate to military oversight. In Myanmar, the armed forces have never relinquished their grip on the state, demonstrating the enduring capacity of military institutions to dictate political trajectories. Similarly, Latin American regimes under figures such as Jorge Videla in Argentina and Augusto Pinochet in Chile transformed governance into an extension of military doctrine, enforcing order through authoritarian rule while suppressing democratic participation.
Yet, Bangladesh presents a distinct variation of this paradigm. As observed by my boss Colonel Corey of the US Army, during my tenure as staff officer in the Civil-Military Liaison Section of UNMIL in 2005, the nature of military hierarchy in Bangladesh differs from that of Pakistan. Whereas the latter exhibits a rigid, master-subordinate dynamic, the Bangladeshi military operates under a framework of fraternal camaraderie and institutional loyalty. This distinction is crucial in understanding why Bangladesh has oscillated between civilian and military rule without permanently succumbing to direct military governance. While the armed forces no longer govern overtly, their influence pervades economic enterprises, intelligence operations and political decision-making. The 2007-2008 interregnum, characterised by the ‘1/11’ episode and the subsequent military-backed caretaker government, served to demonstrably assert the military’s institutional supremacy and its perceived legitimacy in the conduct of state affairs. This period functioned as a stark manifestation of the military's capacity to intervene decisively within the political sphere, reinforcing its position as a critical, if not dominant, actor. Conversely, the 2009 Pilkhana mutiny, a violent and disruptive event, revealed the inherent fragility of the military's internal cohesion and exposed the enduring challenges to harmonious civil-military relations. This episode highlighted the latent tensions that persist within the state’s power structure, underscoring the delicate and often contentious dynamics that govern the interactions between the civilian and military domains. These events, taken together, illustrate the cyclical nature of civil-military relations, oscillating between assertions of military dominance and the revelation of its vulnerabilities, thereby shaping the ongoing evolution of political power within Bangladesh.
Deposed Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina has engineered a model of authoritarian governance that, while ostensibly civilian, relies on the militarisation of key state institutions. The security apparatus, law enforcement agencies and intelligence services function as enforcers of executive authority rather than neutral instruments of state policy. The media, long regarded as a critical check on power, operates under constraints that oscillate between reverence and subjugation. Investigative scrutiny into government affairs is met with reprisal, reinforcing the opacity of governance and diminishing the scope of public accountability. Intellectual discourse, once vibrant in publications such as the ‘weekly holiday,’ has largely succumbed to political pressures, with dissenting voices marginalized or co-opted by the state.
The paradox of civil-military relations in Bangladesh lies in the populace’s simultaneous rejection of military rule and reliance on military intervention to safeguard democratic processes. The successive electoral manipulations of recent years have heightened public expectations for the military to assume a decisive role in ensuring electoral integrity. Yet, historical precedent suggests that military involvement in governance rarely remains confined to transitional oversight. The very logic of military professionalism — discipline, hierarchy and command — stands in fundamental opposition to the participatory and pluralistic imperatives of democratic governance. Stability, the professed objective of military-led regimes, ultimately proves illusory when confronted with the contradictions of political rule.
The persistent allure of military leadership, deeply rooted in colonial legacies and perpetuated by cycles of political instability, continues to shape governance in developing nations. However, history reveals that military regimes, despite their initial promises of stability, inevitably face the inherent limitations of authoritarian rule. From Dhaka to Islamabad, Santiago to Naypyidaw, the lesson is clear: once the military gains control of governance, it seldom relinquishes power without significant political resistance. The challenge for Bangladesh, as with other nations navigating the civil-military divide, is to establish mechanisms that ensure military professionalism while maintaining civilian supremacy — a balance that remains delicate in the country's evolving political landscape.
Bangladesh’s experience is not just a historical account; it serves as a cautionary tale of civil-military relations in a developing democracy. The struggle between civilian authority and military power unfolds across institutions, the media and the hidden corridors of governance. Democracies, though imperfect, must stay vigilant, as the military’s influence, often subtle, remains a constant factor in statecraft. The barracks may appear distant from the political arena, yet the shadow of military influence persists, highlighting the ongoing challenge of democratic consolidation.
Samuel P Huntington’s framework of ‘objective civilian control’ provides a critical lens through which to assess Bangladesh’s civil-military dynamics. In The Soldier and the State (1957), Huntington argued that civilian supremacy over the military is best ensured through the latter’s professionalization — restricting the armed forces to matters of national defence rather than political intervention. ‘Subjective control,’ reliant on legal and institutional constraints, often proves inadequate in states lacking entrenched democratic traditions. Bangladesh’s historical trajectory demonstrates this failure, as weak professional norms within the military have enabled recurrent political interventions.
The civil-military dynamic in Bangladesh has been deeply influenced by its intellectual landscape, reflecting the broader contest between authority and dissent. During the transitions between military and civilian rule in the 1980s and 1990s, intellectuals, journalists and civil society actors sought to challenge military influence, exposing concerns related to governance, corruption and human rights. In response, military-backed regimes employed censorship, surveillance and strategic co-optation to maintain control, reinforcing the enduring primacy of the armed forces in shaping political discourse. However, civilian governments proved no less intolerant of opposition. Elected regimes systematically suppressed dissent, consolidating power through patronage networks and political favouritism. Of all Bangladesh’s rulers, Ziaur Rahman alone attempted to structure governance on principles of meritocracy, while successive civilian administrations were mired in nepotism and cronyism. Under the recently deposed Awami League government, the state has evolved into a centralised political fiefdom, where institutional autonomy is subordinated to partisan imperatives, further entrenching executive dominance over the political order.
Talukdar Moniruzzaman’s analysis of post-colonial states offers another perspective on Bangladesh’s civil-military relations. He posits that the military’s interventionist tendencies stem from its colonial origins. The British Indian Army was structured to maintain imperial control rather than function as a professionalized national defence force under civilian oversight. This institutional legacy persisted post-independence, fostering an interventionist and anti-democratic orientation within Bangladesh’s armed forces.
Moniruzzaman contends that the military’s self-perception as the ‘guardian of the state’ is a direct product of this colonial inheritance. This mindset has justified successive interventions in governance, from the coups of the 1970s and 1980s to the military-backed caretaker government of 2007–2008. The pattern is consistent with other post-colonial experiences, particularly in Pakistan, where the military sees itself as the ultimate arbiter of national stability, shaping both domestic and foreign policy.
Huntington’s 1961 article, Inter-service Competition and the Political Roles of the Armed Services, highlights another dimension of Bangladesh’s civil-military dynamic — the absence of meaningful inter-service rivalry. In many states, competition between military branches acts as an internal check on political intervention. However, in Bangladesh, the Army has historically dominated national security policymaking, with the Navy and Air Force relegated to secondary roles. Unlike in Latin America or the Philippines, where inter-service competition occasionally tempered military juntas, Bangladesh’s hierarchical structure has facilitated the Army’s preeminence in governance.
This dominance is further reinforced through budgetary control, promotion mechanisms and institutional appointments. The Navy and Air Force, while crucial in regional security and modernisation, have remained largely disengaged from political affairs, enabling the Army’s consolidation of influence with minimal internal resistance.
The experiences of Latin America and the Philippines provide instructive parallels. In these regions, regimes have historically instrumentalised the military for political gain, often prioritising loyalty over meritocracy. Three key trends emerge:
Patronage and political favouritism: Argentina, Brazil and Chile saw military regimes promoting officers based on ideological loyalty rather than competence.
Weakening institutional cohesion: Venezuela’s Hugo Chávez purged military officers opposed to his socialist policies, undermining operational effectiveness.
Parallel military structures: Nicaragua’s Sandinista regime developed party-loyal militias to counterbalance regular armed forces.
Bangladesh exhibits elements of all three trends. Political leadership has frequently appointed military personnel based on personal loyalty rather than professional criteria. Institutional cohesion has been strained during political transitions, with divisions within the armed forces becoming apparent. Additionally, paramilitary units like the Rapid Action Battalion function as quasi-military forces under direct executive control, circumventing traditional military oversight.
Both Huntington and Moniruzzaman emphasise the need for clear civil-military boundaries to sustain democratic governance. Three critical reforms emerge from their analyses:
Professionalization of military: The armed forces must prioritise defence expertise over political engagement through merit-based promotions and depoliticised military education.
Strengthening civilian institutions: Effective governance requires robust civilian institutions, including an independent judiciary, transparent electoral mechanisms and a vibrant civil society.
A graffitto on a wall in Dhaka. Sony Ramany
Balancing inter-service influence: Greater parity between the Army, Navy and Air Force could prevent any single branch from monopolising national security policymaking.
Although direct military rule has receded, its indirect influence remains embedded in governance, media control and economic enterprises. The trajectory of Bangladesh’s civil-military relations will depend on its capacity to professionalise the armed forces, insulate democratic institutions from military influence and foster an environment where civilian authority is unequivocally established.
The legacy of 1971 serves as a reminder that sovereignty is not merely a function of territorial independence but also of democratic stability. Ensuring a professional, apolitical military remains one of the final frontiers in Bangladesh’s journey toward a consolidated democracy.
The uneasy waltz between the military and the intellectual class in Bangladesh is neither new nor unique. It is an old, tired script, rewritten with each passing regime, stained with the same ink of suspicion, censorship and fear. The military, draped in the garb of national security, sees dissent as an infection, something to be excised before it spreads. The intellectuals — writers, poets, professors, truth-tellers — believe that questioning authority is not a crime but a duty. And so, the country sways between these forces, between the clenched fist of order and the restless pulse of resistance.
The ghosts of 1971 still linger in the corridors of power, whispering their unfinished business. Once, there was a moment — a flickering, fragile moment — when civilian leadership and military command found a way to coexist. Tajuddin Ahmad and General Osmani stood on the same side of history, their alliance driven by the urgent need to birth a nation. But that moment passed, drowned in the din of power struggles and ideological betrayals. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman failed to carve out a truly professional military, distracted by the hubris of political absolutism. Ziaur Rahman, once a soldier, became a politician and in doing so, blurred the very boundaries that should have remained sacrosanct. What followed was predictable: political opportunism, military adventurism; and a system that allowed power to slip through the cracks of institutions into the hands of individuals who bent the rules to suit their own ambitions.
The intellectuals who dared to speak up were silenced. Some with bribes, others with bullets. Surveillance became a shadow, always lurking, always watching. Censorship crept in, not just in the obvious places — the newspapers, the universities — but in the very minds of the people. When fear seeps into thought itself, when self-censorship becomes survival, what remains of freedom?
Bangladesh is not alone in this. History has shown us that military intervention in politics is not an anomaly; it is a recurring affliction. Latin America knows it. The Philippines knows it. Each coup, each declaration of emergency, each whisper of ‘national security’ is just another way to rewrite the social contract without the consent of the governed. The theory — Huntington’s ‘objective civilian control,’ Moniruzzaman’s historical determinism — tells us that a professional military and political neutrality are the ideals. But the reality is messier. The military does not exist in a vacuum; it is shaped by the very power structures it is meant to serve. And when those structures are corrupt, compromised and brittle, the military becomes both the enforcer and the usurper.
What, then, is the way forward? The answer is neither romantic nor simple. It is a slow, stubborn resistance against the erosion of democracy, an insistence that power belongs not to men in uniforms or men in tailored suits but to the people. A system must be built — not just on paper, not just in speeches, but in practice — where institutions matter more than individuals, where laws cannot be bent for convenience, where dissent is not a punishable offense but a necessary force.
And, the intellectuals? They must remain, despite everything. They must write, must speak, must challenge, even as the walls close in. Because without them, the story is told only by those in power and power is not in the business of telling the truth.
For Bangladesh to become the democracy it aspires to be, sovereignty must mean more than guarding its borders. It must mean guarding its ideas, its voices, its freedom to dream beyond the confines of political expediency and military oversight. It must mean that democracy is not a performance, but a practice. Only then will the country move beyond the cycles of suppression and survival toward something resembling true freedom.
Abdul Monaiem Kudrot Ullah is a retired Captain of Bangladesh Navy.
Bangladesh Defense
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