Veteran Bangladeshi journalist Masuda Bhatti has unleashed a torrent of criticism in a scathing video analysis released from her exile against the country’s entrenched political culture, which she argues has paved the way for the triumphant return of Tarique Rahman, the son of former Prime Minister Khaleda Zia and a figure she brands as a “convicted mafia lord.”
Bhatti, known for her fearless reporting during decades of political turmoil, dissects the interim government’s facilitation of Tarique Rahman’s homecoming, portraying it as a symptom of a deeper malaise: a system where power trumps justice, convictions are fleeting, and historical biases perpetuate inequality.
Bhatti, who fled Bangladesh amid threats following the 2024 July uprising that ousted Sheikh Hasina’s Awami League government, frames her commentary as a wake-up call to the nation. “Cases are all false, sahib. Cases are all false—not really, it’s just a matter of time,” she begins, her voice laced with sarcasm and frustration.
She argues that in Bangladesh’s volatile political landscape, judicial convictions are mere tools of the moment, easily discarded when the winds of power shift. Those sentenced to life imprisonment today, she says, emerge as national leaders tomorrow, ready to reclaim the throne. This, Bhatti contends, is the hallmark of a political culture rotten to its core, where accountability is sacrificed at the altar of expediency.
At the heart of Bhatti’s analysis is Tarique Rahman’s dramatic return to Bangladesh earlier this month, after years in self-imposed exile in London. Tarique Rahman, the acting chairperson of the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP), had been convicted in absentia on multiple charges, including corruption, money laundering, and involvement in the infamous 2004 grenade attack on an Awami League rally that killed 24 people and injured over 500, including Sheikh Hasina.
Bhatti reminds viewers of Tarique Rahman’s self-confessed corruption in a 2007 affidavit during the military-backed caretaker government, where he admitted to amassing wealth through illicit means. Yet, under the interim administration led by Nobel laureate Muhammad Yunus, all barriers to his return were swiftly removed. “Dr. Muhammad Yunus’s interim government has arranged everything for his return—from waiving court sentences to toll-free roads,” Bhatti states. “The biggest job was done by the army: they gave Tarique Rahman a guard of honour.”
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This ceremonial welcome, typically reserved for heads of state, underscores what Bhatti calls the “de facto” elevation of Tarique Rahman to prime ministerial status. She points out that Rahman now enjoys security on par with a sitting prime minister or president, signalling that a formal handover of power via elections is merely a formality.
“From today, Tarique Rahman is the country’s de facto prime minister,” she declares. “And after that, through an election, only the transfer of power remains.” Rumours, which Bhatti cites without confirmation, suggest that neighbouring India and even exiled Awami League leaders played pivotal roles in facilitating this return, highlighting the shadowy international dimensions of Bangladesh’s internal politics.
Bhatti’s critique delves deep into the political culture that enabled such a turnaround. She argues that Bangladesh’s politics operates on the principle that “there is no final word in politics,” a truism she says is amplified in a nation scarred by cycles of revenge and rehabilitation.
Just months ago, Tarique Rahman’s name evoked images of the 2001-2006 BNP-Jamaat alliance era: grenade attacks, Operation Clean Heart’s extrajudicial killings, rampant corruption, nepotism, and state decay. Major newspapers labelled him the “son of corruption” and a life-sentence convict. Yet, today, he is repositioned as a symbol of stability. “Understand who I’m talking about,” Bhatti says with a wry smile. “I’m talking about Tarique Rahman.”
This perceptual shift, according to Bhatti, stems not from Tarique Rahman’s personal redemption but from the abject failures of the Yunus-led interim government. Installed amid promises to eradicate corruption, misrule, and inequality, the regime has instead presided over economic stagnation, rising extremism, and selective justice.
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Bhatti notes that as public sentiment began to nostalgicize the Awami League era—”people started saying we were better off under Awami League”—Yunus “pulled Tarique Rahman out of his magic bag and threw him in front of the nation.” The 2001-2006 period, marked by terror and vengeance under Rahman’s influence, is now whitewashed. “Yunus came to power with those declaring jihad against corruption, misrule, and discrimination,” she says.
“But the corruption, misrule, and horrific vengeful politics from 2001 to 2006 ran through Tarique Rahman’s hands. So how do you view this reversal? I don’t know. But I see it as not due to Tarique’s merits, but the horrific void created by Yunus’s failure in governing the state.”
Central to Bhatti’s thesis is the so-called “July spirit” of 2024, which she dismisses as a fabricated narrative. The July uprising, initially fueled by genuine grievances against job quotas, was co-opted, she argues, by domestic and foreign forces using arms, money, and training to orchestrate bloodshed. “The anger was real, especially the resentment built over 17 years,” Bhatti concedes.
“But instead of spreading it organically, a side made it real through selective killings and horrific bloodshed, seizing power in August 2024.” History teaches, she adds, that bloodshed alone doesn’t forge morality; it’s the decisions that follow. In the post-July era, no ethical framework emerged.
Questions of justice, accountability, and power abuse went unanswered, replaced by a new political arrangement where Tarique’s return is the latest addition. “The government was forced to bring him back,” she asserts.
This arrangement exposes the political culture’s inherent bias, Bhatti argues. Rahman’s return isn’t just a party leader’s homecoming; it’s state-sponsored favouritism.
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With BNP Chairperson Khaleda Zia’s status uncertain—”We don’t know if she’s alive or dead”—Tarique Rahman’s elevation sets a precedent of ignoring judicial continuity for political gain.
“When the state disregards law, court, and judgment’s sequence for a supreme court-convicted criminal, opening the path through political compromise, it’s no longer a personal event,” Bhatti explains. “It signals that justice and fairness aren’t the final word—power’s needs are.” Here, the “hollow spot” in July consciousness reveals itself: if truly anti-discrimination, why target only the Awami League’s era for scrutiny while ignoring 2001-2006 atrocities like Clean Heart operations, RAB-enforced disappearances, and the grenade attack?
Bhatti recalls early post-uprising slogans from student coordinators and activists vowing to prosecute Tarique Rahman for corruption and violence. Yet, those promises evaporated. “They used to chant about Tarique—his trial will happen, his corruption will be judged,” she says. “Remember? And the incidents from 2001 to 2006, from Clean Heart to RAB’s enforced disappearances and murders—those trials should have started too.
But no, only Awami League’s era was cherry-picked for this one-eyed justice.” Overturning Rahman’s convictions—grenade attack, money laundering, corruption—in one fell swoop doesn’t establish truth, she warns; it subordinates courts to power.
The implications ripple internationally, fueling Bhatti’s warning about eroding judicial credibility. “If Sheikh Hasina’s era judgments can be deemed biased and nullified, then all judgments under Yunus can be called partisan and vengeful too,” she posits. “One day it will happen, right? You can’t have two fruits from one journey.”
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This double standard raises a poignant question: “If Tarique Rahman can return, why can’t Sheikh Hasina?” If Tarique Rahman’s repatriation is justified as escaping political persecution under a “fascist” regime, the same logic applies to Hasina’s case.
“You say Tarique is a victim of political oppression on one side, and on the other, Sheikh Hasina is accused of human rights violations—this dual stance can’t hold unless you admit it’s not justice, but power’s calculation that’s key.”
Bhatti traces this culture of inequality back to 1975, when Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s assassination ushered in eras of bias, rehabilitating his killers and sidelining the Awami League while favouring BNP and Jamaat-e-Islami. Yunus, she claims, perpetuates this by leading a “political witch-hunt.”
“Awami League is removed, and repeatedly, unethical opportunities are given to BNP-Jamaat—that’s this discriminatory politics,” she says. Internationally, British MPs and US congressmen are voicing concerns, labelling ongoing trials against the Awami League as “political revenge.” Courts may function on paper, but without credibility, they falter. “Already at home and abroad, this question is rising, and soon it will be shouted louder,” Bhatti predicts.
In her view, Tarique Rahman’s return is a “self-preservation strategy” for the regime. Facing questions about their own pasts, Yunus’s allies need power-sharing to survive. “In politics, one mastermind understands another’s need,” she notes. Even some corrupt Awami League elements might see Rahman as a viable option, willing to trade portions of ill-got wealth for safe return. “These old players know the rules, understand management,” Bhatti says. “They think by giving a bit to BNP from their vast acquired assets, they can return to Bangladesh.” Though unsubstantiated, this underscores the opportunistic underbelly of the system.
Ultimately, Bhatti dismantles “July spirit” as phoney: “This consciousness is fake and hollow from all sides.” Its foundation? Mere anti-Awami League unity, proven by Tarique Rahman’s “innocent” return.
With Yunus fronting, Jamaat has spent the past year undermining the Liberation War, pushing Bangladesh toward jihadism. Civil society counters by crafting a narrative: “BNP is better than Jamaat, so we need Tarique.” This isn’t sudden; it’s prepared amid rising right-wing extremism, mob rule, women’s and minority oppression, and cultural assaults.
Tarique Rahman emerges as the “less bad” alternative—not his achievement, but the state’s failure. “The so-called July consciousness’s grave was dug through this return,” she quips.
Asking viewers what “July spirit” means, Bhatti answers: “Now it means nothing but anti-Awami League and anti-Sheikh Hasina. Along with denying the Liberation War, that’s all.”
Promises of anti-discrimination politics birthed bias in justice; fair trials became bargaining chips; new politics revived old players. If Rahman returns via this process, denying Hasina the same will brand her trials as vengeful internationally, escalating post-election if polls occur.
Bangladesh’s politics runs on schemes, not logic, Bhatti concludes. “I said at the start there’s no final word—that’s a scheme too.” Now, the question: “What’s next? Will Sheikh Hasina return? The state must clear her of all charges and bring her back, like Tarique.” If not, it exposes the state’s duality: one rule for BNP-Jamaat, another for Awami League. Yet, hope lies in the people.
“The happy news? Even if state occupiers are BNP-Jamaat friendly, the majority see Awami League as their saviour, just as in 1971.” Those who killed Bangabandhu founded BNP and revived Jamaat, but the people brought back the Awami League. “Don’t forget that. That’s the truth. That’s reality.”
Bhatti’s video ends with a poignant note: “Stay well, everyone.” As Bangladesh teeters on the brink of elections amid economic woes and rising tensions, her exile-born analysis serves as a stark reminder of a political culture mired in hypocrisy, where “mafia lords” like Tarique Rahman can rise from conviction to coronation, perpetuating a cycle that threatens the nation’s democratic soul.
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