Sometimes I feel sorrow, and a sense of helplessness overwhelms me. I recall a famous line from a poem written in the early eighties or nineties by the poet Shamsur Rahman: “A strange camel bears the homeland.” Has my motherland once again mounted that camel anew? The source of my lament lies in several recent events in Bangladesh’s new parliament; today’s essay is about them.
In a democratic state, parliament is not merely a place for lawmaking; it is a symbolic stage of a nation’s historical memory and moral consciousness. Political scientists often say that parliament is the place where a nation gives the highest honor to its history of independence, constitutional values, and the memory of its martyrs. Yet three recent events in Bangladesh’s National Parliament, refusal to stand during the playing of the national anthem, the adoption of a condolence motion for war criminals, and a walkout during the president’s speech, have called this fundamental moral framework into question.
The first event was the refusal of members of Jamaat-e-Islami to stand during the playing of the national anthem. When the president entered during the first session of the thirteenth parliament and the national anthem began, the ruling party MPs stood in respect, but members of the Jamaat–NCP alliance, part of the opposition bloc, initially remained seated and only stood partially later. This was not a “spontaneous” act but a carefully planned political message. At the same time, they raised placards and chanted slogans such as “fascist” and “killer,” clearly showing that they had chosen the moment of the national anthem itself as a stage for symbolic confrontation. In previous parliaments in which they were members, such audacity was not known. In other words, even while in opposition, their large presence in parliament has amounted to nothing less than an insult to Bangladesh.
In modern theories of the state, the national anthem is not viewed merely as a song; it is the “symbolic constitution” of the state. According to the political theorist Benedict Anderson, a nation is an “imagined community,” constructed through shared memories and symbols. The national flag, the national anthem, and commemorative days of independence are all parts of that symbolic unity. Showing respect for the national anthem in the highest institution of the state, such as parliament, is therefore not merely a formality; it is an expression of loyalty to the history and independence of the state. Refusing to stand at that moment is not simply a breach of protocol; it amounts to rejecting the historical covenant through which Bangladesh was born in 1971.
This question is also highly sensitive in international politics. After the Second World War, Germany made an important moral decision by rejecting Nazi ideology at the state level. The use of Nazi symbols there is legally punishable, and a state ceremony commemorating Nazi leaders is unimaginable. The example of Italy is also particularly important. After the fall of the fascist ruler Benito Mussolini during the Second World War, Italy established an “anti-fascist constitutional order.” The Italian constitution and legal framework prohibit the reorganization of fascist organizations. The state realized that if a fascist past were accepted as a normal political position, the moral foundations of democracy itself would weaken. The experience of South Africa is also instructive. After the fall of apartheid rule, the country established the “Truth and Reconciliation Commission.” The goal there was not only to punish perpetrators but also to declare at the state level that racial oppression had been a moral crime. Today, it would be unimaginable for the South African parliament to adopt a condolence motion for leaders who legitimized apartheid rule. The state has clearly determined which history will be honored and which will be rejected.
A similar experience can be seen in Chile. The military rule of General Augusto Pinochet kept the country under repression for many years. After the restoration of democracy, the Chilean government established a national commission to preserve the memory of victims of human rights violations and officially acknowledged that crimes committed during military rule were crimes against democracy. The experiences of these countries show that modern states do not turn the moral boundaries of their history into matters of political compromise.
Likewise, in Spain, after the fall of Franco’s rule, the “Law of Historical Memory” was passed, through which symbols of fascist rule were removed from state spaces. In Rwanda, after the genocide of 1994, the government enacted the “genocide ideology law,” which legally prohibits the glorification of perpetrators of genocide. These examples show that modern states clearly determine the moral boundaries of their history. When those boundaries are violated, it is not merely a political debate; it is also an assault on the state’s moral foundation.
For Bangladesh as well, the Liberation War represents that moral boundary. In 1971, the genocide carried out by the Pakistani military and their local collaborators was recognized as one of the most horrific crimes against humanity in history. According to international research, nearly three million people were killed, and about two hundred thousand women were subjected to rape. To try these crimes, Bangladesh established the International Crimes Tribunal (ICT). That tribunal convicted several leaders of war crimes for crimes against humanity. For example, Jamaat-e-Islami leaders such as Delwar Ghulam Azam, Ali Ahsan Mohammad Mujahid, Kamruzzaman, Abul Kashem, and Motiur Rahman Nizami, among others, were found guilty of genocide, murder, rape, and torture. The tribunal’s verdicts clearly stated that the crimes committed in 1971 were planned and organized crimes against humanity. Even if one does not accept the verdicts, reading the reports published in the 1971 newspaper Sangram would reveal the various anti-liberation activities of these individuals. Among those activities were not only the killing of people but also strong calls across the newspaper for joining the war against the freedom fighters. Moreover, this party and its affiliated organizations were officially involved as auxiliary forces of the Pakistani military. An ordinance had also been issued at that time regarding this. These are not merely matters of judicial evidence; these bloody chapters also live on in the memory of the people.
In this context, adopting a condolence motion in parliament for war criminals creates a profound moral crisis. If the state shows sympathy toward war criminals, it insults the memory of the victims and weakens the moral foundation of justice. In countries such as Germany or Rwanda, such an incident would have become a political scandal, because state institutions there strictly uphold the moral boundaries of history.
The third event is also significant. During the president’s speech, members walked out of parliament claiming that he was an “accomplice of fascists.” Protests or walkouts are not new in democracy; in parliamentary politics, they are a legitimate strategy. However, a fundamental constitutional contradiction emerges here. The very president before whom members of parliament took their oath according to the constitution is later described as illegitimate or an accomplice of fascism. Politically, this creates a “performative contradiction”, that is, one’s own actions undermine one’s own claims. In political theory, this is called a “legitimacy paradox.” When a political actor uses the legitimacy of an institution to gain access to power but later denies that institution, he ultimately weakens the very idea of state legitimacy.
The problem here is that the target of opposition is not the government or any particular policy, but the symbolic unity of the state itself. In a democracy, protest against the government is legitimate; but refusing to stand during the playing of the national anthem is not merely a political protest—it is a form of “symbolic desecration” of the fundamental symbols of the state. Standing during the national anthem in parliament is not merely a formality; it is, in the words of Michael Billig, an important symbol of “banal nationalism.” Every day, symbolic elements, such as the national anthem, generate a sense of ordinary loyalty toward the state; deliberate disrespect in this space is, in fact, a project to break that loyalty.
In Bangladesh, this is even more sensitive, because “Amar Sonar Bangla” embodies the emotion of the Liberation War, the sacrifice of martyrs, and the cultural symbol of resistance against the Pakistani occupation forces. Disrespectful behavior during the playing of this song, especially from a party historically known for its pro-Pakistan and anti-liberation stance in 1971, amounts to a renewed assault on the history of the Liberation War.
When these three events are viewed together, a broader theoretical picture becomes clear. In the words of sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, the state is not merely an administrative structure; it is a “symbolic power” that creates a sense of legitimacy among people. Parliament is the center of that symbolic power. When the national anthem, the memory of the Liberation War, and the dignity of constitutional institutions are questioned within parliament itself, the symbolic structure of the state becomes weakened. Disrespect toward the national anthem, condolence motions for war criminals, and the denial of the constitutional dignity of the president together create a process of “symbolic delegitimation” of the state’s history and institutions—that is, a symbolic erosion of the moral foundation of the state.
Looking at Bangladesh’s history, this conflict is not new. Since the Liberation War, there has been a fundamental clash between the ideals of independence and pro-Pakistan politics. That clash continues to return in various political events. But when this conflict takes the form of symbolic desecration within a state institution such as parliament, it ceases to be a mere political disagreement; it becomes a question of the state’s identity itself.
In a democracy, differences of opinion are natural. Yet there are certain fundamental questions that belong to a nation’s moral consensus: the history of independence, the memory of martyrs, and the constitutional symbols of the state. If these are turned into instruments of partisan politics, the very foundation of democracy becomes weakened. Democracy is not merely the rule of the majority; it is a shared moral covenant.
Bangladesh’s National Parliament should be the symbol of that moral covenant. Disrespect toward the national anthem, sympathy for war criminals, and contradictory attitudes toward constitutional institutions are not merely political incidents; they are profound moral questions connected to the history and memory of the state. A state cannot survive by denying its history. The responsibility of parliament should be to honor that history, not to dispute it. If parliament fails to fulfill that responsibility, it will not be surprising if our motherland once again mounts that strange camel, yet we will have to live with the painful feeling of helplessness.
