Dr Abul Hasnat Milton
At the recent Bangladesh Investment Summit, a poignant moment captured national attention: Nobel Laureate Dr Muhammad Yunus broke into tears while recalling the 1974 famine in Bangladesh. The image of such a globally revered figure crying stirred both sympathy and suspicion. To some, it seemed like a rare show of emotion from a man known more for his intellectual prowess than his sentimentality. But to many others, especially critics, the moment seemed calculated—a performance intended to stir public opinion at a politically sensitive time.
Dr Yunus’s tears were reportedly shed in memory of the horrific famine of 1974, which caused thousands of deaths. However, the crucial context behind that tragedy was conveniently left out of his emotional recollection. In reality, the famine wasn’t simply a result of food shortage—it was deeply political. Although Bangladesh had paid for the food, the United States delayed its shipment due to diplomatic tensions—this was not aid, but a commercial transaction. This key fact, reflecting the complex international politics of the time, was not acknowledged in Dr Yunus’s tearful speech. Why omit such a critical detail? Perhaps he also intended to highlight this as a failure of the then government: was his aim to portray the event solely as a humanitarian crisis and position himself as the lone voice of compassion?
This selective emotionality raises significant questions. Since 1974, Bangladesh has faced countless natural disasters—cyclones, floods, and humanitarian crises. Strikingly, we have not seen Dr. Yunus react publicly or emotionally to those tragedies. There was no weeping for the Rana Plaza victims, no heartfelt message for the Rohingya crisis, and no passionate advocacy during devastating floods that displaced millions. It makes one wonder: what is it about this particular moment, decades after the famine, that moved him to tears?
Critics argue that this sudden emotional display is not about the past but about the present—and more specifically, about power. Dr Yunus, once a darling of the international development community, has long harboured political ambitions. His efforts to transition from a prominent figure in microfinance to a political leader are well documented, and his strained relationship with the Awami League government stems largely from his inability to distance himself from political maneuvering.
Today’s Bangladesh, recognised globally for its developmental achievements, owes much of its progress to the leadership of Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina and her government over the past 16 years. From infrastructure to education, energy, and technology, the nation has undergone a transformative journey. Yet Dr Yunus often speaks as if the entire trajectory of progress can be attributed solely to the microcredit model he introduced through Grameen Bank.
Let’s be clear—microfinance did play a role in empowering rural populations, especially rural women. But it was never a panacea, and it certainly was not the sole driver of Bangladesh’s economic ascent. Recent critiques from economists have shown that microcredit’s long-term impact on poverty reduction is limited. Meanwhile, massive government-led infrastructure projects, social welfare schemes, and inclusive economic policies have had more significant and sustained impacts. Dr. Yunus’s unwillingness to acknowledge the role of Sheikh Hasina’s government, while portraying himself as the architect of modern Bangladesh, reeks of arrogance and denial.
Moreover, there’s a deeper pattern of behaviour that reinforces the perception of Dr Yunus as a man reluctant to relinquish power. His extended tenure as Managing Director of Grameen Bank is a case in point. Despite the legal retirement age and regulations in place for such institutions, Dr Yunus held on to his position for over a decade beyond the mandated period. It took an intervention from Bangladesh Bank and a series of legal battles—where he ultimately lost—for him to finally vacate the post.
This saga not only highlights his unwillingness to follow institutional rules but also underscores a worrying trait: an attachment to authority and control. Even after stepping down as MD, Dr Yunus retained control over various Grameen-affiliated entities, maintaining a tight grip on the very ecosystem he created. What began as a noble initiative to empower the poor evolved into a personal empire, with Dr Yunus at its helm. For someone celebrated for democratising finance, this behaviour suggests a paradox—one who preaches empowerment but resists relinquishing his own power.
His fallout with the Awami League government is often portrayed in Western media as political victimisation. But such narratives rarely examine his own role in creating that friction. While he did benefit significantly from state support and cooperation in the early years of Grameen Bank, his later actions—including indirect attempts at political influence and efforts to create a parallel moral authority—alienated the very government that once supported him.
To his critics, the recent display of emotion is not just misplaced but deeply political. They argue that his so-called “compassion” is activated only when it serves a purpose—when it can be leveraged to position himself as a moral counterforce to the existing regime. The imagery of a teary-eyed Yunus serves well in Western headlines, reinforcing the narrative of a lone reformer battling authoritarianism. However, both at home and among overseas observers, this act rings hollow to many.
There is also the uncomfortable reality of Dr Yunus’s legal and ethical controversies. Beyond the power struggles at Grameen Bank, several of his ventures have faced scrutiny for alleged financial mismanagement and lack of transparency. Legal proceedings were initiated against him during Sheikh Hasina’s government, resulting in at least one conviction. After returning to power, he used his position to have all remaining cases against him dismissed—raising serious concerns about the abuse of political authority.
Ultimately, whether one views Dr Yunus as a visionary, a politician in disguise, or a power-hungry opportunist, one thing is clear: his recent actions and rhetoric reflect an ongoing struggle—not for justice or development, but for relevance and control.
Power, like wealth, is seductive. For some, the truest test of leadership is the ability to let go. Dr Yunus has, time and again, failed this test. His unwillingness to step aside, to acknowledge others’ contributions, and to accept institutional rules points not to humility, but to hubris.
In the end, history will judge Dr Yunus not just for what he built, but for what he failed to let go. And perhaps, in that judgment, his crocodile tears will find their proper place—not as a sign of compassion, but as a symbol of ambition disguised as sorrow.
The author is a Bangladeshi-born Australian writer, public health expert, and social activist