Imagine, for a moment, that you’re the head of an office. You’ve just hired a new assistant–let’s call him Abdur Rahim. Before leaving for the weekend, you hand him the office keys and give him a simple, clear set of instructions: tidy up your desk, clean the room, and lock the place up before he leaves.

You return after the break to find the office in disarray. The desk is untouched. Dust coats the furniture. And the cabinet where important files–and cash–are stored has been tampered with. Its lock is broken, pieces of metal scattered on the floor. 

Moments later, Rahim arrives with a grin, holding out a key. “Sir,” he says cheerfully, “I thought the cabinet lock looked a bit outdated, so I hired a locksmith to change it. That took all day, so I couldn’t get around to cleaning.”

What would your reaction be? Disbelief? Frustration? A sense that something important had been violated–not just instructions, but trust?

This, in essence, is the current state of governance in Bangladesh.

We are living under an administration that, instead of addressing the core demands of a population exhausted by political manipulation and institutional decay, is busy rearranging the furniture. 

The public called for accountability, transparency, and basic democratic reforms. What we’ve received instead is a flurry of actions no one asked for–and certainly no one consented to.

A full and verified list of Liberation War martyrs? Still incomplete. Systemic investigation into the alleged abuses and politicization of the military and civil bureaucracy by the ruling Awami League? Absent. 

Accountability for extrajudicial killings, corruption, and rigged elections? Still pending.

But while essential reforms are buried under the excuse of “political constraints” or “BNP-Awami League conspiracies,” non-essential moves–many of them opaque, hasty, and curiously prioritized–are happening at lightning speed.

The Bangladesh Cricket Board's funds are suddenly shifted to an interest-bearing account. A surprise administrator is installed at a City Corporation. New customs and revenue measures are pushed through overnight. 

A “humanitarian corridor” emerges without prior national debate. Saint Martin’s sees a tourist ban, not through dialogue, but decree. Even the leasing of the Chittagong seaport is reportedly underway–behind closed doors.

None of these actions are rooted in public consultation. Few have been openly debated. None seem tied to the urgent demands raised during the July-August mass uprisings. 

And yet, they continue–aggressively and without pause.

A troubling signal 

This is governance without consent. A government that cannot, or will not, perform the duties it was called to carry out–but is eager to perform side acts no one asked for. 

The desk remains cluttered, the room unclean, but a shiny new lock has been installed on a cabinet no one needed opened.

And like Rahim, this government returns with a smile, expecting gratitude.

And if, for argument’s sake, these surprise measures had to be taken–if fixing the cabinet lock was indeed urgent–there remains the question of process. In any functioning democracy, such decisions would be aired in public before implementation. 

Officials would consult with journalists, policy experts, opposition leaders—anyone with a stake in the outcome. The people, after all, are not just spectators; they are the stakeholders.

But Rahim didn’t consult his employer. He didn’t ask whether fixing the lock was more important than the actual tasks he was hired to do. And for that alone, even if he didn’t pocket a single coin, his actions would be suspect. 

Because in governance, as in office work, ignoring priorities and acting unilaterally erodes trust–and legitimacy.

Let me explain why this kind of behavior is so unsettling.

In literary theory, there’s a term: in media res–Latin for “in the midst of things.” It refers to the narrative device of plunging the reader straight into the middle of the action, without context or forewarning. 

It’s the bolt of lightning in Manik Bandopadhyay’s Putul Nacher Itikatha, where Haru Ghosh is struck in the very first lines. It’s Gregor Samsa waking up as a giant insect in Kafka’s Metamorphosis. 

In cinema, it’s the abrupt shock of a murder scene in Basic Instinct–no buildup, no context, just confusion and consequence.

These are literary tools–used to unsettle, to provoke, to temporarily disorient the reader or viewer. They are not models for governance.

And yet, this is exactly how Bangladesh is being governed today: like a Kafkaesque story unfolding in media res. Policies arrive without notice. Decisions are taken without discussion. 

Overnight, we discover that new institutions have been created, ports leased, bans imposed, money shifted–all without debate, dialogue, or disclosure.

This is not governance. It’s narrative hijacking. And it strips the people of agency.

In times of national crisis–war, pandemics, natural disasters–governments may be granted the license to act decisively without consulting every stakeholder. 

But we are not at war. We are not in crisis. What we are in, after nearly two decades of democratic erosion and centralized control, is a prolonged period of political suffocation, where the public has been systematically distanced from public decision-making.

The real task, then, was to reverse this–to reintroduce democratic participation, restore faith in institutions, and rebuild the civic muscle that has atrophied under autocratic weight. 

That is the main task. But instead, we awaken each morning like Gregor Samsa–disoriented and alienated–only to read by evening that whatever happened, happened for our own good.

This isn’t just bad governance. It’s a performance of democracy, staged without the audience’s consent.

And that, more than anything, is what should alarm us all.

Government not “of crisis” but “in crisis” 

In a functioning democracy, an elected government is granted a five-year mandate–an implied social contract sealed through the ballot box. It’s understood, though not always stated outright: you have five years to govern, and if you fail, the people will replace you. 

Even with this mandate, responsible governments maintain transparency, seek feedback, and engage in continuous dialogue with the public. That’s not a bonus–it’s the bare minimum of modern political ethics.

But the current government does not even enjoy that baseline legitimacy. Its mandate is not five years—it is day-to-day, task-by-task, verdict-by-verdict. Each action must justify its own right to exist. 

Every successful step forward must earn the political capital for the next. In such a fragile, transitional context, the only path to moral legitimacy is through clarity and consent. The people must be involved not after decisions are made, but before.

And there were clear, foundational tasks at hand: justice for the victims of the July uprising, accountability for the Awami League’s long-standing abuses, and a systemic push to remove partisan rot from the administration and military. 

There was broad national consensus for these goals. The public wanted justice. They were ready for reform. The government only had to act.

But it didn’t. It watched, passively, as many Awami League operatives slipped across borders–unprosecuted, unpunished. 

Instead of using its limited political oxygen to pursue justice, it burned it elsewhere: tinkering with the VAT system, micromanaging Saint Martin’s tourism, redrawing bureaucratic lines, launching quiet privatization deals. 

These are tasks that could have waited–or at least been debated.

Worse still, not one of these decisions came through public deliberation. There were no press briefings, no stakeholder meetings, no parliamentary debates. 

The people are not even treated as observers, let alone participants. Policy simply arrives–mid-sentence, mid-crisis, in media res.

This isn’t governance. It’s political alienation on a national scale. And in the vacuum of democratic engagement, opportunists are rushing in. Right-wing groups, shadow interests, and underground networks are capitalizing on public disillusionment, shaping narratives, and planting seeds of future chaos.

This leaves every well-meaning, peace-loving citizen exposed–unprotected in a volatile political climate where trust is eroding and agency is evaporating.

And so, we must ask: who are the people running this government? Are they committed to public service, or to private strategy? Are they peace-loving, or simply power-surviving?

Because if they do not reorient soon–back toward the people, back toward justice–they will not only forfeit their political moment. 

They will accelerate the very instability they claim to be trying to prevent.

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Mikail Hossain is a researcher and analyst