In an era defined by global political turbulence, the stories of South Asian nations stand out for their intensity, complexity, and deep-rooted consequences.

Sri Lanka and Bangladesh offer two powerful, yet contrasting, examples of recent upheaval. While both have faced public unrest, escalating economic crises, and demands for political change, their differing approaches, outcomes, and levels of political maturity reveal a fundamental divergence beneath these surface similarities.

The starkly different trajectories of Sri Lanka and Bangladesh in their recent crises beg a critical question: why did one nation manage to navigate a path towards democratic transition while the other appears to be succumbing to authoritarianism?

Sri Lanka's 2022 crisis, fueled by economic collapse and sustained by citizen-led resistance, ultimately resulted in a remarkably peaceful and democratic shift.

In contrast, Bangladesh, grappling with a similar storm in 2024, seems to be spiraling into a more repressive and fear-laden future. What accounts for this divergence?

How did one nation, despite being battered by corruption and economic disaster, achieve stability and regroup, while the other is being drawn into a vortex of repression and fear?

The reasons for these diverging paths aren't solely about leadership. They're found in the choices institutions make, the patience of civil society, the nature of protest movements, and the readiness to listen instead of silence.

This isn't just an academic comparison; it's an urgent call for reflection. Bangladesh's future may well hinge on whether it can internalize the difficult lessons Sri Lanka has already learned.

The parallels between these nations are striking, yet their outcomes are far from symmetrical. One country emerged stronger, while the other risks a deeper descent into crisis.

This leads us to a critical question: Can Bangladesh still pivot and emulate Sri Lanka's path to recovery, or has it already committed to a course far more challenging to reverse?

Sri Lanka's sudden fall and fast recovery

Over the past five decades, Sri Lanka, built on the framework of a socialist republic, made notable progress in education, health, social equity, freedom of expression, and democratic culture.

It often stood ahead of many of its South Asian peers and even resembled several European welfare states in key social indicators.

For a nation battered by decades of civil war and ethnic strife, its commitment to rebuilding and moving forward through social investments was inspiring. Then, suddenly, in 2022, this promise seemed to unravel.

What pushed Sri Lanka into the abyss was a deadly cocktail of inflated foreign debt, corruption, nepotism, a faulty tax policy, and a global pandemic.

Imports stopped. Essential commodities vanished. Fuel stations dried up. Hospitals struggled to run. Protests began to swell.

The turning point was not orchestrated by powerful political coalitions or ideological battlegrounds–it was a simple Facebook campaign.

On March 31, 2022, a 28-year-old named Anuradha Bandara launched the “#GotaGoHome” hashtag. He was arrested the next day. But the state’s crackdown only strengthened public resolve.

Soon, a peaceful protest movement emerged, non-partisan and broad-based. Doctors, engineers, monks, teachers, students, laborers—people from all walks of life took over Colombo’s streets and demanded change.

The slogans were simple: “No to corruption. No to nepotism. No to hunger. Yes to democracy.” And change came—quickly.

The entire Cabinet resigned. Prime Minister Mahinda Rajapaksa was forced to step down. President Gotabaya Rajapaksa fled the country. An interim government was formed.

Ranil Wickremesinghe, a seasoned politician who had seen both victory and defeat, was chosen to stabilize the country. Eventually, he became the full-time President through Parliament, and later, fresh elections were held.

What followed was not a witch-hunt. There was no campaign of revenge. The judiciary and Parliament remained intact. Institutions functioned.

The interim government worked across party lines. Sri Lanka, against all odds, began to recover.

The most fascinating part of Sri Lanka’s political revival is what didn’t happen. No journalists were jailed. No opposition leaders were hunted down. No universities or media houses were burned or captured. No party offices were looted. No protesters were tried as “terrorists.”

There was no civil war in cyberspace. The ruling elites, even those previously in power, accepted the new order and chose to contest future elections rather than delegitimize them.

Unlike the vengeful transitions often seen in developing democracies, Sri Lanka’s focus remained on rebuilding trust–both domestically and internationally. And that worked.

At the height of the crisis, Sri Lanka’s reserves dropped to less than $20 million. Today, the treasury has recovered to $6.3 billion, with a projection of reaching $7 billion by the year’s end.

In September 2024, Sri Lankans went to the polls. Anura Kumara Dissanayake, a socialist who had long been in opposition, won the presidential election. His party gained a landslide victory in the parliamentary polls that followed.

Even those who had been thrown out of power accepted defeat. No one claimed the election was rigged. No one branded the new president a “foreign agent.” No shadow government was formed. No diplomats were summoned to express outrage.

Life moved on. Democracy was messy but real.

Bangladesh’s uprising: A different path

Bangladesh faced its own political unrest in July-August 2024. Some likened it to the Arab Spring. Others drew parallels with Sri Lanka. But the differences were jarring.

While Sri Lanka’s protestors rallied for economic and democratic reforms with calm persistence, Bangladesh’s reality took a much darker turn. Arrests became widespread. Over 110 Members of Parliament are currently in jail.

Hundreds of journalists face fabricated murder charges. Torture allegations in custody are rampant. Social media is flooded with fabricated images and videos, maligning dissenters as “traitors” or “foreign agents.” The chilling effect on speech is palpable.

The world has taken note. UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, Volker Türk, made a powerful statement in a BBC interview, hinting at covert international pressure and digital manipulation.

Aid agencies and watchdog groups have raised questions. But the government seems to be tightening its grip instead of introspecting.

Unlike Sri Lanka’s crisis where only one political family was blamed and removed, Bangladesh has gone a step further–labeling entire sectors, parties, and groups as enemies.

Any dissenter is considered part of a conspiracy. There's no political middle ground. It’s either absolute loyalty or absolute exile.

Bangladeshi money in Swiss banks has soared–reportedly a record 33% jump this fiscal year. The country is witnessing an exodus of professionals and students. Many activists now seek asylum abroad.

Foreign embassies have intensified security warnings for their citizens. This is not the hallmark of a democracy; it is a warning sign of authoritarianism.

Sri Lanka, at the peak of its crisis, didn’t lose its key industries or export revenue. On the contrary, it gained international sympathy and debt relief because of its transparency and reform-focused strategy.

Bangladesh, on the other hand, is beginning to face capital flight, currency depreciation, a trade deficit, and loss of credibility.

Factories are shutting down. Foreign investors are worried. International news outlets have begun to draw attention to Bangladesh’s shrinking civic space. The dream of becoming the next Asian tiger is turning into a regional cautionary tale.

The irony lies in the fact that Sri Lanka didn’t need foreign “springs” or regime-change conspiracies. Its own civil society, with grit and dignity, pressed for change. They weren’t looking to upend everything, just the broken parts. And they succeeded.

There were no hashtags demanding “Ranil for 5 more years.” No orchestrated public relations campaigns to frame him as the savior of the nation. He stood for election, lost, and stepped away. The people spoke. He listened.

Bangladesh’s ruling class, however, continues to project eternal victory. Even when cornered, they promise triumph, not reform.

There are no signs of releasing political prisoners, no gestures of reconciliation, no constitutional amendments for balance. Instead, surveillance is increasing. Critics are silenced, not heard.

Despite the gloom, all is not lost for Bangladesh. The country’s spirit is resilient. It has survived cyclones, famine, dictatorship, and debt. Its people believe in the values of the 1971 Liberation War–democracy, equality, dignity, and sovereignty.

What Bangladesh needs is not another uprising but a moment of self-reflection. To pause. To learn. To course-correct.

Sri Lanka’s success lay not just in removing corrupt leaders but in refusing to destroy the foundation of the state. In rejecting vendettas. In trusting its institutions to adapt and deliver. That trust became the seed for rebirth.

Bangladesh still has time. But it must choose the harder path of reform over repression. It must believe that democracy is not weakness, but strength.

We don’t want a foreign-fueled spring. With the beauty of our six seasons, let us find strength in our roots. Let us heal without vengeance. Let us return to our rightful course—not through force, but through will. Not by silencing voices, but by listening to them.

The world doesn’t need another fallen democracy. Bangladesh deserves better. So do its people.

Just like Sri Lanka, we too can come back–if we choose the road of humility, justice, and wisdom.

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Siam Sarower Jamil is PhD Research Scholar at University of Delhi. He can be reached at siam33jamil@gmail,com