1.
In Bangladesh, a proper methodology for political analysis has yet to develop. The framework for analyzing political culture is also weak. As a result, we often conflate the personal qualities of political figures with an evaluation of their governance. This confusion continually produces aimless debates and arguments, further deepening divisions.
The methods for analyzing rulers as individuals and for analyzing governance are fundamentally different. One approach evaluates the ruler or leader as a person; the other assesses the political successes and failures of their time in power. When these two are read as one, history becomes distorted.
2.
Does being a good person automatically make someone a good ruler? And if a ruler fails, does that mean they become entirely unworthy of respect as a person?
History offers many examples of highly admirable individuals who were unsuccessful rulers. Jimmy Carter of the United States is globally recognized as an honest and humane individual, yet he was a relatively weak president. Uruguay’s Joseé Mujica is a symbol of personal morality, but his governance policies remain debated. Tanzania’s Julius Nyerere was beyond question in personal integrity, yet his economic policies plunged the country into crisis. India’s Lal Bahadur Shastri is respected as a person, but his tenure was short. Manmohan Singh is admired for his decency and civility, yet the weaknesses of his government are widely acknowledged.
In political sociology, there is a concept often summarised as “the person admired, the government debated.” In essence, the individual may be good, but their tenure in office is not beyond controversy. The list is long. Former US presidents Herbert Hoover and Gerald Ford are examples. Nelson Mandela is an iconic figure; loved by both friends and foes until his final days, yet even he could not fully meet public expectations during his time in power.
The claim that the Third World rarely produces honest and good rulers is also untrue. Leopold Sedar Senghor of Senegal, Thomas Sankara of Burkina Faso, Corazon Aquino of the Philippines, Vaclav Havel of the Czech Republic, and Patrice Lumumba of the Congo all rightly received respect as good individuals; yet that does not place their state policies beyond debate. Discussion and analysis of their governance continue to this day.
3.
The French philosopher Albert Camus wrote that politics and morality are not the same. Earlier, the great political writer George Orwell expressed this even more bluntly: “In the language of politics, lies can be made to sound like truth, and murder can be made respectable.”
Bangladeshi analysts would do well to remember political theorist Michael Walzer’s concept of 'dirty hands'. In his famous essay Political Action: The Problem of Dirty Hands, Walzer wrote that in trying to do what is politically 'right', a leader often has to make morally questionable decisions. In political decision-making, one’s hands cannot always remain clean—this is the reality.
Walzer merely described this reality; he did not legitimise wrongdoing by statesmen. Rather, he argued that when a ruler as an individual lacks moral principles, 'dirty hands' become utterly filthy. When a ruler is personally guided by high moral standards, the hands become far less dirty—there remains room for restraint or moral repair. This is where the difference lies.
4.
In many developed countries, the problem of conflating a politician’s personal character with an analysis of their governance is not as pronounced as it is here. This is largely because citizens are not blindly devoted to or opposed to political parties or ideologies. Their support and ideological leanings can change over time. They prefer to view history with detachment and objectivity. They do not like it when those in power abandon the task of governing and instead begin writing—or commissioning—their own history. There is strong resistance and protest against leaders who, while still in office, erect statues and murals of themselves and establish propaganda machines devoted to praise and glorification.
Through my writing, I often receive various messages and emails. Recently, a young person wrote at length, saying that from childhood they had heard, read, and deeply believed that Ziaur Rahman and Khaleda Zia did nothing for the country except cause harm. As a result, they grew up with a largely hostile attitude toward these two figures and toward those who supported them.
The young man further wrote that, toward the end of his school years during the Safe Roads Movement, he became eager to learn the real truth. Until the mass uprising of 2024, he had not made any serious attempt to dig into historical truths. However, the July uprising deeply inspired him to pursue the truth. The murder of Sharif Osman Hadi and the massive public turnout at his funeral, followed by the passing of Khaleda Zia and the sea of mourners at her funeral, strengthened his resolve even further. He wrote, “In trying to present herself and Bangabandhu as the supreme objects of veneration in Bangladesh, Sheikh Hasina inflicted a lasting damage on the nation’s mind and consciousness over fifteen years. Healing that damage will not be easy. Yet he, and countless others of his generation, are searching for a path to the truth.”
The Gen Z youth directly accused Generation X—our generation—of being “liars,” condemning them and the Millennials (Gen Y) for spreading falsehoods. He also asked how one might read Bangladesh’s history objectively. In response, I advised him: “Read by keeping the character of the individual ruler and the system of governance separate. Responsibility for governance does not rest with a single individual. The successes and failures of governance are the outcome of the responsibilities and division of labour of many.” I thought that shedding light on this issue might be useful for others as well; this is why this piece has been written.
The young man’s accusation made me reflect for a long time. It brought to mind how, under Sheikh Hasina’s authoritarian rule, tens of thousands of crores of taka were siphoned off in the name of teaching history and venerating Bangabandhu, into the hands of a group of plunderers. Countless fabricated, false, unreadable, and low-quality books were written and published, turning a group of rogues into millionaires. Schools were compelled to spend the bulk of their library budgets on purchasing these books. Even allocations for literary and cultural grants were conditional.
Powerful leaders of the ruling party presided over such programmes. In songs, dramas, and cultural events, partisan narratives and personal glorification designed to please them were made mandatory. The Information and Communication Technology Act functioned as a “knowledge police,” choking those who sought to speak the truth in newspapers.
In my reply to the young man, I acknowledged: “In assessing the integrity, patriotism, dedication, and exceptional personalities of the martyred President Ziaur Rahman and Begum Khaleda Zia, the general public has often been more perceptive than many seasoned analysts. The proof lies in the seas of people at their funerals. At the same time, debate over the merits and failures of their governance must remain, in the interest of an objective search for historical truth. Not only they, but anyone who assumes state power must be subject to such scrutiny—no one should be exempt.”
Even though the young man did not ask, a question keeps returning to my own mind: Will our label as 'liars' ever be erased in the eyes of Gen Z?
#Helal Mohiuddin teaches sociology at Mayville State University in North Dakota, United States.
*The views expressed are the author’s own.
#This article, originally published in Prothom Alo print and online edition, has been rewritten in English by Rabiul Islam.