In Dhaka, the heart of a wounded nation still reeling from last year’s political earthquake, a storm is brewing again—this time, from within the ranks of the very institution holding the republic together. The Bangladesh Army, deployed since July 2024 in the aftermath of Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina’s dramatic ouster, is no longer content playing the role of caretaker. On Wednesday, its chief, General Waker-Uz-Zaman, stepped out of the shadows to deliver a message that was part cautionary tale, part constitutional reminder: “We must return to barracks after elections.”
His words weren’t just a military leader’s lament about the prolonged use of the army for civil policing duties. They were a subtle but unmistakable warning: the army cannot—and will not—be the backbone of a state governed indefinitely by unelected power-brokers.
To understand the gravity of General Waker’s statement, we must revisit the conditions that led to the military’s deployment. The July 2024 uprising—an explosive mix of youth-led discontent, mass mobilization, and institutional breakdown—brought Hasina’s decade-and-a-half-long rule to an unceremonious end. The police, overwhelmed and increasingly politicized, collapsed under the pressure. For weeks, law enforcement agencies were either absent or in retreat, leading to a de facto power vacuum filled by the military.
Though the police returned to duty in August, the civilian structure of governance never fully recovered. The Yunus-led interim administration, formed on August 8, 2024, was envisioned as a stop-gap mechanism—an administrative buffer meant to usher the country back into constitutional normalcy. But somewhere along the way, it began to show signs of permanence. Proposed reforms, strategic decisions, and international overtures began resembling long-term governance, not transitional stewardship.
General Waker’s statement wasn’t just about overworked troops or the sanctity of constitutional democracy—it was about power and legitimacy. His core argument is disarmingly simple: the army exists to defend the nation, not to govern it. By cautioning against foreign decisions being made by unelected leaders—whether on issues as sensitive as Chattogram Port, Starlink’s launch, or a so-called humanitarian corridor into Myanmar—Waker is reminding the public that national sovereignty is not negotiable, even in times of internal chaos.
In fact, the military’s role as the final safeguard of the republic is precisely what makes these statements so significant. The General’s direct assertion that “only a political government elected by the people can make such decisions” is a not-so-veiled rebuke of the interim government’s expanding ambitions.
This clash—between an unelected transitional authority and a disciplined, powerful army conscious of its role in the constitutional structure—is not new in South Asian politics. But in Bangladesh, where the military has historically walked a tightrope between protector and power-player, the consequences could be explosive.
The Yunus administration is caught between competing pressures: the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) is demanding elections by December 2025, while newer political entities like the National Citizen Party (NCP) insist on justice first—namely the prosecution of former Awami League leaders involved in the bloody suppression of student-led protests last year.
What’s unfolding is a classical democratic paradox: should justice precede the restoration of democracy, or must democracy be restored first to enable justice?
The BNP, arguably Bangladesh’s largest political force, is in no mood to wait. It has escalated its demands to include the resignation of key student advisers and the national security adviser, painting the interim government as increasingly autocratic. Meanwhile, social media chatter about Yunus contemplating resignation has only added to the volatility. If he does resign, the NCP—helmed by student leader Nahid Islam—will become a kingmaker in a political chessboard no longer defined by old alliances.
But amid these tensions lies an uncomfortable truth: if elections are delayed till 2026, as Yunus has suggested, the army may either be forced into a prolonged civil deployment or pushed into a more aggressive posture—perhaps even direct control, a scenario Bangladesh has historically tried to avoid.
Beyond the domestic drama, the General’s remarks carry significant geopolitical weight. His staunch opposition to a humanitarian corridor into Rakhine State reflects a broader concern: that Bangladesh may become a pawn in an international proxy conflict. With Myanmar’s internal turmoil bleeding across borders and global powers circling strategic assets like Chattogram Port, Waker’s nationalism is also a firewall against foreign encroachment masked as humanitarianism or development.
By opposing the foreign management of key infrastructure and the rapid onboarding of global tech platforms like Starlink without legislative oversight, Waker has touched on a nerve central to Bangladesh’s future—economic sovereignty. And in doing so, he’s exposed a rift between the military’s long-term strategic interests and the interim government’s urgency to stabilize the economy through external partnerships.
Perhaps the most chilling undercurrent in this drama is the rumor—unaddressed by both military and government—that an attempt was made to remove General Waker last week. Whether true or not, the widespread belief that it could be true speaks volumes about the current atmosphere in Dhaka. It signals a lack of trust, a crisis of authority, and a dangerously thin line between civil governance and military intervention.
The fact that Waker’s bold speech was made in front of officers in full combat uniform—both domestically and at UN missions abroad—was no accident. It was a show of strength, unity, and readiness. It was also a public affirmation that the army is not fractured; rather, it is watching, waiting, and willing to step back—but only on its own terms.
As the dust continues to swirl in Bangladesh, one truth remains unavoidable: elections are not just a democratic obligation; they are now a national security imperative. Without a legitimate, elected government in place soon, the very foundation of civil-military equilibrium could fracture.
The army is signaling that its patience has limits. The people, already bruised by years of authoritarianism, unrest, and uncertainty, may not wait much longer either. The interim government must realize that its legitimacy diminishes by the day, and the longer it clings to power, the more dangerous the implications for the state.
Bangladesh is not a failed state. Not yet. But it is a faltering one. The solution lies not in military might, student-led revolts, or technocratic fixes, but in returning power to where it constitutionally belongs—with the people, through free and fair elections.
In the words of General Waker, “Bangladesh needs political stability. This is only possible through an elected government.” In that sentence lies the verdict—and the warning.
