How podcasts are transforming political communication in Bangladesh

On a recent Monday, when Sameer Ahmed switches on the lights of his Banani office, voilà—it's a cool Gen-Z space. Cozy furniture, meme stickers scattered here and there, slick tech, a loose layout. It is far removed from a traditional media house. And yet, in a way, that is exactly what it has become.

Sameer, 23, visibly overworked but wearing the same buoyant smile he brings to his guests, says almost casually, "Hasnat bhai is coming to the show tonight." There is excitement in his voice—the kind that suggests he is expecting a breakout episode. Hasnat Abdullah, after all, is riding a surge of popularity and is widely seen as parliament-bound.

When Hasnat eventually walks into the SameerScane studio that night, he is wearing a hoodie—not a panjabi, not a blazer. The room is small. Two people were sitting behind the camera. There are no producers, no senior editors hovering just outside the frame, no red lights screaming live. Sameer cracks a Doraemon joke. They laugh. And before anyone quite notices, a politician begins telling his story.

In the same fashion, Ramjan Ali Emon hosted Asif Mahmud, a former government adviser. The viral episode marked a turning point for The Ramjan Show. In a long, candid conversation, Asif spoke openly about his personal journey and experience inside government.

Just like that, podcasts are quietly rewriting communication in politics. 

Political communication scholar Moiyen Zalal Chowdhury, who studies digital politics, sees this shift as structural rather than fashionable. Platform-based political communication, he argues, has "compressed the distance between politicians and audiences," moving authority away from institutions and toward constant, direct visibility.

But structure alone does not explain why politicians are actively choosing podcasts.

Media analyst Usama Rafid, a faculty member of Media Studies and Journalism at ULAB, points to a more tactical reason and that is attention. In mainstream media, he explains, political appearances must compete with multiple segments and voices within a fixed broadcast cycle. 

"There is limited scope to give special focus to one individual," Rafid said. Podcasts, by contrast, are usually built around a single guest or episode. "They can focus entirely on the guest," he noted—a level of uninterrupted attention that is rare on television and highly appealing to politicians.

This difference becomes even more significant in an election season.

Rafid argues that podcast platforms also understand social media ecosystems far better than traditional newsrooms, largely because their survival depends on it. Podcast teams carefully edit long conversations into short, engaging clips and circulate them as reels on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, or YouTube. A casual viewer might encounter a 30-second clip while scrolling; a more interested one may click through to watch the full episode. 

Podcast producers, he said, actively adapt content to platform-specific algorithms—using vertical or horizontal formats, captions, and pacing in ways mainstream media has been slower to adopt.

As a result, podcasts are more likely to go viral, shape online conversation, and keep political figures visible across platforms—an increasingly crucial objective as elections approach.

Over the last couple of months, shows like SameerScane and The Ramjan Show have become unlikely but influential stages where political actors increasingly choose to speak. Their hosts are not licensed journalists and do not claim the institutional authority of newsrooms. Yet politicians are lining up, PR teams are circling, and audiences—particularly young voters—are tuning in at unprecedented scale.

A democratic vision—or a strategic one?

Both Sameer and Ramjan describe their shows using the same word: democratic. Not ideological leaning, not false balance, but access.

Sameer frames his project as a response to the July movement's unfinished promise—a democratic atmosphere and democratic access to media. His ambition is audacious: before the election, bring representatives from every major political current into the same conversational space and let viewers decide. Neutral-to-BNP figures. Pro-NCP leaders. Jamaat representatives. Future BNP voices, though, remain hesitant.

Ramjan echoes this vision almost verbatim. He speaks of a conscious effort to balance episodes precisely because the internet is quick to accuse: today you're "pro-NCP," tomorrow you're branded a "secret Shibir member." The only antidote, he argues, is radical inclusion—everyone comes, or no one owns you.

Yet Rafid cautions that podcasts are not just democratic spaces—they are also carefully designed storytelling environments. Guest-based podcasts, he explains, are built to explore a person's personal life, ideology, values, and experiences in depth. Video podcasts add another layer: the camera often remains fixed on the guest, allowing viewers to closely observe facial expressions, body language, and tone. This visual intimacy helps guests appear more authentic and relatable.

Over time, Rafid notes, such repeated exposure can produce parasocial relationships—one-sided emotional connections in which audiences feel they "know" a political figure. This, he argues, is one of the strongest attractions podcasts offer politicians, and one that traditional talk shows rarely replicate.

Why politicians are preferring podcasts

To understand the appeal of podcasts, both hosts insist, one must step into the mind of a politician.

"Mostly to connect the new generation," said Rifat— son of Shafiqul Alam Milton, a BNP opponent of the Jamaat Amir—who manages his father's communications. "Podcasts are comfortable, and they reach individuals very quickly because they're web-based—everyone has a phone and internet now. Television viewership has declined, and people are used to consuming content on mobile screens."

"Another big difference is format," he added. "TV interviews are mostly rigid question-and-answer sessions, while podcasts feel like casual conversations, which young people relate to much more."

Television interviews, they argue, seem like hostile interrogations. Podcasts, by contrast, offer what Sameer calls a canvas. Not ownership over the final cut—both hosts reject that idea—but a sense that the storyteller is not actively trying to trap you.

"The host is not Khaled Mohiuddin. The host is not a prosecutor," Sameer said. "The host is someone who will push back—but only so far."

Hasnat Abdullah, an NCP candidate for the Cumilla-4 (Debidwar) constituency in the upcoming national election, was more blunt.

"The traditional media has an agenda," he said. "Many outlets are tied to corporate or political interests. Podcasts, on the other hand, feel far more neutral and less partial. That's why we feel more comfortable speaking there."

Jamaat-e-Islami candidate Mir Ahmad Bin Quasem Arman, contesting from Dhaka-14, is also considering podcasts as part of his campaign strategy, according to his personal secretary. Podcasts, he said, offer a more casual, less formal space for longer and more frank discussions, unlike television talk shows, where time constraints often cut conversations short. Podcasts are now younger audiences' source of political content.

This distinction matters. As Ramjan puts it, "Politicians—especially younger ones or those outside entrenched power—do not trust mainstream media to treat them fairly." They assume bias because they see bias. And in that vacuum of trust, podcasts appear safer, warmer, more human.

The power of comfort

There is a reason these interviews feel different.

In a television studio, a politician sits under bright lights in a cavernous room, surrounded by technicians, producers, and senior editors. Language becomes stiff. Humour disappears. "Guards go up," as Sameer put it.

In a podcast studio, there are two people behind the camera. The room is small. The conversation stretches for an hour. Slang slips in. Laughter becomes possible. Eventually, performance gives way to personality.

"In mainstream media, political appearances must compete with multiple segments and voices within a fixed broadcast cycle. There is limited scope to give special focus to one individual. Podcasts, by contrast, are usually built around a single guest or episode. They can focus entirely on the guest — a level of uninterrupted attention that is rare on television and highly appealing to politicians."

Usama Rafid, Media analyst

Both Sameer and Ramjan deliberately begin with light questions. This is not incompetence; it is strategy. Comfort is the entry point. Once a guest relaxes, harder questions can follow—without breaking the conversational spell.

"A podcast is a whole conversation," Ramjan said. "We start from childhood and move into politics—the ups, the downs. A leader can actually explain why people should vote for them."

This is also why politicians dress differently. Hoodies instead of panjabis. Jerseys instead of suits. These are not accidents but visual signals aimed squarely at Gen-Z—a voting bloc that does not watch television and does not trust newspapers, but does follow creators.

Podcast also has a humanising power, echoes both the hosts. 

"Traditional media interrogates. Podcasts humanise," Sameer said. On television, no one asks about a leader's family, insecurities, or personal influences. On podcasts, those questions arise naturally—and reshape perception. Accusations may not disappear, but they soften. Voters recalibrate.

"They don't get that space on TV," Ramjan explained. "There, everything becomes a fight. Here, people listen."

"Political legitimacy is now sustained less by formal credibility than by narrative consistency and emotional alignment," Chowdhury observed.

The new gatekeepers—and their risks

Chowdhury warns that while traditional media's monopoly over gatekeeping has weakened, gatekeeping itself has not disappeared. "Power has shifted to platforms, algorithms, and a small number of influential creators," he said.

Podcasters now occupy a space journalists once did—but without institutional protection. There are no legal teams, no editorial boards, no layers of review. Everything rests on self-accountability.

"When political narratives circulate outside institutional journalism," Chowdhury added, "space opens for dissenting voices—but the absence of editorial protection also makes political expression more vulnerable to misinformation and post-hoc criminalisation."

Ramjan is acutely aware of this risk. "Politicians want to establish their narrative," he said. "That's always the danger. So podcasters have to be careful that a false narrative isn't established."

"I won't say I can verify everything 100 percent, but I try," Ramjan added. Sameer acknowledged past missteps, including a joke that came off as misogynistic. "I learned from that mistake."

Both hosts admit the limits of their political expertise and say errors occasionally surface—clips that should not have been released, jokes that were funny but dangerous, moments where a censorship team—had one existed—would likely have intervened.

The cost of those mistakes is real.

Sameer recounts receiving death threats, having his National ID leaked, his phone number circulated, and his private photos weaponised. In two days, he received more than a thousand calls. He is blunt about why he has been able to withstand it, "I am just 23, single, with no children."

Ramjan tells a similar story. Platform a polarising figure, and the blowback does not hit the politician—it hits the host. Online trolling, mental exhaustion, fear of escalation—informal pressures that never appear on balance sheets, yet define daily life.

Control, money, and ownership

There is another pressure: control.

Some ask to see the cut before the release. Some request edits. In one case, a foreign PR team sat through the editing process. The host resisted—but had to compromise.

"This is the paradox," Ramjan said. "They trust you because you're independent—but they test that independence constantly."

Money hovers over everything. Both hosts insist they have never taken money from guests, though offers are frequent: mid-tier MPs, sponsorship overtures, quiet attempts to influence.

More worrying, Ramjan describes a new kind of consolidation—wealthy figures buying multiple "bite-sized" media outlets, positioning themselves as neutral while quietly accumulating narrative power.

"This isn't old-school censorship," he said. "It's structural pressure. Soft. Invisible."

A global playbook, a local experiment

What is unfolding in Bangladesh is not an isolated media shift.

"We've also seen podcasts become a very successful form of political communication in the Western world," Rifat noted. "Those trends are coming here. Since our candidate is focused on the younger generation, podcasts make sense."

When Donald Trump sat for a marathon interview on The Joe Rogan Experience, it became a mass-media event, underscoring how podcasts can bypass legacy gatekeepers and reach millions in a single sitting.

In the United States, podcast appearances have become central to campaigning. Candidates increasingly choose hours-long conversations over hostile studio debates because those spaces allow them to control tone, display personality, and speak directly to audiences who no longer consume legacy news.

That same logic was closely watched by Bangladeshis during New York City's mayoral race, where Bangladeshi "aunties" canvassed relentlessly in Bangla, organised community kitchens, translated campaign messages, and turned cultural trust into political momentum. Politics, it seemed, now moved through informal, relational networks as much as through institutions.

Bangladeshi political actors appear to be learning the same lesson.

Yet there is a crucial difference. In the US, this shift occurred within stronger legal protections and clearer media norms. In Bangladesh, the move to podcasts is unfolding in a far more fragile environment—marked by threats, data leaks, editorial pressure, and concentrated media ownership.

What comes next

Sameer predicts his platform alone will reach 100 million views in the final stretch before the election. Ramjan echoes the scale. Politicians already believe it—and that belief is why their PR teams keep calling. The question is no longer whether podcasts will shape political perception in Bangladesh. They already do. The real question is whether this new ecosystem will mature into something accountable—or collapse under pressure, money, and fear.

For now, the studio remains small. The cameras remain few. The conversations remain dangerously human.

"I tell every politician: you came on my show and promised these things," Ramjan said. "I'll call you back in three years and check on the ground if you actually did anything. They say 'OK' on the mic—but we'll see if they come back."