Democracy detox or authoritarian déjà vu?

On 12 May, the interim government officially banned the Awami League and all its affiliate organisations under the Anti-Terrorism Act. The ban will stay in effect till the trials of the leaders of AL and its affiliate organisations are complete, reads a gazette notification. 

The notification states that all activities by the AL and its affiliates will remain banned "until the trial of the leaders and activists of Bangladesh Awami League and all its subsidiary organisations, associate organisations and fraternal organisations is completed at the International Crimes Tribunal."

The ban covers all activities, including any kind of publication, campaign on media, online and social media, procession, meeting, gathering, conference, etc. This will be effective immediately.

So, the Anti-Terrorism Act has been amended. Apparently, when Bangladesh rewrites history, it does so in all caps, with national security in italics. And banning Awami League under an anti-terror law is democracy's long-overdue detox—or just legalised paranoia with a press release.

The amended law allows for the prosecution of political organisations as entities—not for planning bombings or running militant camps, but for allegedly "abetting" acts of terror. Not corruption. Not ballot-stuffing. Not extrajudicial murder. Terrorism. Because apparently, when Bangladesh rewrites history, it does so in all caps—with national security in italics.

The timing isn't subtle. The Awami League is already banned. The streets are still recovering from the July 2024 uprising, where hundreds of student protestors were killed, and public memory is still raw. And now, the state is reaching for the most dramatic legal tool in the drawer—not a corruption tribunal, not an electoral commission, not a public inquiry—but counterterrorism legislation.

This, we are told, is a "measured response."

That phrase—"measured response"—has been doing a lot of work lately. Alongside its cousins: calibrated, targeted, and in the public interest. That last one, by the way, has done more heavy lifting in Bangladesh than the entire Roads and Highways Department combined. If you ever want to justify anything—from banning a book to arresting a cartoonist—just say it was in the public interest and watch all objections disappear like budget allocations in a flood.

Let's be clear: no one is weeping for the Awami League's political downfall. A party that ruled like monarchy in a Mujib coat, ran elections like staged parades, and turned courtrooms into partisan echo chambers does not get to cry "rule of law" when the curtain finally falls.

But justice is not a moral see-saw. It's not supposed to be karmic theatre. It's not a tool to avenge public rage—it's a standard to protect public rights. And that's where this amendment gets murky.

Because once you redefine "terrorism" to include a logo, a manifesto, and a handful of leftover posters from the last bad rally, what's next? Will we start prosecuting political parties for poorly worded slogans? Will MPs be arrested for metaphors? Will calling for reform be considered "digital subversion"?

The legal grey zones baked into this amendment are not bugs—they're features. The wording is deliberately broad. Abetment could mean funding. Or hosting a rally. Or sharing a hashtag. Or failing to denounce a protest quickly enough. There is no clear threshold of harm, no binding standard of intent. Which means enforcement will depend on who's in power—and who's out of favour. That is not legal reform. That's curated legality.

What this amendment signals is a broader shift: a move away from rule of law and toward rule by discretion. A system where legality is not determined by principles, but by preferences. Where justice doesn't flow from constitutional norms, but from "calibrated" announcements at press briefings.

And yes, we could argue that desperate times call for desperate laws. That Bangladesh is navigating its most volatile moment in decades. That the July Uprising revealed just how thin the line is between democratic mobilisation and state collapse.

But even in crisis, you don't defend democracy by skipping the messy bits called due process, proportionality, and legal clarity. You don't restore constitutional order by expanding the state's power to silence opposition. And you certainly don't rebuild public trust with warrantless arrests and party-wide indictments.

Because that's what the amendment does. It now allows law enforcement to investigate and potentially imprison leadership—not for what they did, but for what someone affiliated with their party might have done. It moves us from individual culpability to collective suspicion. And that, in any legal system, is a dangerous slope coated in the oil of political convenience. What could have happened instead?

Because once you redefine "threat to national security" to include a logo, a slogan, and some leftover posters, what's next? Will we start prosecuting parties for bad manifestos? Arrest MPs for metaphors?

The government could have embedded this amendment in a transitional justice roadmap: one that prosecuted individual crimes, documented state violence, created truth commissions, and set clear institutional reforms. But instead of presenting a vision for post-AL governance, the state reached for the bluntest tool in its legal arsenal and asked us to trust that it's all for the greater good.

But vague promises and "enhanced governance mechanisms" are not enough.

Because the public is watching—not just NCP or BNP supporters or disillusioned student protestors, but the mothers of the disappeared, the teachers who were fired for clapping at the wrong rally, the young organisers whose faces are still on police watchlists.

To them, this isn't about which party got banned or which law got amended.

It's about whether this moment leads to a democracy rebuilt—or just rebranded.

And if the government wants to be taken seriously, it has to offer more than catchphrases and clean-ups. It needs to define what comes next. Who it will protect—not just who it will prosecute. What it will build—not just what it will ban. Because a "measured response" means nothing if there's no measurement. And a national reset means nothing if the same methods are reloaded under a new flag.

So yes, the Anti-Terrorism Act has been amended. And yes, it may be legally sound in structure. But the test is not whether the law can be written. It's whether it can be trusted. And right now, with vagueness weaponised and public confidence in short supply, that trust is wearing thin.

And until then, the question will remain: are we in the middle of a democratic detox—or just authoring a new kind of déjà vu?

Noshin Nawal is a UK-based barrister, columnist, and political satirist.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.