Alas, Bangladesh!
We won you through rivers of blood in 1971—a nation born of sacrifice and unyielding resolve. Yet today, brought low by the colossal misdeeds of Professor Dr Muhammad Yunus and his disastrous entourage since 8 August 2020, you now teeter on the brink of collapse. What was once a promise forged in fire now falters under the weight of betrayal and unchecked ambition.
Beneath the carefully curated image of benevolence and moral gravitas lies a veiled character—one that subtly yearns to abdicate responsibility while retaining reverence. Dr Yunus cloaks his desire to step down not in candid confession but in the ornate garb of public service fatigue and righteous detachment. What unfolds is less an act of honest disengagement and more a meticulously staged withdrawal—a performance where power is renounced in gesture but preserved in influence.
In this quiet theatre of calculated retreat, his resignation whispers rather than declares—masked in humility but steeped in the irony of control. It is, in truth, a parody of power: the theatrics of rule and the erosion of trust. A drama in which the act of leaving becomes a means of lingering.
Bangladesh today stands at a perilous crossroads—governed not by constitutional mandate, but seemingly by the law of the jungle under an unlawful and puppet administration fronted by Professor Dr Muhammad Yunus, installed by the malevolent nexus of America and Pakistan and their dire progeny.
As someone who has meticulously observed the political tides of Bangladesh since 1966, I speak with the solemnity of lived history. On 23 May, I journeyed across the nerve centres of Dhaka—from the residence of the Chief Adviser at Jamuna to Kakrail, Shahbagh, Dhaka University, the airport, and the Dhaka Cantonment, which I call home. Despite the palpable tension in the air, the city bore little sign of military preparedness. The army’s presence was nominal—an eerie calm that, in its silence, spoke volumes.
This reflection is penned in urgency, not by a political figure, but by a deeply troubled senior citizen of this nation.
On the evening of 21 May 2025, Dr Yunus dramatically hinted at resignation, citing political gridlock and an inability to fulfil his duties. But this, I argue, is not an act of principled withdrawal—it is a meticulously staged melodrama designed to evoke sympathy while diverting scrutiny. It is his latest production: a tragicomedy titled Resignation, choreographed with surgical precision by a man far more attuned to performance than governance.
Once revered in the West as a Nobel laureate and microfinance pioneer, Dr Yunus has revealed himself as a scholar tragically miscast in the role of a statesman. His ascension to power—facilitated by a shadowy coalition of the CIA, Pakistan’s ISI, and their local collaborators—followed the ousting of Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina on 5 August 2024, amid cloak-and-dagger student-led protests. That bloodless coup was not an organic uprising but a foreign-orchestrated seizure of sovereignty.
His government, installed on 8 August 2024, serves American interests far more than the Bangladeshi people. Today, Dr Yunus appears more committed to theatrical retreat than to the hard labour of reform. His farcical whispers of resignation are not born of conscience but calculation. His most loyal domestic supporters are none other than the Jamaat-e-Islami mass murderers of 1971 and their present ideological heirs and killing squads—reared by Yunus to cling to power. The people of Bangladesh know this well.
His lament—“What use is this office if I am held hostage?”—is not the existential cry of a Hamlet but the rehearsed line of a seasoned actor stalling for applause. This is not statesmanship. It is grotesque parody. His failure to unify the country, to offer electoral clarity, or to command the respect of institutions speaks not of bad luck but of bad leadership. Worse, he has been deputed to Bangladesh solely to safeguard the geopolitical interests of Uncle Sam—nothing else.
The man who once inspired grassroots change now clutches the helm of a paralysed administration—a sandcastle crumbling beneath rising tides. His murmurs of exit are a bluff, not a bow. He clings to power under the guise of reluctant sacrifice.
Let us be unequivocal: this unlawful interim regime has failed. Extremist factions disrupt Dhaka daily. Misinformation floods the media. Political forces grow more belligerent, the economy stutters, and the nation’s patience thins. And amid all this, Yunus indulges in theatrical laments instead of decisive action.
What began as a transitional experiment has devolved into a tragic opera of missed opportunities. The people cried out for a guardian of democracy. Instead, they were handed a ghost—visible yet absent, speaking yet silent.
In contrast stands General Waker-Uz-Zaman, though widely regarded as ineffectual, who has nonetheless called boldly for elections by December 2025. Whether one agrees with the general or not, his clarity pierces the fog of Yunus’s equivocations. Dr Yunus, meanwhile, recoils from confrontation, opting instead for the safety of platitudes.
Bangladesh deserves not theatrics but truth. Not puppetry, but principle. Dr Yunus has been an unsteady steward of this nation’s fragile transition. The regime under his watch—propped up by the CIA and enforced through a dubious alliance with radical local forces—has not just lost its way. It has lost its soul.
The true motive behind Sheikh Hasina’s removal lies in her principled refusal to allow a US military base on Saint Martin’s Island—an outpost that would give Washington strategic leverage over Southeast and East Asia. Her resistance to this neocolonial encroachment sealed her fate. And in her place, foreign powers installed a man more pliant, more accommodating, and ultimately more willing to mortgage Bangladesh’s sovereignty for Western approval.
Let us not be deceived. Dr Yunus cannot—and will not—step down until those foreign interests are fulfilled. Should he defy them, he too may be cast aside. History is littered with such cautionary tales.
This regime has outlived its purpose and broken every promise. The farce of resignation will not redeem it. Dr Yunus’s theatrics might grab headlines today, but they will not shelter him from history’s judgment tomorrow.
Let the curtain fall. Let a new chapter begin—one not written in backrooms by foreign handlers, but shaped in public squares by patriotic voices. Bangladesh does not need a dramatist at the helm. It needs a democrat.
This so-called interim government—propped up by the army and Jamaat-e-Islami, and enforced with the blessing of foreign intelligence—has no constitutional legitimacy. Sheikh Hasina did not resign; she was exiled under duress by a rogue army chief taking orders from afar. What now rules Dhaka is not democracy—it is despotism cloaked in diplomatic doublespeak.
As someone who stood in the trenches of the 1971 Liberation War, I pledge to echo the eternal chants of Joy Bangla, Joy Bangabandhu, and Joytu Sheikh Hasina until my final breath. I await her return. Because when a nation forgets its liberators, it risks being enslaved once more—not by rifles, but by rhetoric.
If the new generation misunderstands Sheikh Hasina, the burden of regret will fall not on her legacy, but on their own conscience—if they still possess one, unlike the foreign powers who orchestrated this shameful debacle.
