Bangladesh was not merely created—it was forged in an inferno of suffering, sacrifice, and indomitable courage. Its birth in 1971 arose from rivers of blood, from the anguished cries of mothers, and from the unyielding resolve of a people who refused to submit to tyranny. The Bangladesh Liberation War was not a simple political rupture; it was a profound moral fight against the barbarity of the Pakistani military regime and the treachery of its local collaborators, most notoriously the cadres of Jamaat-e-Islami. That sacred struggle defined not only the sovereignty of the nation but also the ethical spine upon which Bangladesh stands today.
Yet, more than five decades after independence, a disquieting shadow looms over the republic. The ideological descendants of those very collaborators—sometimes cloaked under new political identities such as the so-called National Citizen Party—continue to re-emerge along with the Jamaat-e-Islami mass-murderers of 1971 and 2024 within the national political arena. Their presence is not merely a matter of electoral arithmetic; it is a deeply unsettling affront to the moral conscience of the nation.
The national elections held on 12 February 2026 delivered a decisive parliamentary configuration. The Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) secured 209 seats, Jamaat-e-Islami obtained 68 seats, and the National Citizen Party (NCP) claimed 6 seats in the Jatiya Sangsad. Such an outcome, when viewed through the prism of history, raises grave and unavoidable questions: Can those whose ideological lineage is entwined with betrayal legitimately occupy seats within the very institution that embodies the sovereignty born of resistance against that betrayal?
The term “Rajakar” is not a relic of the past to be casually invoked or politically diluted. It is a word steeped in the unbearable weight of treachery. During the Liberation War, Rajakars actively aided the Pakistani occupation forces in their brutal campaign to crush the Bengali aspiration for freedom. They were complicit in atrocities that included mass killings, systematic persecution, and the attempted annihilation of Bengali cultural and national identity.
Even today, the mere utterance of the word evokes deep national trauma. It is not simply a label—it is a moral indictment. And yet, disturbingly, many who are associated, directly or ideologically, with that dark legacy continue to evade acknowledgment of their historical culpability. Their rhetoric often betrays an enduring ambivalence toward the very sovereignty of Bangladesh, at times appearing tethered to a narrative that stands in stark opposition to the spirit of 1971.
For a nation that paid such an immeasurable price for its freedom, the parliament must stand as the ultimate custodian of its founding ideals. It is not merely a legislative chamber; it is the sanctified embodiment of justice, dignity, and unwavering allegiance to the Liberation War’s ethos. Every seat within it carries the moral inheritance of the martyrs who sacrificed their lives so that Bangladesh might exist as a free and sovereign nation.
To permit the infiltration—whether overt or disguised—of collaborationist ideology into this sacred institution is to inflict a profound wound upon that inheritance. It is not simply a political anomaly; it is a moral crisis.
When citizens raise their voices in protest, questioning the presence or normalization of such elements within the political sphere, they are not engaging in partisan rhetoric. They are articulating a deeper ethical alarm. Their voices echo the unresolved demands of history itself—a demand for truth, accountability, and fidelity to the nation’s founding principles.
Bangladesh’s political culture has been indelibly shaped by the legacy of 1971. Generations have grown up immersed in narratives of heroism, sacrifice, and resistance. The Liberation War is not an abstract chapter in history; it is the living heartbeat of the nation’s identity. It is commemorated in classrooms, enshrined in memorials, and celebrated in cultural expressions that continually reaffirm the values upon which the country was built.
However, the passage of time has also ushered in attempts to obscure, reinterpret, or dilute that sacred legacy. The resurgence of political actors linked to anti-liberation ideology represents one of the most troubling manifestations of this trend. When such individuals or groups ascend to positions of national authority, the public reaction is often one of profound indignation—and rightly so. A nation forged through sacrifice cannot remain indifferent to the normalization of those who once stood in opposition to its very birth.
The parliament of Bangladesh is not an ordinary institution. It is a symbolic citadel of sovereignty, a temple of democratic ideals. Its sanctity must be preserved with unwavering vigilance. To allow it to become a refuge for ideologies rooted in betrayal is to erode the very foundation upon which the republic stands.
This issue transcends the boundaries of political rivalry. It strikes at the core of historical truth and moral integrity. If the memory of 1971 becomes negotiable—if the distinction between heroism and betrayal is blurred—then the moral compass of the nation itself begins to falter.
History offers stark warnings in this regard. Nations that lose sight of their founding sacrifices often descend into moral ambiguity and collective amnesia. When the guardians of a nation’s legacy fail to uphold its truths, the door is opened to cynicism, distortion, and eventual decay.
Bangladesh must not tread that perilous path.
The people of this land have repeatedly demonstrated their steadfast commitment to the ideals of the Liberation War. Through protests, cultural movements, and public discourse, they have reaffirmed their determination to defend the dignity of their nation’s history. Even today, the resounding declaration that “there is no place for Rajakars in the land of 1971” continues to echo across universities, streets, and public forums.
This enduring sentiment reflects an unassailable truth: the moral memory of a nation cannot be extinguished.
Parliament, therefore, must remain a fortress of that memory. It must embody the principles of sacrifice, freedom, justice, and unwavering patriotism. While political pluralism is the lifeblood of democracy, loyalty to the nation’s founding ideals must remain non-negotiable.
To question the presence of Rajakars within the political sphere is patriotism in its most exalted form.
The martyrs of 1971 did not envision a Bangladesh where the shadows of betrayal would sit beside the guardians of freedom. They dreamed of a nation unwavering in its principles, proud of its history, and resolute in its defense of truth.
If the parliament is to truly represent the will and dignity of the people, it must rise to this moral challenge without hesitation.
For the soul of Bangladesh demands nothing less.
Joy Bangla. Joy Bangabandhu.
