Beneath the Facade of Democracy

For years, many in Bangladesh lived under the shadow of authoritarianism without calling it by its name. People felt the fear, the surveillance, the silencing of dissent, but few dared to speak of fascism. It was a word too dangerous, too loaded, too close to the truth. Speaking it out loud risked consequences. So it was whispered, or not said at all.

But after July 2024, that silence broke. The events of that month jolted the nation’s political conscience. The uprising did not come from nowhere. It was the culmination of years of frustration, years of quiet suffering under a system that had grown increasingly repressive while preserving the façade of democracy. What happened on the streets was not just opposition to a single party. It was a reckoning with a political reality that many had been forced to deny or ignore. And in that reckoning, one word surfaced again and again: fascism.

To some, that label might sound excessive. But it is a question worth asking. What do you call it when dissent is punished, elections are hollowed out, surveillance is normalized, and loyalty is demanded above accountability? Across Bangladesh, particularly among the younger generation, there is a growing sense that what we are experiencing is not just political dysfunction. It is something deeper. It is something more dangerous.

Fascism is a word that often reappears in modern discourse, sometimes thrown around carelessly, other times used with urgency. Some dismiss it as outdated. Others see it as a warning. The uncomfortable truth is that fascism never disappeared. It adapted. It does not always arrive wearing boots or shouting slogans. Sometimes it stands at podiums, appears on ballots, and wraps itself in patriotic language. It speaks of law and order. It promises stability. It asks for loyalty. And if we are not paying attention, we might miss the quiet return of something that once tore nations apart.

At its heart, fascism is about absolute and unquestioned power. It thrives on division. It elevates a leader or a party to something untouchable. It demands conformity, silences dissent, and scapegoats the vulnerable. It wears nationalism like armor and promotes loyalty over liberty. In history, fascism looked like Mussolini’s parades and Hitler’s fanaticism. Today, it appears more polished, speaking the language of government, posting tweets in its favor, releasing press briefings, and delivering campaign speeches that justify every authoritarian decision. But the underlying contempt for pluralism, dissent, and democratic accountability remains unchanged.

This is precisely the scenario we witnessed under former Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina’s regime. It often promoted itself with slogans of development and economic progress. But behind that polished public image lay a pattern that echoed a darker political tradition. Crackdowns on free speech, mass arrests of opposition figures, manipulated elections, and the silencing of journalists are not the signs of a healthy democracy—they are warnings. What makes them especially dangerous is how normalized they have become. For many, this is just politics as usual. But that is exactly how fascism operates. It doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it whispers.

This erosion of democratic norms did not begin overnight. Sheikh Hasina once stood as a symbol of resistance in a country emerging from military rule. She inspired a generation that believed democracy could take root in Bangladesh. Her rivalry with the opposing political force energized public life and brought people into the streets, hopeful that something better could be built.

But over the decades, the spirit of that early idealism faded. Politics hardened into personal vendettas, and democratic institutions became tools for consolidating and preserving power. By 2024, more than fifteen years into Sheikh Hasina’s unbroken grip on power, the system no longer served the people; it served those who ruled over it. The July protests were not a rejection of Bangladesh’s political history but a reckoning with what that history had become: a democracy hollowed out by dominance, shrinking space for dissent, and a pervasive climate of fear.

The rise of two-party dominance came at a high cost. Institutions meant to guarantee accountability were steadily weakened. Power became a zero-sum game. Corruption was no longer incidental; it became embedded in the structure itself. Governance turned into theater, more concerned with optics than outcomes. While one side clung to power through repression and control, the other fueled a politics of grievance without offering a real alternative. Both contributed to the erosion.

The public, caught between these forces, lost faith. Disillusionment deepened. Fatigue set in. And then came July 2024. This moment was no longer about party lines; it was about survival. About citizens realizing they were trapped in a system that no longer represented them, a system where democracy was little more than performance

This story is not unique to Bangladesh. Contexts differ, but the patterns can look eerily similar. Across the world, leaders have exploited fear, disillusionment, and inequality to consolidate power. Hasina and other leaders may seem worlds apart, but they operate within systems that reward populist authoritarianism. The return of strongman politics is not an accident. It is a global symptom of broken promises and weakened civic life.

In Bangladesh, fascism is not a stranger. Military regimes, one-party governments, and states of emergency have all left their marks. And by 2024, it was no longer military strongmen but fascist regimes cloaked in electoral legitimacy, using the structures of democracy to entrench power. Laws like the Digital Security Act do more than restrict speech; they criminalize dissent. Surveillance is pervasive, and fear has become part of daily life. Perhaps the most insidious development is the hijacking of democratic language. Elections still take place, but without fair competition, meaningful opposition, or transparency, what do they truly represent?

We need to care about this because fascism, in any form, is a threat to everyone. It does not matter where it appears or what language it speaks. It always ends the same way: with silenced voices, broken institutions, and crushed hopes. Its danger lies in how convincingly it can present itself as progress. As safety. As national pride. By the time people realize what they have accepted, resistance becomes much harder.

That resistance must start with recognition. We do not need to agree on every issue to agree on some basic truths. Power must always be questioned. Freedom of expression must always be protected. Democracy must be more than a ritual we perform every election cycle. Whether in Dhaka or Delhi, in Warsaw or Washington, fascism is no longer a relic of history. It is present. It is evolving. And if we fail to name it, we allow it to grow stronger in the shadows.