While it is said, power tests a man – it reveals not only what he believes, but whom he believes in – and today, the question before Prime Minister Tarique Rahman is not merely political—it is moral, institutional, and deeply historical: Will his government allow Bangladesh Army officers to be led to the gallows under verdicts tainted by political vengeance of the regime of Muhammad Yunus? Or will it restore justice where justice was denied?

To understand the weight of this moment, one must revisit the preceding years—years that did not just bruise the republic, but strained one of its most critical institutions: the Bangladesh Army.

During the prolonged rule of Sheikh Hasina, the army was not merely sidelined; segments of it were systematically pressured, monitored, and in some cases humiliated. Officers were subjected to arbitrary disciplinary measures. Careers were derailed. Promotions stalled. Intelligence agencies were weaponized internally. The objective was not discipline—it was control. Sheikh Hasina and some of the mighty figures in her administration absolutely ignored the crucial point – a professional army, after all, is a pillar of sovereignty. A politicized army becomes a tool.

Then came the interim administration led by Muhammad Yunus—which promised neutrality, rule of law and reform. Yet, for many within the armed forces, it delivered something far more troubling. Several army officers were brought before the ‘International Crimes Tribunal’ (ICT) that bore all the markings of what critics have called “kangaroo courts.” These proceedings, allegedly influenced by elements aligned with Jamaat-e-Islami – an offshoot of Muslim Brotherhood, raised grave concerns about due process. Verdicts appeared predetermined. Evidence was contested. Legal representation was constrained. Justice, in appearance at least, seemed subordinate to ideology. Most importantly, much before the ICT began trial processes, massive propaganda was run on social media as well as a selected media outlets – thus defaming the accused army officers and even demonizing the very institution – Bangladesh Army as well as country’s apex intelligence agencies such as the Directorate General of Forces Intelligence (DGFI). Large amount of cash was spent towards well-orchestrated campaign with the dangerous agenda of portraying Bangladesh Army and DGFI as “enemies of the people” while some of the Jamaat-e-Islami connected individuals – including some retired army officers went further by publicly demanding of dismantling DGFI and replace Bangladesh Army with ‘Islamic Revolutionary Army’ (IRA), a xerox project of Iran’s notorious Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC).

Now, the February 12 election has changed the political landscape. The voters delivered a sweeping mandate to Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) under leadership of Tarique Rahman. That mandate carries with it not only hope for economic reform and governance stability, but also the expectation of institutional fairness. Tarique Rahman’s personal history that deepens expectation. He is, after all, the son of a military family. His late mother, Khaleda Zia, was widely regarded within military circles as a guardian figure—someone who understood the army’s ethos and respected its professional boundaries.

This is not sentimentality. It is a political and core heart-touching memory. And memory matters.

The Prime Minister’s first executive signature after assuming office was not on a populist subsidy, nor on a diplomatic communiqué. It was on the formation of an investigation commission into the killing of army officers during the 2009 BDR massacre—formally known as the Bangladesh Rifles mutiny. That decision signaled something profound: a recognition that unresolved wounds within the armed forces cannot be papered over with rhetoric.

It is worth recalling that a commission had previously been formed during the Yunus administration, led by Major General Fazlur Rahman. Yet its findings were widely criticized as selective and politically shaded. For many within the military community, it felt less like a search for truth and more like an exercise in narrative management. A reinvestigation, therefore, is not redundancy; it is a corrective.

But the stakes extend beyond one massacre.

During the tenure of the interim regime of Muhammad Yunus, multiple officers faced charges before the International Crimes Tribunal. Supporters of the prosecutions argued they were pursuing accountability. Critics countered that the tribunal had become ideologically captured, staffed and influenced by activists sympathetic to Jamaat-e-Islami. If justice is to be credible, it must not only be done; it must be seen to be done. A tribunal perceived as partisan cannot command the respect of the institution it judges.

There is an additional and unsettling dimension. Allegations persist that foreign intelligence actors—particularly from Pakistan—have sought to exploit domestic political fractures to discredit Bangladesh’s armed forces. The shadow of 1971 has never entirely faded. For Islamabad, the humiliation of defeat remains a historical scar. To undermine the professional reputation of the Bangladesh Army through politicized trials would be, in strategic terms, a subtle form of revenge. Whether these allegations are fully substantiated or not, they underscore the necessity of airtight judicial integrity.

Also consider cases like the Narayanganj seven murder episode, in which military personnel were implicated amid fierce political contestation. Subsequent revelations suggested that elements within the then-ruling establishment may have manipulated narratives to shield partisan allies. When prosecutions are perceived as shields for the powerful and swords against the inconvenient, faith in justice erodes—inside barracks as much as outside.

None of this is an argument for impunity. Armies, like governments, must be accountable. Officers who commit crimes should face consequences. But accountability requires standards: transparent evidence, impartial judges, competent defense, and insulation from political winds. A state that cannot distinguish between justice and vengeance ultimately weakens itself.

Prime Minister Tarique Rahman now stands at a crossroads. His electoral mandate is substantial. His political capital is high. He could allow existing processes to run their course, citing judicial independence, even if those processes are widely questioned. Or he could initiate structural reforms: review panels composed of respected jurists, international observers where appropriate, and procedural safeguards that restore confidence.

The armed forces, for their part, are not asking for privilege. They are asking for fairness. For those imprisoned under dubious circumstances, for those on death row amid contested verdicts, and for families who believe their loved ones were sacrificed to political expediency, the difference between delay and decisive action is existential.

History offers cautionary tales. Nations that humiliate their professional militaries for short-term political gain often discover that institutional resentment festers. Conversely, nations that uphold the rule of law—even when politically inconvenient—strengthen both civilian supremacy and military professionalism. The choice is not between democracy and the army. It is between politicization and principle.

There is, too, a symbolic dimension. Khaleda Zia’s legacy within segments of the armed forces is not merely about policy; it is about perceived loyalty. If her son as Prime Minister is seen to abandon officers to verdicts clouded by bias, the psychological rupture could be profound. If, however, he ensures transparent and credible justice—whether that results in acquittals or convictions—he will have fortified both his leadership and the republic.

The question posed at the outset is stark for a reason. Gallows are irreversible. Judicial errors, once consummated, cannot be amended with apologies. A death sentence carried out under a flawed process becomes a permanent indictment of the state.

Mr. Prime Minister, your signature has already reopened an old investigation. That was a start. But starts are not conclusions. The men in uniform, past and present, are watching—not for favoritism, but for fairness. The nation is watching, too, to see whether its new government understands that justice is the bedrock upon which legitimacy stands. Mandates expire. Institutions endure. Choose wisely.

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