There are moments in political history when ambition disguises itself as reform. It speaks the language of stability, of cleansing the system, of rescuing democracy from its own excesses. Yet beneath that polished rhetoric often lies something far less noble: the calculated removal of rivals to secure power without contest. Bangladesh, it seems, may be approaching such a moment again.

The recent remarks by Asif Mahmoud Shojib Bhuiyan hint at the re-emergence of an old but dangerous idea—the so-called “minus-two” formula, a concept rooted in the belief that the country’s political future can only be secured by removing its two dominant forces: the Awami League and the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP). It is a theory that has surfaced before, most notably during the caretaker government era of 2007–08, and it failed then for a simple reason: politics abhors a vacuum.

Yet what makes the current iteration more troubling is the alleged quiet orchestration behind it—an effort that, if the claims hold weight, extends beyond Bangladesh’s borders and into the murky interplay of international influence, lobbying, and covert alignment.

At the center of these allegations stands Muhammad Yunus, a figure globally celebrated for his contributions to microfinance, but increasingly viewed within domestic political circles as a power monger or mercenary of foreign actors. The claim is not merely that Yunus seeks political relevance. That, in itself, would be neither surprising nor unprecedented. Rather, it is that he is attempting to reshape the political landscape in such a way that his emergence becomes not just possible, but inevitable.

History offers a cautionary tale here. External backing has often tempted political actors in smaller states to believe they can bypass domestic legitimacy. From Iran in 1953 to more recent experiments in engineered transitions, the pattern is familiar: outside encouragement creates the illusion of inevitability, but rarely delivers durable governance. Bangladesh, with its deeply rooted political identities, is unlikely to prove an exception.

The allegation that Yunus is leveraging connections in Washington and Islamabad to pressure the current BNP-led government into banning the Awami League as a “terrorist organization” should therefore be viewed through this historical lens. Such a move would not merely sideline a rival; it would effectively disenfranchise a substantial portion of the electorate. Democracies do not stabilize by erasing opposition. They fracture.

More striking still is the suggestion of a coordinated lobbying effort aimed at the United States Congress—an attempt to introduce sanctions against Sheikh Hasina, her associates, and institutions like the Directorate General of Forces Intelligence (DGFI) on allegations for “committing crimes against humanity” during the July-August uprising. Sanctions, in international politics, are seldom neutral instruments. They are political signals, often shaped as much by advocacy as by evidence.

If true, such efforts would reflect a broader strategy: internationalize domestic political battles to gain leverage at home. It is a risky game. Once external actors become arbiters of internal legitimacy, sovereignty begins to erode—not dramatically, but incrementally, through precedent.

Equally revealing is the digital dimension of this alleged campaign. The activation of a coordinated propaganda network—thousands of automated accounts designed to amplify a singular narrative—speaks to the modern battlefield of politics: perception. To present one figure as a “messiah” while branding established parties as “rogue forces” is not merely messaging; it is an attempt to redefine political reality itself.

We have seen this before, too. From Eastern Europe to South Asia, digital manipulation has become the preferred tool of those who lack broad-based grassroots support but seek rapid legitimacy. It creates noise, not consensus. And noise, however loud, cannot substitute for political depth.

The targeting of the BNP government through these channels—leveraging public frustrations over energy shortages, road safety, and law enforcement issues—follows a familiar script. Identify real grievances. Amplify them disproportionately. Attach them to a singular narrative of systemic failure. Then present an alternative figure as the only credible solution. It is not new politics. It is simply politics accelerated by technology.

Perhaps the most intriguing—and troubling—aspect of the allegations concerns Yunus’s reported meeting in Tokyo, where he is said to have engaged with a Western intermediary alongside an undercover officer linked to Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence. If accurate, this would point to a convergence of interests that transcends ideology. Intelligence agencies do not involve themselves in foreign political transitions out of charity. They act with purpose, often strategic, sometimes disruptive.

Pakistan’s historical engagement in regional politics has rarely been passive. Nor, for that matter, has Washington’s. To suggest that Bangladesh could become another theater for this interplay is not alarmist—it is consistent with precedent.

Yet even if one discounts the more conspiratorial elements of these claims, the broader concern remains valid. The “minus-two” formula is not a solution; it is a shortcut. It assumes that removing dominant actors will automatically produce better governance. In reality, it often produces fragmentation, uncertainty, and the eventual return of the very forces it sought to eliminate.

Bangladesh’s political evolution, for all its turbulence, has been shaped by the competition between the Awami League and the BNP. One may criticize their records—and there is much to critique—but they remain embedded in the country’s political fabric. Attempting to excise them entirely is less an act of reform than of destabilization.

The deeper issue, then, is not whether Yunus harbors political ambitions. It is whether those ambitions are being pursued through mechanisms that undermine democratic continuity. Influence—whether through lobbying, digital manipulation, or external alignment—cannot replace legitimacy. It can only simulate it, briefly.

Bangladesh stands at a crossroads, though not an unfamiliar one. The temptation to engineer outcomes, to bypass messy democratic processes in favor of cleaner, more controlled alternatives, is perennial. But history has been unkind to such experiments. They tend to collapse under the weight of their own contradictions.

In the end, politics is not a laboratory. It is an arena—untidy, contested, and resistant to design. Those who seek to dominate it through elimination rather than engagement often discover, too late, that power gained without consensus is power that cannot endure.

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