In a courtroom thick with the weight of unresolved grief, Bangladesh's International Crimes Tribunal (ICT) on November 17, 2025, delivered a verdict that reverberated far beyond the borders of the young South Asian nation. Former Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina, once hailed as the "Lady of Bangladesh" for her role in steering the country toward economic prosperity, was sentenced to death in absentia for crimes against humanity. The charges stemmed from her government's brutal crackdown on student-led protests in July and August 2024, a violent episode that claimed up to 1,400 lives, according to United Nations estimates. Families of the victims erupted in cheers and prayers outside the Dhaka tribunal, a raw outpouring of catharsis after months of simmering rage. Yet, as the echoes of applause fade, a sobering question lingers: Does this sentence deliver justice, or does it merely perpetuate the vicious cycle of vendetta politics that has plagued Bangladesh since its bloody birth in 1971?
As an editorial voice committed to the ideals of accountability without retribution, we must confront this moment not as a triumph of the oppressed, but as a precarious pivot point for a nation teetering between democratic renewal and renewed authoritarianism. Hasina's fall from power—precipitated by those same protests that swelled into a nationwide revolution—marked the end of her 15-year iron grip on the premiership. Now, exiled in India, she decries the ruling as a "politically motivated farce," challenging her accusers to haul her before the International Criminal Court in The Hague. International observers, including Amnesty International and the UN Human Rights Office, echo her concerns, urging a "scrupulously fair" process to ensure genuine truth and reparations rather than hasty vengeance. In this editorial, we dissect the verdict's implications, trace Hasina's arc from liberation icon to accused butcher, and probe whether Bangladesh's interim leadership under Nobel laureate Muhammad Yunus can forge a path beyond revenge. The stakes are existential: for a country of 170 million, where youth unemployment festers and radical forces lurk, true stability demands breaking the chains of history, not tightening them.
The tribunal's 450-page judgment paints a damning portrait of Hasina's regime during the 2024 quota reform movement. What began as peaceful demonstrations against a 30% job reservation for descendants of 1971 freedom fighters—widely seen as a ploy to entrench Awami League loyalists—escalated into a conflagration after Hasina branded the students "terrorists" and unleashed security forces. Police and paramilitary units fired indiscriminately, turning university campuses into killing fields. The UN's February 2025 report documented systematic use of lethal force, with 78% of fatalities from bullet wounds, many to the head or chest—hallmarks of execution-style suppression. Hasina and two top officials, former Home Minister Asaduzzaman Khan and ex-Police Chief Chowdhury Abdullah Al-Mamun (who turned state witness and received a five-year sentence), were convicted on two counts: ordering excessive deadly force and failing to de-escalate the unrest.
To grasp the verdict's gravity, one must confront the ICT's own chequered legacy—a body Hasina herself established in 2010 to prosecute 1971 war crimes suspects, primarily from opposition parties like the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) and Jamaat-e-Islami. Between 2013 and 2016, the tribunal handed down death sentences to six BNP and Jamaat leaders, drawing fierce international criticism for procedural flaws, including denial of fair trials and witness intimidation. Human Rights Watch, initially supportive, later condemned it as a tool for "vendetta politics." Now, the irony bites deep: the same ICT, repurposed under Yunus's interim government, turns on its creator. Lawyers who once futilely defended those opposition figures are reportedly among Hasina's prosecutors today, fueling accusations of bias.
Critics, including Amnesty, argue this rushed in-absentia trial—conducted without Hasina's chosen counsel or opportunity for cross-examination—sows seeds of instability rather than closure. Hasina's camp alleges the judges' sympathies lie with the BNP, and that post-ouster purges targeted any with Awami League leanings. Bullet-pointing the key procedural lapses highlights the peril:
- Lack of Representation: Hasina was denied her preferred lawyers, with assigned defense counsel accused of minimal effort.
- Judicial Impartiality: Tribunal benches include figures allegedly aligned with opposition parties, raising conflict-of-interest flags.
- Post-Regime Intimidation: Judges and witnesses sympathetic to Hasina faced harassment after her fall, per her son's statements.
- Historical Precedent: The ICT's past convictions were overturned or criticized by the UN and EU for lacking international standards, undermining current credibility.
- Hasty Timeline: The trial, launched mere months after her ouster, bypassed broader investigations into systemic abuses.
These flaws do not absolve Hasina of culpability—the evidence of ordered atrocities is overwhelming—but they underscore a truth: justice rushed in the heat of revolution risks becoming injustice perpetuated. As the Atlantic Council notes, this verdict could embolden Hasina's Awami League supporters to sabotage upcoming elections, potentially sparking violence before the planned June 2026 polls.
From her safe haven in New Delhi—echoing the refuge India granted her after her family's 1975 assassination—Hasina has mounted a defiant counteroffensive. In a statement released hours after the sentencing, she dismissed the proceedings as the handiwork of an "unelected puppet regime" lacking democratic legitimacy. Her son, Sajeeb Wazed Joy, warned of escalating protests if the Awami League remains banned, vowing "confrontations" unless international mediators intervene. Hasina's demand for an ICC referral is no mere bluster; it spotlights Bangladesh's domestic tribunals' limitations under the 1973 International Crimes Act, which prioritizes national sovereignty over global norms.
India's response has been characteristically pragmatic, if strained. External Affairs Minister S. Jaishankar affirmed solidarity with "the people of Bangladesh" while sidestepping extradition demands—a non-starter given Hasina's status as a family friend of the Modis and her role in curbing anti-India insurgents. Backchannel talks between Indian and Bangladeshi intelligence agencies continue, navigating tensions over border security and Teesta water-sharing. Yet, this limbo exacerbates bilateral frictions: Yunus's government has scrutinized Hasina-era pacts, including power deals favoring Indian firms, signaling a recalibration of ties.
To truly appraise this denouement, one must rewind to Hasina's origins—a saga intertwined with Bangladesh's foundational traumas. Born on September 28, 1947, in Tungipara, East Pakistan (now Bangladesh), Hasina grew up in the shadow of her father, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the "Bangabandhu" whose Six-Point Movement ignited the 1971 Liberation War. As a Dhaka University student in the late 1960s, she honed her political chops as vice president of the student union, smuggling messages for her imprisoned father. The war's horrors—three million dead, millions displaced, with India's decisive intervention securing victory—propelled Mujib to power. But his one-party state experiments and rampant corruption eroded his halo, culminating in the August 15, 1975, military coup that slaughtered him and most of his family.
Hasina and her sister Rehana, abroad in Germany, survived by providence. Denied return by General Ziaur Rahman (Khaleda Zia's husband and BNP founder), they found sanctuary in India under Indira Gandhi— a debt repaid today by Narendra Modi's administration. Exiled for six years, Hasina returned in 1981 to resurrect the moribund Awami League, transforming it from a relic into a electoral juggernaut. Her 1996 victory—via a reinstated caretaker system ensuring fair polls—ushered in her first term, focused on economic liberalization that lifted millions from poverty, with GDP growth averaging 6-7% annually.
Yet, this "Battle of the Begums"—Hasina versus Khaleda Zia, widow of Ziaur Rahman—quickly devolved into mutual sabotage. Hasina's 2001 defeat to the BNP sparked boycotts and street clashes, mirroring tactics she'd later employ. The 2006-2008 military-backed emergency jailed both women, a "minus-two" formula to purge politics of their dominance. Hasina's triumphant 2009 return marked the inflection: vowing reform, she instead consolidated power ruthlessly.
Key milestones in her authoritarian drift merit enumeration, illustrating how promise curdled into peril:
- 2011 Abolition of Caretaker System: Hasina's constitutional amendment ended neutral election oversight, enabling alleged rigging in 2014 and 2018 polls. The Supreme Court upheld it, but opposition cries of fraud echoed internationally.
- 2010 ICT Establishment: Intended for 1971 accountability, it morphed into a weapon against rivals, executing nine opposition figures amid torture allegations.
- Digital and Cyber Laws (2018-2023): The Digital Security Act and its successor stifled dissent, jailing journalists and activists on vague "anti-state" charges—over 1,000 cases by 2024.
- Opposition Suppression: Khaleda Zia's 2018 corruption conviction barred her from polls; BNP boycotts in 2018 and 2024 yielded Hasina "landslide" victories with 96% vote shares, dismissed as shams by observers.
- Economic Facade: While textiles boomed—Bangladesh became the world's second-largest exporter—inequality soared, youth unemployment hit 40%, and cronyism festered, priming the 2024 powder keg.
By her 2024 "re-election," Hasina's regime had hollowed out institutions: courts packed, media muzzled, civil society cowed. The quota policy—reserving 30% of civil service jobs for "freedom fighters'" kin, many Awami League stalwarts—ignited the spark. Students, already reeling from COVID-era job losses, took to Dhaka's streets in July 2024, demanding meritocracy. Hasina's response—labeling them "Razakars" (1971 collaborators) and deploying 20,000 troops—fanned the flames. Internet blackouts, curfews, and mass arrests followed, but the uprising snowballed, drawing in workers, farmers, and even army ranks weary of firing on civilians.
On August 5, 2024, amid a nationwide shutdown, protesters stormed Hasina's residence, Ganabhaban. A military helicopter whisked her to India as the mob razed symbols of her rule. The death toll: 1,400 confirmed by UN probes, though local estimates whisper of 2,000, with thousands injured or disappeared. This "July Massacre," as it's now etched in history, rivals 1971's savagery in per capita horror, transforming Hasina from "Begum" to "Butcher of Bangladesh."
Enter Muhammad Yunus, the microfinance pioneer whose global acclaim—Nobel Peace Prize 2006, Time's 2025 "Most Influential"—belied his domestic feuds with Hasina, who once branded him a "bloodsucker." Sworn in as chief adviser on August 8, 2024, his interim cabinet of technocrats and student reps pledged reforms: constitutional overhaul, electoral reboot by June 2026, and economic stabilization. Progress includes expanding foreign exchange bands to bolster reserves, scrutinizing Hasina-era deals, and commissioning white papers on corruption. A Constitutional Reform Commission, appointed in September 2024, aims to devolve power and safeguard secularism.
Yet, Yunus's tenure—now 15 months in—teeters on fault lines. At 85, his health falters amid a ballooning to-do list: quelling army-police tensions (the military remains deployed post-2024 chaos), curbing radical Islamist surges (Jamaat-e-Islami's rehabilitation stokes fears), and shielding minorities. During the uprising, Hindus—10% of the population—faced targeted attacks, with over 200 temples vandalized; students formed night guards, but Indian media's "genocide" hyperbole strained ties, though Yunus insists minorities are "as safe as Muslims in secular India." Economically, inflation at 10% and remittances dipping threaten the textile engine, while delayed elections risk donor fatigue—IMF loans hinge on polls.
The gravest shadow? Vendetta's endless loop. Hasina's Awami League ban, coupled with the death sentence, mirrors her own purges. As CIVICUS warns, arbitrary arrests (over 500 Awami affiliates detained) and press curbs persist, eroding reform credibility. Yunus's May 2025 flirtation with resignation—citing army overreach—underscored fragility; General Waker-Uz-Zaman's push for December polls was rebuffed for December 2025, delaying to April 2026. Without inclusive dialogue, radicals could exploit the vacuum, as seen in post-1975 Islamist rebounds.
Bangladesh stands at a crossroads: the students' revolution birthed hope, but Hasina's scaffold risks entombing it. She bears indelible guilt—the blood on her hands demands reckoning—but trials must illuminate, not incinerate. Yunus's government, for all its nobility, must prioritize forward momentum: inclusive commissions, minority protections, and youth empowerment. The youth who toppled a dictator deserve not revenge's pyre, but democracy's dawn—a new constitution enshrining checks, free media, and economic equity.
In the end, Bangladesh's salvation lies not in hanging ghosts, but in burying vendettas. Hasina's sentence, if appealed to the ICC, could yet redeem the process; absent that, it risks validating her narrative of martyrdom. For India and the world, the imperative is clear: support Yunus's reforms without partisanship, lest the "Tiger of Bengal" devolve into jihadist prey. The 1,400 souls lost in 2024 cry not for a noose, but for a nation reborn—secular, just, and unbound by the begums' bitter feud. Let this be Bangladesh's true liberation: from Hasina's shadow, and its own haunted past.
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