Bangladesh came into being as a result of a fight for justice, equality, and respect. The Liberation War was not only a fight for territory; it was also about the right to speak your own language, live without fear, and create a society where people are treated as people, not subjects. The Constitution of Bangladesh, which is widely seen as one of the most progressive constitutional documents in South Asia, is based on that moral foundation.
At its heart, the fight of 1971 was about respect. This is why the Constitution of Bangladesh is more than just a set of laws for running the country. It is supposed to be a moral agreement between the state and its people. But there is one uncomfortable truth that we can't ignore: the Constitution often reads like a promise we admire more than we practise.
Human rights in Bangladesh are frequently discussed as though they are imported ideas, pushed by foreign organisations or international bodies. This framing is both misleading and damaging. Human rights are not foreign to Bangladesh. They are not optional. They are not charity. They are not “extra” demands made by activists. They are constitutional guarantees. They belong to the people by right, not by permission.
So, the real problem is not that Bangladesh doesn't have rights. The crisis is that rights are too often treated as negotiable.
In theory, a person's right to life and freedom should be absolute. But in real life, freedom can feel like it's not always there. It may depend on who you are, where you live, how well-connected you are, or how politically harmless you appear.
When people are afraid of being held without reason, harassed, or getting into legal trouble without a fair process, the Constitution becomes distant. A constitution that doesn't protect the weak is not a constitution that is fully in effect. It is a piece of writing.
The most basic test of a constitutional democracy is not how it treats the rich and powerful. It is how it treats those who are weak, unpopular and the minority. Rights are most meaningful precisely when they protect those who have no influence.
Freedom of expression is another constitutional promise that reveals the tension between law and reality. The right to free speech and the press is acknowledged in Bangladesh's Constitution, albeit with appropriate limitations. In a mature democracy, restrictions exist to protect public order, national security, and the rights of others. But the line between protection and control is dangerously easy to blur. When criticism is treated as hostility, when dissent is treated as disloyalty, and when citizens begin to self-censor out of fear, a society does not become stable. It becomes silent. Silence is not stability. Silence is pressure.
The state might contend that limitations are required to avoid chaos, but the long-term cost of shrinking civic space is far greater. People lose faith in institutions as well as in their own capacity to speak freely. When the public conversation becomes narrow, misinformation thrives, resentment grows, and society becomes more polarised. A confident state does not fear speech. It responds to speech.
Perhaps the most exquisite promise of the Constitution is equality before the law. It is also among the most difficult to accomplish. Bangladesh formally rejects discrimination on grounds of religion, race, sex, or place of birth. Yet, in daily life, equality often appears uneven. Justice may seem to move more slowly for the weak and more quickly for the powerful. Accountability may seem biased. Depending on who does it, the same action may have different repercussions.
This is more than just a legal issue. It is an institutional and political issue. The public learns a dangerous lesson when the rule of law is applied inconsistently: the law is a weapon, not a shield. Additionally, constitutionalism deteriorates internally once that belief gains traction.
Women's rights offer yet another compelling example. Bangladesh has made significant strides in the education and employment of women. But violence against women, harassment, and social pressure remain widespread. The Constitution’s promise of equality cannot be considered fulfilled if women must calculate the personal cost of seeking justice. A right that is theoretically available but practically unreachable is not a right. It is a statement.
Minority rights are no different. Equal citizenship is guaranteed by Bangladesh's constitution. However, social vulnerability, fear, and insecurity continue to be reported by minority communities. If some citizens have to live with the silent fear of being singled out, left out, or viewed as less worthy of protection, a country cannot claim constitutional success.
The right to pursue remedies in court is arguably the most potent constitutional protection. The High Court has the authority to enforce fundamental rights and correct abuses. This is the constitutional mechanism that prevents the state from becoming absolute. But the reality of justice in Bangladesh is complicated. The cost of litigation is high. The process is slow. The system is intimidating. For many citizens, justice feels like a luxury service rather than a public guarantee.
For this reason, the law cannot protect human rights on its own. Rights require institutions that work, enforcement that is fair, and a culture that treats rights as normal. The issue with Bangladesh's constitution is not a lack of legal terminology. It is a lack of reliable execution.
We should also dispel a harmful misconception that continues to poison public debate: that human rights are anti-state. Human rights are not designed to weaken the nation. They are designed to protect it from abuse. A state that respects rights is not weaker. It is stronger, because it governs with legitimacy.
Reducing rights is not the solution if Bangladesh wants long-term stability. The answer is to strengthen institutions.
Human rights are not just associated with prominent political disputes. They are a part of daily existence. A worker was not paid, a citizen was intimidated for speaking, a student was disciplined for engaging in nonviolent protest, a tenant was wrongfully evicted, someone detained without following the correct protocol, a victim of violence who cannot access protection. These are not "minor" problems. These are matters of constitutional issues. These are matters of human rights.
The Constitution was never intended to be a ceremonial object. It was meant to be lived. The question, therefore, is not whether Bangladesh has a Constitution. The question is whether Bangladesh is prepared to take it seriously.
A constitutional democracy is not measured by slogans. It is determined by whether or not rights are upheld when doing so would be inconvenient. It is measured by whether citizens feel safe enough to speak, to organise, to demand fairness, and to trust the law.
Bangladesh’s Constitution contains a promise worthy of the sacrifices that created this nation. But a promise is not enough. The Constitution must be treated as a daily discipline, not a historical ornament.
Because if rights exist only in theory, and not in practice, then the state risks forgetting the very reason it was born.
Mohammad Safwan Marsad Hossain, Barrister-at-law
