The right to say “No” is the pulse of democracy. To dissent, to refuse consent, to reject the given choice, these acts distinguish citizens from subjects. The reinstatement of the “No” vote in Bangladesh’s electoral system, approved this week by the Advisory Council under Chief Adviser Muhammad Yunus, carries enormous symbolic weight. Yet symbols often comfort more than they transform. The same reform that gestures toward empowerment can also function as a release valve, acknowledging discontent without unsettling the foundations of control. The amendments to the Representation of the People Order (RPO) of 1972, announced by Law Adviser Dr. Asif Nazrul, come wrapped in the language of transparency and accountability. They include reinstating the “No” vote for uncontested constituencies, abolishing electronic voting machines (EVMs), requiring alliances to use their own party symbols, allowing journalists to observe vote counting, and increasing candidate deposits. Together, these revisions project a picture of procedural reform. But behind this legal choreography lies an older story, one of money, power, and managed participation.

The “No” vote’s return aims to end the undemocratic spectacle of unopposed victories, such as the 2014 election in which 154 candidates won without a contest. It restores the possibility of refusal, a democratic muscle long left unused. In constituencies with only one candidate, citizens may now vote “No,” forcing a re-election if rejection prevails. This is morally significant: it acknowledges public agency and revives the grammar of dissent. Yet the reform’s reach is narrow. It protects against uncontested ballots but not against uncompetitive politics. Party dominance, dynastic nominations, and patronage networks remain intact, making the “No” vote more of a civic sigh than a structural shift. The abolition of EVMs is another move heavy with symbolism. It responds to growing mistrust of electronic voting and restores the tactile ritual of democracy with the paper ballot, the inked finger, the visible count. In a country scarred by suspicions of digital manipulation, this decision carries psychological value. But it also reopens the same vulnerabilities that haunted past elections: human error, intimidation, and partisan interference. Transparency, reclaimed through paper, can still be corrupted by power.

Some of the subtler reforms, such as the requirement that alliances contest under their own symbols, seek to clarify party identity and curb proxy candidacies. Others, like granting journalists access to counting centers, promise a welcome measure of scrutiny. Yet even these steps, though commendable, depend on enforcement. Transparency without protection risks becoming performance. Allowing journalists to observe means little if intimidation remains unchecked or if information is curated rather than revealed. The financial aspect of the reforms exposes a deeper irony. The candidate deposit has been raised, reportedly to BDT 50,000, up from BDT 20,000, ostensibly to deter unserious contenders. But in a political system already captured by wealth, such measures only tighten the gates of entry. A 2018 study found that 82% of lawmakers held assets exceeding one crore taka (around US$87,000). In the 2024 election, 66% of MPs were businessmen. Campaigns often cost between 30 and 50 million BDT; most of it is self-funded. Raising deposits in such a context may discourage participation not from the corrupt, but from the underfunded, the very voices democracy most needs. When elections demand capital before conviction, politics becomes a marketplace of privilege.

Yet perhaps the greatest paradox is not procedural but philosophical. These reforms are being implemented by an unelected interim government whose legitimacy rests on the Supreme Court’s invocation of the “doctrine of necessity.” The irony is that the very council restoring citizens’ right to vote “No” itself governs without electoral consent. However, this contradiction also defines its historic responsibility. After the July Revolution, the interim administration was entrusted precisely with the task of repairing a broken system and restoring democratic credibility. The challenge lies not in the intention to reform, but in ensuring that reform itself does not become another act of centralized virtue. This explains the moral tone that pervades the RPO amendments, the emphasis on “clean politics” and “accountability,” often without confronting the deeper structural ailments of dynastic dominance, patronage economies, and a political culture that treats elections as performance rather than dialogue. Procedures can be repaired; rebuilding democratic imagination demands far greater courage.

Still, even gestures matter in a fatigued democracy. The “No” vote reclaims the right to disapprove; the abolition of EVMs restores visibility; the inclusion of journalists promises witness. Together, they revive a modest hope that citizens can still shape their destiny, even if from the margins. The question is whether this hope can outlast the rhetoric. Dr. Nazrul has stated that the government is committed to holding the next general election by February 2026. That deadline will determine whether the current reforms become a bridge to renewal or a pause before relapse. If political participation remains restricted, if opposition voices remain constrained, the right to say “No” will amount to an echo within an insulated system. Bangladesh, like many times, once again stands between reform and repetition. The RPO amendments reopen the vocabulary of democracy, but vocabulary alone does not guarantee speech. To make “No” meaningful, citizens must have something real to say “Yes” to. Only then can refusal become the beginning of rebirth, not another ritual of resignation.

The writer is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Philosophy at IUBAT and is currently on study leave, residing in Oslo, Norway