I travelled to my ancestral village on Friday, 25 July—after quite a while. Usually, even if I don’t visit every week, after two weeks or so, I begin to feel restless to see familiar faces and exchange thoughts with the villagers. This time it had been nearly a month and a half. Every time I go back, it feels like returning to my roots—there’s a kind of tranquillity that settles over me. My village lies adjacent to the Dhaka-Khulna highway. A small marketplace has developed around the bus stop at the edge of the village. Despite its modest size, this market holds great significance.

It hosts several informal “parliaments”—chief among them are Azim’s tea-and-grocery shop and Siraj Miah’s sweet shop. These 'parliaments' hold open sessions twice daily—once in the morning, once in the afternoon—where discussions span everything from local matters to national and international affairs. Everyone shares their opinions, and though debates sometimes arise, they never breach the bounds of civility.

And I emphasise the word “civility” because our political leaders these days have all but abandoned it in their speeches and statements, where personal attacks and vulgar language have become common. Just recently, two student organisations—clearly linked to institutions of higher education—shouted unspeakably obscene slogans on a public road, directed at the second-in-command of a major political party. That alone raises serious questions about what values these students are learning.

But back to the matter at hand. The moment I stepped off the bus, Shahinur—a local BNP supporter—called me over to one of the "parliaments" already in session. Three or four others were sitting there. After the usual greetings, they asked me, “What exactly is PR?” I explained it as best I could, within the limits of my own understanding. Once I finished, they asked, “Why is the BNP opposing PR? What’s the issue for them if elections are held under that system?”

After I explained the BNP’s concerns, Shahinur remarked, “Uncle, don’t you see PR would make it easy for the Awami League to get rehabilitated?”
“How so?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “let’s say BNP has support from 40% of the electorate. The Awami League is in decline, so let’s assume they hold 25%. The Jatiya Party might have 8–10%, Jamaat is doing relatively well now with another 8%, and the NCP might have 2%. The rest would be scattered among various smaller parties.”

Someone interjected, “Why include the Awami League at all? They’re practically finished.”
Shahinur replied, “Just because hundreds of leaders have disappeared doesn’t mean their supporters have vanished too. For 17 years, the Awami League nurtured the Jatiya Party, propping them up through thick and thin. Now, during its hard times, wouldn’t the Jatiya Party return the favour?”

He continued, “Add Awami League’s 25% and Jatiya Party’s 10%, and you get 35%. That’s just a 5% difference with BNP’s 40%. Now consider where Jamaat and NCP would stand in this equation.”

After the session ended, I kept pondering what was said. The logic held. Even if Awami League’s top brass go into hiding, their rank-and-file supporters remain. They’re still a factor in electoral politics. If, hypothetically, Awami League is barred from contesting the elections, what will its activists do? Sit idle?

In chemistry, there's a law of conservation of mass: matter is neither created nor destroyed—it merely changes form. Water becomes steam, steam becomes rain, and rain becomes ice—only to melt again. Similarly, political activists don’t simply disappear unless they willingly retire from politics.

So, if Awami League secretly allies with Jatiya Party in the upcoming election, and its supporters contest under a different identity, who’s going to stop them? Suppose Awami League fields candidates under the Jatiya Party’s 'plough' symbol in a PR-based election. Would that not effectively facilitate their return under a new guise? The only way to prevent this would be to declare the Jatiya Party ineligible to contest—something that’s politically unthinkable.

It seems neither Jamaat nor its allies—NCP and Islami Andolon—have properly considered this electoral math. They appear to believe that expelling Sheikh Hasina and a few close associates would be enough to erase the Awami League entirely. But it clearly isn’t so. Their assumption seems to be that under a PR system, their combined vote share would turn them into a major parliamentary force. Even if they can't sideline the BNP, they might at least weaken it. Yet they overlook the possibility of an Awami League–Jatiya Party alliance.

Another critical point: this time, whenever the election takes place, it will be under a non-partisan interim government. The Election Commission is more independent than ever. Anyone thinking they’ll prevent Awami League supporters from reaching polling stations is fooling themselves. Such behaviour would only mirror the undemocratic tactics they claim to oppose.

On 26 July, Bangladesh Pratidin ran a lead headline: “BNP's Worry: PR”. According to the article, the BNP fears that elements close to the government might use PR as a pretext to delay the election. Moreover, they're uncertain how the Consensus Commission will rule. They worry that under PR, no single party will gain an outright majority. If the top party secures just 40% of the vote, it might win only 120 seats—forcing the formation of a coalition government.

And coalition governments, they argue, are like water on a taro leaf—unstable and unpredictable. Even minor disruptions could lead to collapse. A stable government is crucial for political and economic stability. BNP standing committee member Salahuddin Ahmed told Bangladesh Pratidin:

“Our political and social culture is such that people are used to voting for individuals in their local constituencies—people they can hold accountable. PR dilutes that connection, and the democratic process itself may suffer.”

His concerns are not without merit. A stable country needs a stable government. And a government is stable only when it has a clear parliamentary majority. History has shown that a hung parliament does not promote democracy or economic progress.

There is also a legal conundrum: can elections even be held under PR without amending the Constitution and the electoral laws? That’s the real issue here. No one is answering how PR can be implemented without those amendments. If the Consensus Commission attempts to impose PR without broad political consensus—merely to please one or two groups—it could spark fresh complications, possibly even end up in court. And since the judiciary is no longer under anyone’s thumb, people expect it will prioritise the Constitution.

If the government and the Consensus Commission attempt to strong-arm political parties into accepting PR, it would be a misstep—an unfortunate one at that—and would remind people of the Awami League’s infamous 15th Constitutional Amendment.

Bangladesh has experimented with various electoral systems before. During the Pakistan era, Ayub Khan introduced a system called “Basic Democracy” to solidify his own power. It was rejected by the people and swept away by public outrage. In 1975, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman tried to introduce a one-party state and one-party elections. That system ended with his tragic assassination in August of the same year. Even the presidential system he had introduced was overturned in 1991.

If the Consensus Commission ignores public opinion and adopts a rash decision—and if the interim government tries to enforce it—the political weather could change very rapidly. A gentle breeze may not take long to become a storm.

The writer is a journalist and political analyst.