Does Shakib have the right to play for his country

Can the most successful cricketer in our country’s history, Shakib Al Hasan, play again wearing the national jersey? Does he still have the right to represent his beloved country? This remains one of the most debated questions in today’s sports arena, yet we do not have a clear answer at all.

First of all, why are we even discussing whether the world’s best all-rounder has the right to play for his country? Raising such a question is beyond the imagination of sports lovers across the globe. And to find the answer, we have to understand how and why such a foolish question was raised in the first place.

Just after the ouster of the Awami League government, the country’s citizens witnessed how a situation was being created so that the perpetrators of the July–August killings could go scot-free. Before our very eyes, we saw the foundation laid for the miscarriage of justice over those killings. The process began just after Sheikh Hasina fled the country on 5 August 2024, when a series of almost entirely fabricated and baseless murder cases were filed against anyone who could be rounded up. The filing of these meritless cases paved the way to raise the question of Shakib’s right to play, as he too was accused in a case filed over the murder of a garment worker in police firing at Adabor in the capital on 5 August 2024.

Do you remember? In the first month after the fall of the Sheikh Hasina government, countless cases were lodged daily, accusing 100, 200, even 300 people at a time. In most cases, the majority of the accused had little or no connection to the murders in question. This made it nearly impossible for investigating officers and lawyers to pursue the justice we all demanded. I use the past tense deliberately—because it is already a lost battle.

When you and I judge someone, it may amount to a public trial. But the reality is that the July cases will be tried in real courts; the lawyer must present sufficient evidence in favour of his accusation if he wants to demand the highest punishment.

The irony is that those of us demanding justice for the July massacre failed to speak up at the right moment. August 2024 was the critical time to correct the flawed process of indiscriminate case filings against hundreds of accused. That was the time when the process went wrong—when murder cases were filed en masse, indiscriminately accusing Awami League men, good or bad.

Amid the pressure of media trials and the steady stream of reports on the arrests of senior AL leaders, the demand for a just and fair trial of the July massacre vanished into thin air. And yet, we remained silent. We did not protest the beginnings of this miscarriage of justice.

We did not say, “Stop filing such absurd cases—it will be impossible for lawyers to win.” We did not say, “Stop accusing people who were in no way involved.” We did not protest the indiscriminate inclusion of names in the cases even after knowing that they had been accused simply because they were supporters, activists, or leaders of the AL. These sweeping inclusions weakened the very merit of the cases.

We did not demand that the whole chain of command be held accountable—from the police, BGB, RAB, or army soldiers who pulled the trigger, to the magistrates and officers who gave the orders. We did not insist on charging those truly responsible for the killing of hundreds of people—step by step up the chain of command.

The murder case against Shakib was filed on 23 August 2024, accusing him of killing a garment worker at Adabor on 5 August. Perhaps the filing of such fabricated cases began within a day or two of Hasina’s fall, perhaps even according to a plan known only to a few. And so began the farce in the name of justice for the martyrs of July.

According to media reports, it turned into a lucrative business for a vested group of youths—this trade of naming or omitting accused persons in July murder cases in exchange for bribes.

We all knew then, and we still know now, that these cases will not stand. We all know—though few admit—that there will be no justice for the killings during the uprising. The train has already been missed. If we, the people, had protested from the very beginning, saying, “This is not the way,” then perhaps justice might have been ensured. But justice cannot be served through such amateur methods. Everyone knows it is impossible for the prosecution to present convincing evidence against Shakib. At most, the direct or indirect involvement of three or four out of 123 accused in Shakib’s case might be proven—but even that is unlikely. And as for Shakib, his involvement cannot be proven. Everybody knows this.

Yet he still has the birthright to return to his country. No one can take that away. Whatever fault—or, if one wishes, ‘crime’—he committed by becoming an AL MP, or by not supporting the movement, or through any other personal failing, none of this can strip him of his right to return to his motherland. If he truly committed a crime, let him be tried in court. But why prevent him from coming home? Why deny him the chance to play—the passion of his life?

Not only is he being misjudged, but in doing so we are also depriving him of his birthright and violating his constitutional right. And if a nation cannot uphold the rights of its greatest sportsman, what hope remains for the ordinary citizen?

What is his fault—becoming an MP through a controversial, rigged election and remaining silent in the face of the bloody, warlike days of the July uprising? In short, these two are the main accusations against him. For these ‘crimes’, Shakib was barred by the government from entering the country, as admitted by adviser Asif Mahmud Sajib Bhuiya in a recent Facebook post—even after Shakib expressed his wish to play his last match for the national team on home soil, but in vain. Compare what we gave Shakib in exchange for what he gave the nation.

As a nation, we should be ashamed of how we treated Shakib after what he did for the country throughout his entire life.

We must ask ourselves, “Does he really deserve this? Even after asking for an apology from the nation? Does he really deserve the endless agony of seeing his home burnt to ashes, literally; of being prevented from entering his homeland—does he deserve this?”

Of course not. Shakib does not deserve this. Because the ‘crime’ he allegedly committed by remaining silent during the uprising is actually no crime at all, as we all know. It is a matter of his right to freedom of choice, not a criminal offence.

He has gifted the nation with hundreds of moments of joy; countless times he filled Bangladeshis’ hearts with pride, the pride that “we are equal to the greatest nations.” And in return, we have left him at the mercy of a vested group of arrogant youths who, having tasted power overnight, are acting like spoilt children, abusing it at every step. And Shakib Al Hasan has become a victim of their whimsical decisions, a prey to their tagging culture of “fascism enabler.”

What I want to say is that hundreds of accused in the July murder cases are roaming the streets, from army-police high-ups to ordinary citizens, but Shakib Al Hasan cannot even come back to his own country for so-called “security concerns,” let alone get the chance to play.

Going back to the primary question of whether Shakib has the right to wear the national jersey. And if the answer is yes, then why did the government prevent him from coming back to the country? The interim government is surely abusing power, violating the rights of its citizens. If he has the right to play, then he must play. The government must facilitate all necessary arrangements to bring him back to the field where he belongs.