Why participants of mass uprising turning into extortionists

In Bangladesh, the story of state development nowadays is heard in newspaper pages, television announcements or from the mouths of leaders—“The country has changed,” “Development is visible,” “The dream Padma Bridge has been built,” or “Digital Bangladesh is a reality.” While these words sound striking, in reality, a cruel question also arises—who are the beneficiaries of this development? And by development, do we only mean buildings, bridges, or GDP, or is there any standard for people and humanity as well?

Those whom we once called bribe-takers, they were behind the scenes; they used to slip envelopes of money under the table, there was some shame, there was fear of the law. Then they became corrupt—sitting in positions, wearing the shell of power, sharing tenders, looting bank loans, dodging project budgets—they made everything legitimate in the name of policy. Now they are extortionists, who no longer hide, they openly say—“You have to pay extra, brother, otherwise the work won't get done.” This is not just the evolution of corruption, this is a history of a nation losing its conscience.

It is written in the Constitution of Bangladesh—“The primary responsibility of the state shall be to ensure the welfare of the people.” But in reality, the state seems like a syndicate-run commodity market—where administration, police, politics, business and even the judiciary are in many cases tied in one net, where staying honest means having to drown. The war of 1971 was a dream of liberation. At that time the highest rank in the army was Major General, limited power, limited opportunity, but there was a kind of patriotism. Over time, when promotion came—to Lieutenant General, then General—was it only the office that grew, or did greed grow too? On one side GP line, Pajero, protocol, on the other side poor rickshaw-puller, sick farmer, young people crying out for jobs. Has the balance of development carried equal weight on both sides?

When the state fails to fulfil the responsibility of maintaining its citizens, then the citizen becomes destitute—or gets sold. Today's youth gives bribe in hope of a job, gives bribe to become a teacher, gives bribe to become a member of the law enforcement. Then when he gets the job, his first task becomes to recover that bribe money with interest—must take bribes, must collect extortion, must hold people hostage. In this way, corruption becomes an accompaniment to a job, and extortion becomes the consequence of morality. In a state where hospitals are non-functional, the education system is in the hands of looters, the judiciary is biased, the media is fearful, what kind of development is that state showcasing?

If the state cannot provide proper education, fair justice, and a safe life to the people, then it is only a machine of power—which is operational for the corrupt, the bribe-takers, and the extortionists. There was a time—on school walls it used to be written, “Knowledge is power,” or “Agriculture is the backbone of the nation.” But today these words remain only on the wall, they have been erased from reality. Rather now the invisible constitution of the state seems to be—“Give bribe, pay extortion, otherwise your existence will not remain.” The generation we are creating, they are blind despite having eyes. On one side question paper leak, on the other side laying hands on school teachers—all these are pictures of the same society. In today's education system there is no morality, no freedom of thought, no career-oriented guidance. Universities have now turned into party offices, and student politics means weapons, occupation and intimidation.

Teachers have become instruments of exploitation and control, and students have become the future force of the powerful. Whether knowingly or unknowingly, we are creating a dull, talentless and sycophantic generation—to whom we are handing leaked questions, guidebooks, coaching dependency, bribe-obtained appointment letters, and party cadre system across campuses. The education through which the nation was supposed to be built, that very education has today turned into a factory of breaking the nation. We talk about creativity, yet there is no chance to pass without memorising textbooks. We talk about morality, yet a teacher’s job is obtained in exchange for money. Where a teacher himself comes to the classroom by giving bribe, why will the student learn the lesson of honesty? And when the state itself turns the education ministry into an ‘oil ministry’, then it is natural for the backbone of the young generation to be broken.

We have made import greater than domestic production. When a farmer lets crops rot in the field, that's when foreign rice, lentils, onions enter the market. No one stands beside the farmer—neither the government, nor the media, nor the bank. He has to buy irrigation water with bribes, has to get government seed-fertiliser from brokers. And when he produces crops, there is no price in the market. The picture of the industrial sector is even more tragic. One factory after another is shutting down, skilled manpower is going abroad—only disorder and bureaucratic junk remain in the country. We have now become a “consumer nation”—we want to consume without producing anything ourselves. Our economy is running depending on China, India or Turkey. Yet the government says—“We have reached middle-income country status.” The question is—for whom is this development? Where a garment worker gets Tk 12 thousand for working 12 hours, and a project director buys a car for Tk 1 crore—is that development, or a disguise of looting?

The most frightening picture is in the youth society. They are getting educated, but not getting employment. When a meritorious youth remains unemployed month after month, year after year, then at some point he is forced to look for alternatives—and the name of that alternative becomes ‘Jubo League’ or ‘Jubo Dal’. There is no job there, but there are pistols; no salary, but there is extortion; no future, but there are drugs. The state is handing weapons to its most promising force—the youth—creating each terrorist unit under the shelter of godfathers. Today's student politics means extortion, appointment trade, TikTok ‘live fights’. When a young man graduates from university and still cannot find a job after three years, then his dreams no longer go towards agriculture, startup, technology or industry—they fall under the gun of political shelter.

When the state gives weapons instead of dreams to its youth society, then that state does not only become spineless—it becomes suicidal. In democracy it is said, “People are the owners.” But in Bangladesh's reality, ordinary people are only people on voting day, after that they become mute, rightless beggars. Roads are built for VIPs, hospital development happens for special groups, and policy is determined sitting inside the glass rooms of corporate clubs. Farmers, labourers, expatriate workers—they seem to be used only to adorn development speeches, but not at the centre of policy. The question returns again and again—whose state is this? Those whose sweat makes roads, who get sun on their skin, are they the owners of this state? Or those whose money is in Swiss banks, children study abroad, come to the country once a year, and determine the future of the country in talk shows? The state should belong to the person who, while building someone else's house, cannot build his own. The state should belong to the teacher who shows dreams to the student yet receives his salary late. The job of the state is to make the impossible possible, to make room for talent, to raise its head with the sweat of the worker. But today the state is imprisoned—in the hands of the rich, in the chains of the powerful.

And those who run the state, they see people as numbers of votes, not as beings of the heart. This question now stands before us—for whom are we building the state? A state where there is no job without bribe, where hospital service is not important but building stages for political meetings is, where identity matters more than merit, membership matters more than honesty. That state can have no pride. Why does an honest teacher commit suicide in frustration, and a youth extortionist become a public representative? Why does development only mean buildings, roads, banners and advertisements—but in that development there is no dream, tears or life of ordinary people? We want such a state, where the teacher will be the greatest person of the nation, the youth will be heroes, the farmer will be a symbol of pride. Where police will be protectors of the people, not of a party.

Universities will be towers of light, where knowledge will spread, not fear of drugs. Now is the time to ask questions. Now is the time to say “no”. No to bribe, no to corruption, no to extortion. If the state is not of the people—then the people must become the state. Let us remove the fake mask. Not GDP, let us judge—are people smiling. If there are no people, then what is development for?

Today corruption and crime have become social skills, not crimes. We call the honest man a fool, the shameless extortionist we call smart. If this mentality doesn’t change, ‘development’ will remain only on paper—it will not come into people’s lives. Today a moral liberation war is needed—a courageous, honest and people-oriented struggle, where extortion will be hated, bribe-takers will be brought to the people’s court, and the state will one day bravely stand in front of its own mirror and say— “The people are not the servants of state employees, rather the employees are the servants of the people; this is the true soul of a humane, democratic state.” If we promise—I want to become the people’s state again. Are we ready to fulfil that promise?

Rahman Mridha: Sweden-based Bangladeshi researcher, writer and former director, Pfizer