Bangladesh has performed a legal miracle, and in so doing, has become the envy of the world. It has evolved beyond other existing nations, its laws superior to theirs. Murder, the literal act of killing, is legal. It has been justified so flagrantly, so heavily, so convincingly, that those espousing its virtues have not only started believing in their own lies, they have also numbed the populace into acceptance.
Murder is the most efficient method of controlling the population -- its mind and its numbers. While the rest of the world dithers, Bangladesh understands why it ought to be celebrated.
People have been killed in the name of politics for years now, with no consequence. The outrage at a little known man being shot during the rule of a military dictator that was integral to bringing him down and subsequently consigning him to the status of the longest running joke in Bangladeshi politics has given way to killing becoming, first, an accepted form of protest, then an effective one, and finally a numbers game that disappoints when it fails to register in the three, four, five figures.
A nation that is so obsessed with how many of its people were killed during the Liberation War as to make it a punishable offence to study, analyse, or question it, does not care about how many die on its streets in the name of politics. This is how the process of legalising murder started. As with all things in the country, it came from the top, and trickle-down failed, keeping the power to decide who lives and who dies concentrated at the top. The lower echelons contented themselves with providing willing bodies.
People have been killed in the name of law enforcement. Separation of powers is a utopian ideal that has no place in modern autocracies of the ruling class masquerading as democracies.
The superpowers flaunt their prosperity owing to this regularly. A country has not made this presumption since having its name recognised by the international brotherhood, that does not even pretend to be about or for its people, cannot be expected to be foolish enough to believe in this dated principle.
The police, the military and everything in between and over and above are there to preserve the broken state machinery. Their brains and brawns are, as they have always been, for sale. The elite class is Clotho, the highest bidder is Lachesis and the collective law enforcement body is Atropos. The rest of the population is game, and hunting season never ceases in this tropical paradise.
People have been killed in the name of business. Money weighs heavier than gold and human beings. Crushed limbs, ribs and spines are not enough of a sacrifice at the altar of capitalism, falling desperately short of the particular entrepreneurial deity worshipped in Bangladesh. Statistics that are not fully analysed are absorbed and regurgitated, the drive for ever-higher numbers entrenched as a religion that is beyond reproach.
The true cost of doing business is measured as often as the idiocy of the economic goals and achievements proudly announced by the ruling class are: Never. Corporate murder and manslaughter are more merciful than death by starvation. Murder, thus, is not only necessary, it is desirable. Rising numbers are bonuses, and bonuses are the best.
People have been killed for their words. People have been killed for their thoughts. Words and thoughts are illegal weapons of the mass’s destruction. They get in the way of moral and ideological bankruptcy, toying with people, clouding their judgement, corrupting their minds. They are cruel, heinous crimes that cannot be allowed in a civilised society. The might of the pen, exhibited by the Language Movement that paved the way for independence, is a fallacy.
Thankfully, in Bangladesh, if the state machinery does not get those who dare to think for and express themselves, its nemeses certainly will. The killings are virtuous, and virtue maketh the man.
There are fewer voices now in Bangladesh than there were three months ago. There will be fewer still in three months’ time. This is a population that is desensitised, its spirit broken, its humanity extracted and expelled. This is a nation that has continued to be oppressed by the ruling class, the once foreign poison replaced by a local vintage.
The people are now expected to be silent to remain alive. If they dare speak, they only have themselves to blame for their death. When they do, inevitably, die, as all humans must, no tears will be shed, for even the crocodile ones have dried up. The soulless, compliant, condemned populace is sleepwalking towards an irredeemably failed state.