When a cartoon becomes a crime, again

In August 2024, shortly after the fall of Sheikh Hasina’s regime, BNP’s then Acting Chairman Tarique Rahman made a statement that earned him rare political capital, particularly in progressive and liberal circles. He shared a satirical cartoon of himself by Mehedi Haque on Facebook, saying, “I am deeply gratified that the freedom to draw political cartoons has been restored in Bangladesh.” He recalled how, before 2006, cartoonists like Shishir Bhattacharjee had freely caricatured him and his mother. He contrasted this openness with the repression under the Awami League, where artists such as Ahmed Kabir Kishore faced enforced disappearance, torture, and imprisonment for their work. By publicly embracing satire directed at political figures, including himself, Tarique projected a sense of democratic ease: that under a BNP-led dispensation, even sharp political criticism and caricature would be tolerated rather than punished.

But less than two years later, and just over two months into BNP’s tenure in government following the 13th parliamentary election, that projection is becoming harder to reconcile with the unfolding events.

On April 18, as the BNP government marked its first 60 days in office and released a list of “60 notable initiatives,” it prominently highlighted the assurance of freedom of expression, with senior leaders speaking confidently of an environment of “maximum freedom of speech,” where dissenting voices could circulate without fear. However, even before that claim was formally made, reality was already moving in the opposite direction. On the night of April 17, the Detective Branch of police arrested content creator AM Hasan Nasim from his rented home in Dhaka’s Agargaon area. His offence? Sharing an AI-generated satirical cartoon that depicted Chief Whip Nurul Islam Moni serving whales and sharks to three political figures: Prime Minister Tarique Rahman, Opposition Leader Shafiqur Rahman, and NCP lawmaker Nahid Islam. The image was a direct, humorous reference to Moni’s own joking remark in parliament on April 10 about serving such items at lunch. The cartoon contained no private information, threats or sexual content. Nevertheless, it was labelled as content used for “blackmail” and “spreading misleading information.”

A BNP activist named Nazrul Islam, a self-described supporter of Moni, filed a case with Gulshan police station on April 18, under sections 25 and 27 of the Cyber Security Ordinance, 2025. Section 25 addresses sexual harassment or blackmail, while Section 27 concerns threats to state security or sovereignty. Legal observers noted that the cartoon matched neither description. The complaint also violated Section 40(1) of the ordinance, which restricts filing such cases to the aggrieved person, someone with written authorisation from them, or a law enforcement officer. Nazrul Islam had no such authorisation. Despite this, police detained Nasim before the FIR was fully formalised, and he was sent to jail. Although Section 25 is bailable, he was initially denied bail. It was only yesterday that a Dhaka court granted him bail on a bond of Tk 1,000, while the case itself remains in place.

In parliament, NCP MP Hasnat Abdullah criticised the arrest on Sunday as an attack on free speech, while Chief Whip Moni stated that if the matter was solely about criticising him or the government through a cartoon, the person should be released, though he also called for investigation into other alleged activities.

This pattern is not limited to cartoonists alone. Between March 26 and April 18, at least five ordinary social media users, including Nasim, have been shown arrested under similar provisions for expressing dissent through satire, criticism, or political commentary, according to a Manab Zamin report. This development invites a sober assessment of continuity rather than change.

The trajectory began with the Information and Communication Technology Act, 2006, and was dramatically expanded under the Awami League through the Digital Security Act, 2018. In practice, it became a sweeping instrument for policing online expression. Journalists, activists, students, and ordinary users were routinely charged for “offensive” or “false” content, often through complaints initiated by political actors aligned with those in power. Arrests frequently preceded investigation, and detention often followed before legal scrutiny could catch up.

The law’s vague provisions, particularly around defamation, “hurting religious sentiments,” and “misleading information,” enabled systematic abuse. The cases of cartoonist Ahmed Kabir Kishore and writer Mushtaq Ahmed became defining symbols of this era; Mushtaq’s death in custody further intensified scrutiny of the law itself.

In response to sustained criticism, the statute was later rebranded as the Cyber Security Act, 2023. While some penalties were reduced and certain provisions adjusted, its core architecture of discretion and coercion remained largely intact. The power to arrest, search, and detain on broadly defined grounds continued to raise serious concerns about abuse.

The July uprising was, in large part, a collective rejection of that system of fear and arbitrary detention.

Under Chief Adviser Prof Muhammad Yunus, the interim government had a historic opportunity to break the pattern. It repealed the Cyber Security Act, but introduced the Cyber Security Ordinance, 2025, which retained many of the same broad and elastic provisions. Sections 25 and 27 kept language flexible enough to encompass satire and criticism. Limited tweaks were made, but there was no deep structural reform—no narrowing of definitions, no removal of criminal penalties for protected speech, and no robust safeguards against misuse. By opting for rebranding over overhaul, the interim period left the repressive tools largely available for future use.

And now those tools are being employed in defence of BNP’s own leaders. The party that condemned the Awami League’s practices is invoking the unreformed ordinance against a cartoon that echoes the very creative freedom the prime minister once publicly embraced. Police responded to a partisan complaint without proper legal standing. Procedural safeguards were bypassed. Courts showed limited inclination to intervene quickly.

Overall, the institutional culture, where the sensitivities of those in power take precedence, appears unchanged from previous regimes. In fact, just about two months after the formation of the government, at least two people have been sent to prison over just drawing, publishing, or sharing satirical cartoons on Facebook, according to a BBC report. This reveals a deeper systemic failure that spans governments.

But cartoons are not blackmail or threats to sovereignty; they are a legitimate, often healthy way for citizens to hold power accountable and highlight absurdity. When even a drawing based on a public official’s own words leads to arrest and detention, it tells us that the regime is not confident—it is brittle.

Of course, this is still early days. It is not realistic to expect deeply entrenched political habits and power structures to be undone within just 60 days. But if the government is serious about course correction, the first priority must be to avoid complacency and to resist the temptation of treating early public optimism as unconditional endorsement. The public mood may still be hopeful, but it is not uncritical. In Bangladesh’s political history, that distinction has never been trivial.

What is required now is restraint rather than triumphalism, and reflection rather than rhetorical confidence. And if Prime Minister Tarique Rahman truly meant what he said about welcoming criticism and satire, that commitment must now be demonstrated through practice, not weakened by the actions of those governing under his party’s leadership or by the excesses of their overenthusiastic supporters at the grassroots level.

To that end, releasing Nasim without delay, withdrawing the flawed case, and issuing firm instructions against misuse of the Cyber Security ordinance would be essential first steps towards restoring credibility. Genuine progress will also require more: a substantive overhaul or repeal of the problematic sections of the ordinance to prevent its repeated weaponisation against dissent and humour. Until then, the aspiration for restored freedom of expression remains more declarative than real.

Jannatul Naym Pieal is a writer, researcher, and journalist. He can be reached at jn.pieal@gmail.com.

Views expressed in this article are the author's own. 

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