First-time voters: Caught between hope for change and the same old politics
As Bangladesh heads towards a historic national election, hundreds of thousands of youths hope to vote in a free and fair election for the first time in their lives. But they find themselves at a crossroads between the political reality they are being handed and the reform they fought for
For Mishkat Mohiuddin, a 23-year-old student, the right to vote was something she had idealised for years. She watched mayoral elections and national polls pass her by, sidelined either by reports of rigging or parental restrictions born of safety concerns.
"I always wanted to practice my voting right. Despite everything, I wanted to go and vote, but my parents didn't allow me because of the safety issues," Mishkat recalled.
Mishkat is a first-time voter. The phrase "first-time voter" typically evokes the image of an 18-year-old recent high school graduate. But this group is an anomaly in Bangladesh today. Ranging from 18-year-olds to adults in their early 30s, they represent a "lost generation" that has never had the chance to vote in a contested election.
Over the past decades, many have personally boycotted elections and refrained from voting. As Bangladesh heads towards a historic national election in February, they hope to vote in a free and fair election for the first time in their lives.
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Known as the "July Generation," they are the same group that led the uprising to compel a state reset. Now, as the election draws near, they find themselves at a crossroads between the political reality they are being handed and the reform they fought for.
"I feel like either one party or the other will cause trouble and play some dirty game," Mishkat said.
Her transition from a hopeful revolutionary to a cynical voter happened swiftly, mostly because of the performance of the Interim Government.
"This interim government was supposed to implement at least some kind of reform. And of course do a fair trial of the Awami League. But they did nothing at all. They are essentially rolling out the red carpet for the old system to return."
Khaledur Rahman, a freelancer and fellow activist from the uprising, echoed this sentiment, calling it "old wine in new bottles." Registered as a voter since 2018, Khaledur has never cast a ballot. He described this as a deliberate choice—an "act of resistance" against what he terms "mockery elections." For him, the mere act of finally voting would be a milestone, though his excitement is tempered by a cold assessment of the political field.
"I expect the election will be fair, but after the arrival of Tarique Rahman, I think the whole power dynamic has already been decided," Khaledur said.
He noted that while the law enforcement uniforms have changed, the system has not. "I thought there would be at least some differences in the administrative sector. But changing the color of the uniform is not a reform when the whole system remains the same."
The skepticism shared by Mishkat and Khaledur inevitably raises questions about the National Citizens Party (NCP), the uprising-born political party that promised a "new political settlement." There was palpable hope among young voters that the party would break the binary deadlock of Bangladeshi politics. That hope, however, is now fraying.
Mishkat is blunt in her assessment, "They promised so much but turned out to be the same, or even worse." Khaledur takes the analysis further, identifying a strategic failure. He had expected the new parties to avoid alliances. Instead, he sees the "same old binary politics" resurfacing through alliances between NCP and Jamaat, alongside a noticeable right-wing shift that he finds concerning for the future.
Seeing these new parties fall back on old tactics has left 19-year-old Intisar Oishee feeling stuck. As a first-time voter, she finds it increasingly difficult to figure out who, if anyone, truly represents her generation. Confused yet excited, Oishee represents a segment of voters who are willing to participate but lack clear direction. "I don't know any candidates in my area, so I'm not sure whom to vote for," she admits.
She plans to wait until the last moment to see "where the wind is shifting." Her assessment of the political class is unfiltered; she sees the daily activities of the parties as a chaotic spectacle. "Since every political party is creating a new mess every day, the one doing the least nonsense before the election will get my vote," she said.
While the national conversation focuses on alliances and high politics, the view from the ground is often darker. Abdullah bin Amir, a market researcher, fears that the rot has already set into grassroots institutions. He had hoped that Nobel Laureate Dr. Muhammad Yunus and the interim government would act as a firewall against partisanship. Instead, Abdullah feels they have inadvertently facilitated it.
"From the country's administration to educational institutions, they have placed political people who serve the agendas of a certain party," Abdullah said, citing recent student union elections as proof that the "same old politics" is alive and well, just with different faces. He fears this pattern will replicate itself in the national election, rendering his vote a futile gesture.
Yet he intends to vote, driven by a localized hope of supporting a candidate who will benefit his specific area, regardless of the national current.
"I feel like nothing has changed since the uprising. I am afraid the situation is getting worse. The political maneuvering of both old and new parties is grotesque, like a game played standing on the bodies of martyrs. The enthusiasm for a new government has been replaced by a desire to escape. I never got to vote, and I will not vote this time either. Now all I want is to leave this country; I really do not care who comes to power."
Beyond the standard ballot, there is also the matter of the constitutional referendum and the "double vote" scheduled for 12 February. Here, the disconnect between the government's intent and public awareness is stark. Mishkat admits that even living in Dhaka, her understanding of the referendum is hazy.
"I think the government didn't take enough steps to let people know. If I don't know enough, I wonder how much rural people would know," she questions.
Khaledur agrees, predicting that without mass literacy and awareness campaigns, the referendum will fall victim to blind partisan voting. "Most people don't even know what it is, and in rural areas, people don't know how to read. they will do whatever their candidates or party tells them to," he argues. The danger, as they see it, is that a critical structural reform will be treated with the same tribal loyalty as a parliamentary seat.
But for some, even the fatigue of disappointment is a luxury they cannot afford. The trauma of the July uprising has left scars that one election cannot heal. Kranooprue Marma, a graphic designer, offers a harrowing counter-narrative to the election fever. Having lost a close person during the protests and witnessed administrative apathy firsthand, Kranooprue has moved past skepticism into total despair.
"I feel like nothing has changed since the uprising. I am afraid the situation is getting worse," Kranooprue said. For her, the political maneuvering of both old and new parties is grotesque, like a game played "standing on the bodies of martyrs." The enthusiasm for a new government has been replaced by a desire to escape. "I never got to vote, and I will not vote this time either. Now all I want is to leave this country; I really do not care who comes to power."
This is the fractured reality of the first-time voter in Bangladesh. They are not a monolith of hope. They are the generation that challenged the system, only to find themselves wary of the pieces being put back together. Some, like Khaledur, are excited to finally witness a competitive transfer of power, even if the outcome feels predetermined. Others, like Kranooprue, watch the banners go up and see only the failures of the past year.
