Bangladesh will not be deceived by borrowed prestige. Nor will it forgive betrayal of its sacred destiny.

In the hierarchy of global honours, few distinctions have commanded as much reverence as the Nobel Peace Prize. Established in 1901 according to the will of Alfred Nobel, the Prize was conceived as a tribute to those who strove for the fraternity of nations, the reduction or abolition of standing armies, and the promotion of peace over war.

For decades, it symbolised not merely recognition, but a clarion call to moral leadership—a testament to humanity’s capacity to transcend violence with conscience, humility and courage. Yet, in our present time, the Peace Prize is increasingly not of the nobility not losing it as a sacred accolade, but also as an ornament of geopolitical performance—a gilded endorsement bestowed often to appease global powers, sanctify political narratives or embellish diplomatic theatre.

The Case of Muhammad Yunus and the Loss of National Trust

No example illustrates this tragic dissonance more painfully for Bangladesh than the figure of Dr. Muhammad Yunus, the nation’s sole Nobel Peace laureate. Once celebrated for the model of microcredit under cloak-and-dagger of manipulation and the rhetoric of poverty alleviation, Yunus today stands as a deeply polarising figure—regarded by many Bangladesh’s people not as a pioneer of social uplift, but as an architect of manipulation, financial exploitation and political intrigue.

His legacy, instead of strengthening social peace, has been seen to align with the direful foreign factions and forces that undermined democratic stability and the sacred aspirations of the Liberation War of 1971.

At this pivotal moment in Bangladesh’s contemporary history, Yunus is not remembered as a symbol of principled peace, but as a man who allowed foreign power networks and private ambition to overshadow the national conscience. Thus, the Nobel Peace Prize awarded to him has come to represent a stark and discomforting paradox: global prestige divorced from moral accountability. The medallion glitters—but its glow conceals shadows.

Political theorist Peiman Salehi offers a piercing interpretation: today, the Peace Prize is awarded not to those who challenge systems of domination, but to those who help make empire comfortable. Peace, in this modern architecture, has become negotiable—compliant, symbolic, and cosmetic.

And when peace becomes merely the illusion of calm rather than the triumph of justice, the trophy itself becomes meaningless.

When the Prize Still Meant Something

There was a time when the Nobel Peace Prize resonated with authenticity. When the first laureates—Henri Dunant, the founder of the Red Cross, and Frédéric Passy, a tireless advocate of international arbitration—were honoured, their recognition arose not from political expediency but from humanitarian transformation. Their work echoed conscience, sacrifice and the fundamental belief that humanity must rise above barbarism.

Later laureates such as Elie Wiesel embodied this moral vocation. “I accept this great honour on behalf of the many who perished,” he said, reminding the world that memory must prevent the repetition of atrocity. In such moments, the Prize served as a beacon of ethical clarity, not a tool of global branding.

The Gradual Descent

However, scholars such as Fredrik Heffermehl have rigorously shown that the Peace Prize has, over the past century, strayed from Nobel’s original criteria. Nearly half the awards conferred since the Second World War, he argues, do not conform to Nobel’s explicit mandate of demilitarisation and anti-imperial peace. The Prize has often rewarded heads of state whose involvement in war and coercive diplomacy contradicts the very ideal they were honoured for.

Critics have lamented that the Prize has shifted from recognizing courageous dissent to incentivizing diplomatic decorum. Peace has become an ill performance, not a principle. The honour often celebrates ceasefire photography rather than the dismantling of violence itself. The air of sanctity surrounding the Prize has increasingly dissipated, replaced by cynicism and intellectual disquiet.

Indeed, one commentator suggested renaming it “The Global Order De-Stabilization Prize”—a sarcastic epithet symbolizing how the award is frequently used to fortify the status quo rather than to challenge injustices that perpetuate conflict.

The World’s Growing Demand for an Alternative

If the Nobel Peace Prize can no longer be relied upon as a faithful steward of global moral conscience, then we must ask: Is the world not urgently in need of a new way to honour peace? A new prize—one grounded not in diplomacy and political convenience, but in integrity, justice, and transformative compassion?

Such a new award must be built on three unshakeable pillars:

1. Integrity and Transparency
   The criteria for recognition must be unambiguous, accountable and rooted in verifiable contribution—not reputation, lobbying networks or geopolitical alignment.
2. Justice as the Foundation of Peace
   As Martin Luther King Jr. taught us, peace does not mean the absence of conflict—it means the presence of justice. One cannot reward peace where injustice is left intact.
3. Recognition of the Unheard and the Unseen
   Peace is most often built by those who do their work quietly—community organizers, women mediators, indigenous & minorities defenders, grassroots activists. The award must centre them—not the well-polished foxy people like Yunus who receive applause and cameras.

A Vision for the Future: The Global Peace Integrity Award

Let us imagine an annual Global Peace Integrity Award (GPIA). Its selection committee would be composed of conflict survivors, human rights advocates, social workers and scholars—individuals who understand peace not as theory, but as struggle. Recipients would be chosen only when their work has measurably reduced violence, restored dignity or strengthened justice. Fanfare would be unnecessary. Authenticity would be the source of prestige.

Such a prize would accomplish what the Nobel once promised: it would serve as a moral compass.

Lessons from the Nobel’s Decline

Even the Nobel Committee itself has acknowledged its limitations. Former Secretary Geir Lundestad admitted, “If the purpose of the Nobel Peace Prize had been to establish peace all over the world, it would clearly have failed.”

Recognition is not transformation. Applause is not peace.

Desmond Tutu once reflected that the Prize opened doors—but he also implied that it placed him inside the same halls of power where compromise and negotiation overshadow ideals. The paradox is clear: awards can either amplify moral truth—or neutralise it.

Bangladesh’s Final Word

And so, we return to Muhammad Yunus. His Nobel medallion cannot erase or overshadow the wounds inflicted upon the national conscience in Bangladesh. The honour he wears internationally stands in painful contradiction to peace.  

This nation—born from blood, sacrifice, tears and unbreakable resolve—does not measure greatness by Western trophies. It measures greatness by fidelity to the spirit of 1971.

Bangladesh will not be deceived by borrowed prestige. Nor will it forgive betrayal of its sacred destiny.

Yunus may keep his medal.
But he has lost the trust of the nation that once gave him moral legitimacy.

History will record this truth.

Let the Work of Real Peace Begin

The time has come to end the charade.
To reject performative peace.
To restore dignity, justice and moral courage to the idea of peace itself.

Let this be the moment the world stops applauding illusions—and begins honouring transformation.

The mockery must end. The real work must begin.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

The damage inflicted upon Bangladesh by Zia, Ershad, and Khaleda is immeasurable. They desecrated the very ideals for which millions died.

7 November 1975 — a date seared into my memory. I was then a senior student at Dhaka University, residing in Sergeant Zohurul Haque Hall (SZHH). On the evening of 6 November, my close friend and classmate, Zamal Fazle Rubby Badal — a prominent member of the Gono Bahini, the armed wing of the Jatiya Samajtantrik Dal (JSD) — came hurriedly to my room, which adjoined his. “Tonight, something big will happen in Dhaka under the leadership of JSD,” he whispered, his voice charged with excitement. I pressed him for details and promised secrecy, but he refused to reveal more.

At around 11 p.m., I retired to bed, unaware of the storm about to break. Shortly after midnight, I was jolted awake by loud slogans echoing from the ground floor of SZHH — cries proclaiming that a “revolution” had erupted in Dhaka Cantonment and across the nation. Curious and uneasy, I went downstairs to find a large procession, led by JSD’s student wing and Gono Bahini members, chanting at the top of their voices that JSD had seized power in Bangladesh with the backing of the army.

All through the night, they marched from hall to hall, through the Dhaka University campus, shouting revolutionary slogans. Some processions even advanced toward the Dhaka Cantonment. I watched everything unfold, a silent witness to the beginning of chaos.

As dawn broke on 7 November, the air was thick with frenzy. Loudspeakers blared across the campus, announcing that retired Colonel Abu Taher was now the supreme leader, and under his command, General Ziaur Rahman had been freed from house arrest. The JSD cadres declared that Colonel Taher, General Zia, and other senior leaders would address the nation from the Central Shaheed Minar that very morning.

Along with friends from SZHH, I made my way toward the Shaheed Minar. On the way, we saw hundreds of military trucks and tanks filled with soldiers, chanting slogans — “Sepoy-Janata Zindabad,” “Gen. Zia Zindabad,” “Col. Taher Zindabad,” and “JSD Zindabad.” The Shaheed Minar ground was already teeming with thousands of people. Before 7 a.m., it was overflowing — a sea of civilians, soldiers, tanks, and convoys.

Although I was never aligned with JSD’s politics, I stayed there as an observer, curious to witness history unfold. A makeshift podium had been erected, and JSD leaders kept assuring the restless crowd that their revolutionary leaders would soon arrive to address them.

But around 11 a.m., a contingent of soldiers, loyal to General Zia, suddenly stormed the ground with tanks and opened fire on the podium. Panic swept through the crowd. My friends and I ran desperately back toward SZHH. Behind us, we heard screams and the sickening sounds of gunfire — countless lives cut short in minutes. When we finally reached the hall, gasping for breath, we knew we had narrowly escaped death. How many died that morning, I cannot say, but the rift between Colonel Taher and General Zia had already turned lethal.

General Zia, having been freed from confinement by Colonel Taher’s loyal soldiers, had initially embraced him and said, “Taher, you have saved my life. I am now at your disposal.” Yet soon after, he betrayed Taher. When asked to appear at the Shaheed Minar beside his saviour, Zia refused. That refusal marked the beginning of Taher’s tragic end — and Zia’s ascent as the chief architect of betrayal.

To look back now is to remember that Colonel Abu Taher was a true patriot — a man of courage, integrity, and immense love for his country. He had defected from the Pakistan Army in 1971, joined our Liberation War, and fought valiantly on the front lines, losing a leg in battle. He was one of the valiant sector commanders who led from the front.

After independence, Colonel Taher voluntarily retired from the Bangladesh Army while serving as Commander of Cumilla Cantonment. Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman later appointed him as Director of the Narayanganj Dredger Directorate. His deputy there was Engineer Ziauddin Khan — “Ziauddin Bhai” to me — a brilliant BUET graduate and a man of deep patriotism who had fought in the Liberation War.

I had the privilege of working with him years later, between 1981 and 1984, when we shared an office. We bonded deeply over our shared ideals. He loved me as his younger brother and always spoke with reverence of Colonel Taher — his honesty, his administrative acumen, and his unwavering commitment to the nation.

Ziauddin Bhai never knew of Taher’s deeper involvement in JSD politics, and when the news of his hanging came, he was devastated. It was incomprehensible to him that such a noble soul could be condemned by the very nation he had helped to free.

Colonel Taher hailed from Netrokona, close to my own home district of Kishoreganj. His father-in-law, Dr. Mohiuddin Ahmed — a respected physician — was a close friend of my father. Taher used to visit Dr. Mohiuddin’s home, only ten minutes’ walk from ours, and I met him there several times. He spoke in fluent English and often advised me to become a good citizen, though he never discussed politics. Had I known then of his involvement with JSD, I would have pleaded with him to stay away from its treacherous orbit.

Taher’s unyielding principles and moral clarity ultimately became his undoing. The JSD exploited his patriotism to advance its lust for power. He became their tragic pawn — and paid for it with his life.

Colonel Abu Taher was a true patriot — a man of high moral standing and indomitable courage. And for that very reason, he was falsely framed and executed by the ruthless and unlawful regime of General Ziaur Rahman — a betrayal that remains one of Bangladesh’s darkest chapters.

Indeed, it was Zia who fractured a once-united nation. He brought back the collaborators — those who had aided Pakistan’s genocide — from disgrace to power. There had been no public demand to rehabilitate them, yet Zia displayed audacious arrogance in doing so.

He freed notorious war criminals from prison, restored the citizenship of fugitives, and paved the way for Golam Azam — the local architect of mass murder — to return under Pakistani protection. During Khaleda Zia’s first government, Golam Azam was finally granted full Bangladesh’s citizenship — a national shame.

Zia made Shah Azizur Rahman, a wartime collaborator, Prime Minister of Bangladesh. He brought Abdul Alim — later convicted of genocide by the International Crimes Tribunal — into his cabinet. His widow, Begum Zia, followed the same sordid path, appointing convicted war criminals Matiur Rahman Nizami and Ali Ahsan Mujahid as cabinet ministers.

The damage inflicted upon Bangladesh by Zia, Ershad, and Khaleda is immeasurable. They desecrated the very ideals for which millions died. They opened the floodgates to communalism, corruption, and moral decay.

These were not leaders — they were desecrators. They poisoned our national soul with medieval darkness, empowering the defeated forces of 1971 to reemerge from the shadows. They were the ghosts of betrayal — ghouls whose insatiable appetite for power and depravity defiled our sacred land.

They created a moral wasteland where the spirit of 1971 was mocked, and vice, greed, and cruelty ruled supreme. Their perfidy remains unforgivable.

Their mendacity is unpardonable.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.