“Journalism is not a crime” rings hollow when, for nearly two decades, Bangladesh’s press has been both muzzled and co‑opted. Under Sabir Mustafa’s tenure at BBC Bangla, hard‑hitting investigations gave way to glossy features—just as local journalists faced draconian arrests under the ICT and Digital Security Acts. The proposed UN review of 15 years of journalism is not retaliation but a vital reckoning.
The aphorism “journalism is not a crime” carries an almost sacred sanctity in democratic discourse. It rolls off the tongue like a moral absolute, the kind of phrase journalists and press‑freedom campaigners wield with righteous conviction. But what if the very sanctum of journalism has, over the past 17 years in Bangladesh, not been the last refuge of truth but a willing accomplice in tyranny?
Former BBC Bangla editor Sabir Mustafa’s recent essay, published on 10 July in an esteemed Dhaka-based English daily, with its bold title and genteel caution, tiptoes around this disquieting contradiction. It argues, quite predictably, that scrutinising the profession risks undermining its democratic function. But this logic collapses under the sheer weight of the evidence: Bangladesh’s media has not merely been oppressed—it has, in many high places, been captured, co‑opted, and converted into a disinformation conveyor belt serving an authoritarian regime.
Let us dispense with platitudes and confront the uncomfortable truths Mr. Mustafa so artfully skirts.
Seventeen years of submission, not journalism
Under Sheikh Hasina’s reign (2009–2024), journalism in Bangladesh did not just wither under pressure—it mutated. From Prothom Alo to The Daily Star, from Ekattor TV to the humdrum satellite echo chambers, a striking uniformity emerged: deferential, Dhaka‑centric, and disturbingly docile. This wasn’t a natural market shift or a benign editorial pivot. It was policy by other means.
The Awami League regime consolidated media ownership among loyalist business tycoons. Journalists who should have investigated state abuses became cheerleaders of the very machinery that suppressed them. Press freedom, as measured by Reporters Without Borders and echoed by international watchdogs, plummeted. What’s worse, many journalists became avatars of the state—shaping narratives, demonizing dissenters, and shielding power from scrutiny.
Laws that lock away dissent
To understand the death spiral of press freedom, one need look no further than two legislative monstrosities: the Information and Communication Technology (ICT) Act, particularly the dreaded Section 57, and its draconian successor, the Digital Security Act (DSA)—later rebranded as the Cybersecurity Act, repression intact but simply rebranded.
Under these legal cudgels, journalists were surveilled, arrested without warrant, prosecuted, and sometimes made to vanish. Over 1,200 charge‑sheets were filed under the ICT Act alone before 2018. The DSA picked up where it left off—broad, vague, and terrifyingly efficient. Criticise the government online, and you might end up in jail, like Shafiqul Islam, who “disappeared” before being found imprisoned for a Facebook post. This wasn’t a chilling effect. It was an ice age for press freedom.
Yet where was BBC Bangla during all this?
BBC Bangla: from beacon to bystander
Under Sabir Mustafa’s 24.5 years editorial helm as head of BBC Bangla, the service underwent what he proudly described as a “digital transformation”. Radio was abandoned. The once‑vaunted newsroom pivoted to “entertainment and engaging content” for a younger audience. That sounds innocuous—unless you’re Bangladeshi.
Because during those years, journalists were being jailed, tortured, or co‑opted. Gross human‑rights violations—rampant extrajudicial killings, enforced disappearances, military surveillance, mass voter suppression—were ripe for coverage. But BBC Bangla, once the outsider’s outsider, chose glossy storytelling over investigative grit. The hard‑hitting tradition of asking uncomfortable questions faded into meme‑friendly clips and “resilience narratives.”
And when journalism needed an international ally the most, BBC Bangla was nowhere to be found. No expose. No leaks. No urgency. Was that editorial discretion—or quiet complicity?
The “greatest Bengali”: cult manufacturing by survey
Sabir Mustafa’s pièce de resistance—the BBC Bangla “Greatest Bengali” audience survey—deserves closer scrutiny. Touted as a cultural milestone, it canonized Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, father of Sheikh Hasina and the top leader of Bangladesh’s independence struggle, as a larger‑than‑life figure. The show was pomp, but the methodology?
A ghost.
There were no disclosures on:
Sample size: How many voted? From where?
Methodology: Online, phone, SMS? Weighted by demographics?
Timeline: When was the data gathered and under what conditions?
Verification: Was there any independent audit?
None of these are rhetorical questions. They are the bones of any survey worth its salt. Absent these, the “Greatest Bengali” poll becomes less a public expression of collective admiration and more an exercise in myth‑making. It cemented the cult around Mujib that his daughter later used to silence all opposition. It was cultural propaganda with a British Broadcasting seal.
Investigating journalism is not a crime—it’s necessary
Sabir Mustafa fears that Bangladesh’s interim government, in proposing a UN‑led inquiry into seventeen years of journalism, might cast the whole profession under suspicion. But that is a necessary discomfort. For how else do we confront the rot of captured newsrooms, compromised editors, and compliant content? You cannot disinfect the wound without examining it first.
Indeed, there’s international precedent for this.
The UK’s Leveson Inquiry, which Mr. Mustafa very curiously failed to mention in his article, launched in the wake of the News of the World phone‑hacking scandal. That inquiry didn’t just result in over 40 convictions—it dismantled the Press Complaints Commission and led to the birth of IPSO and IMPRESS, two new watchdogs. The British media did not crumble under scrutiny. It reformed.
And let us correct Mr. Mustafa’s glaring factual error: News of the World shut down in July 2011—three years before Andy Coulson’s conviction in June 2014. If accuracy matters to journalism, then surely facts matter in commentary.
A proposed reckoning, not retaliation
As of July 2025, the plan remains a proposal: the interim government is seeking UN expertise to review journalism under Sheikh Hasina’s rule. This is not a vengeful tribunal—it is an overdue reckoning. Yet journalists’ associations warn that without transparent terms, even a UN inquiry risks politicisation.
A call to ethical reckoning
This is not a takedown of Mr. Mustafa the man. It is a rebuttal to the ideology of professional exceptionalism that shrouds critical self‑examination. Journalism is not a crime—but failing to question how the profession in Bangladesh enabled criminal governance most certainly is.
The path forward lies not in defensiveness, but in courage—the courage to ask, to investigate, to reform.
Because only then can journalism in Bangladesh reclaim its soul.
Adil Mahmood is a former journalist.
This rebuttal, submitted to The Business Standard on July 14, 2025, addresses Sabir Mustafa’s article, which was published in the same publication on July 10, 2025. Although The Business Standard did not confirm whether they would run the rebuttal, their automated reply stated, “If you do not hear from us within 04-06 working days, you may submit your article somewhere else.” As the author did not receive further communication within the specified timeframe, this article is now being published here.
