‘There is freedom of speech, but I cannot guarantee freedom after speech.’ — Idi Amin.
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FREEDOM of speech, that most glorious of ideals, once envisioned as the beating heart of democracy, has devolved into a tragicomedy in many parts of the world. In some nations, it is a grand performance piece — hailed with great fanfare but existing only as a figment of collective imagination. Others prefer a more Kafkaesque approach, where citizens are free to speak but remain acutely aware of the abyss awaiting anyone who dares to utter the unspeakable.
Consider the Digital Security Act in Bangladesh, which has elevated censorship to a fine art. It is as if George Orwell’s 1984 were not merely a cautionary tale but an inspiring guidebook. ‘Doublethink’ thrives in this land, where one is told to believe in democracy while being shackled by laws that punish defamation, vague ‘negative propaganda,’ and the pollution of human minds. A government critic here is a dangerous pollutant, while sycophants bask in the sanctity of truth.
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A symphony of silence
FREEDOM of speech, like a fragile butterfly, is often crushed under the clumsy boots of autocrats and populists alike. David Diaz-Jogeix of Article 19 laments the global downturn in free expression, describing the situation as ‘going in the wrong direction.’ Meanwhile, the proverbial choir of developing nations harmonises in this symphony of suppression.
In Iran and China, freedom of speech is a relic of a forgotten utopia. Opposition politicians, journalists and even lawyers risk being whisked away into shadowy cells for the cardinal sin of ‘expressing views.’ Were Shakespeare alive today, he might rewrite Hamlet’s famous soliloquy:
‘To speak, or not to speak—that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of draconian laws
Or to take refuge in silence,
And by doing so, avoid prison.’
In Bangladesh’s case, the slings and arrows come in the form of the Digital Security Act. Cartoonist Ahmed Kabir Kishore, once a mere chronicler of absurdities, became the protagonist of a dark satire when arrested for his pandemic-era sketches. The then government, in its magnanimity, declared Kishore a threat to society’s moral fiber. The cartoonist was beaten, tortured and had his head slammed — a scene straight from Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, minus any hope for redemption.
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Delicate art of autocratic PR
NAPOLEON’S bayonets may no longer be the weapon of choice, but their digital successors—firewalls, surveillance systems and trolls—are just as effective. In Hungary, the media is a government-controlled puppet show. Journalists, like the characters in Orwell’s Animal Farm, are equal in theory but are rendered ‘more equal’ when their pens align with the government’s agenda.
And what of El Salvador? Its president, Nayib Bukele, insists his then ‘ongoing’ state of emergency is a necessary evil against gang violence. Critics, however, might find parallels in Joseph Heller’s Catch-22: those who seek to criticise the president are accused of aiding the very gangs his government claims to eradicate.
In the United States, the land of the First Amendment, freedom of speech is under siege by SLAPPs — Strategic Lawsuits Against Public Participation. These modern-day bayonets, wielded by the rich and famous, entangle journalists in endless litigation. Laura Lee Prather warns that such tactics erode not just free speech but also the right to an informed citizenry. If Mark Twain were around, he might quip, ‘The truth is mighty, but a billionaire’s lawsuit is mightier.’
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From bayonets of Napoleon to shackles of Hasina
THE erosion of free speech in Bangladesh had taken a particularly theatrical turn. Under Sheikh Hasina’s watch, media outlets alternated between being megaphones for government propaganda and hushed casualties of censorship. ‘Four hostile newspapers are more to be feared than a thousand bayonets.’ As Napoleon warned, a free press is dangerous — so why not replace it with pliable broadcasters owned by friendly oligarchs?
The then government’s tools were varied and imaginative. The infamous Digital Security Act is the Swiss Army knife of repression. Mushtaq Ahmed, who dared to critique the government’s handling of the Covid crisis, died in custody after languishing in jail for a year. A modern Antigone, he was punished not for his actions but for his defiant words.
Even children are not spared. A 15-year-old boy found himself detained in a juvenile facility for the heinous crime of criticising the government on Facebook. The ghosts of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist weep for such children:
‘Please, sir, I only posted a meme.’
‘No memes for you! Off to detention!’
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A light in the darkness?
IT IS tempting to despair, but there are glimmers of hope. Gambia’s fleeting flirtation with democracy after the fall of its dictatorship was celebrated like a phoenix rising. But as Diaz-Jogeix warns, even phoenixes can be caged by cybercrime bills and legislative overreach.
Poland, under Donald Tusk’s leadership, offers another cautious tale of recovery. After years of judicial undermining and media suppression, the nation now seeks to repair its democracy. Yet, as the characters in Tolstoy’s War and Peace might attest, rebuilding is always harder than destroying.
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Poetic justice or the lack thereof
TO UNDERSTAND the plight of free speech today, let us borrow from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Ozymandias:
‘And on the pedestal, these words appear:
‘My laws are just, my rule supreme.’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The voices of the silenced, far away.’
From Bangladesh to Belarus, from Hungary to El Salvador, the wreckage of free speech lies scattered across the sands of repression.
What then is the solution? Shall we arm ourselves with bayonets or SLAPP lawsuits? Or shall we, as Napoleon and Idi Amin unwittingly suggest, embrace the irony of silence?
Perhaps the answer lies in fiction, where truths are smuggled past censors under the guise of storytelling. Or in poetry, where metaphors dance around the iron grip of autocrats. Or in cartoons, where one pen stroke can dismantle an empire of lies — provided the cartoonist survives detention.
Let the final words belong to the immortal Voltaire:
‘I may disagree with what you say,
But if you don’t mind,
Could you say it quietly?
The neighbors—the censors—are watching.’
In a world where freedom of speech teeters between farce and tragedy, let us at least laugh while we still can.
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HM Nazmul Alam is a lecturer in English and Modern Languages, International University of Business, Agriculture and Technology.
