Hasan Mahmud’s comical U-turn

Once a fierce critic of the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP), former Foreign Minister Dr Hasan Mahmud now finds himself in an unexpected role. The Awami League (AL) politician, who is currently in London, recently sang praises for the BNP—or, as some may put it, he tried “wooing” his once-despised rival. After 15-plus years of relentless criticism and jabs aimed at the BNP, Hasan’s sudden pivot, following the ouster of his government through the July uprising, has left political analysts and laypeople scratching their heads. A tale as twisted as a Dickensian plot, his evolution from BNP’s heckler to a begrudging admirer is nothing short of literary satire.
Let’s rewind to a simpler time: the era of Mahmud’s full-throated attacks on the BNP, almost as consistent as the sunrise, and twice as intense. He labelled BNP as a “party of parasites” and often credited them with conjuring chaos as easily as Shakespeare’s Iago wove schemes in Othello. BNP leaders, according to him, were architects of anarchy, always “misleading the masses” and “haunted by the ‘Tarique-ghost,'” referring to the party’s acting chairman, Tarique Rahman. His words were chosen with such precision and relish, it was as if he had plucked them from Dante’s Inferno, casting BNP leaders into circles of political damnation.
One could almost hear his booming voice, drenched in theatrical scorn, recounting BNP’s supposed failure to win the people’s favour as he proudly paraded AL’s achievements with an air of unearned grandeur. “The BNP presented a fake adviser to Joe Biden,” he would proclaim with mock indignation, using his platform like a mediaeval troubadour, weaving tales of his rivals’ bumbling with all the flair of a Marlowe villain.
With the authoritarian AL regime suddenly overthrown, Mahmud went from denouncing BNP’s every move to extolling the virtues of “restoring democracy,” a concept he had once wielded as a cudgel to suppress dissent. His rhetoric, once thick with sarcasm and scorn, now drips with the honeyed appeal of a suitor attempting to rekindle an old flame—except, of course, that the “old flame” is the very party he tried to extinguish.
Now, as if reliving Romeo and Juliet, he calls for “working together” with the BNP for the “greater good” of Bangladesh. In an ironic twist, Mahmud has become something of a Capulet seeking Montague’s embrace, promising a collaborative future he once vehemently rejected. Some critics have taken to calling this performance “The Tragedy of Dr Hasan,” a farce in which a once-proud antagonist now plays the role of political supplicant.
It was not long ago that Mahmud championed AL’s “unassailable” record of peace and prosperity. He proclaimed with the conviction of an orator from ancient Greece that his party had brought unprecedented development to the country. He scoffed at BNP’s concerns for democratic reforms, dismissing them as desperate ploys of a “party that cannot survive without scandal.” He scoffed at BNP’s advocacy for free and fair elections, dismissing it as an “elaborate hypocrisy.” And yet, here he stands now, as humbled as King Lear on the stormy heath, calling for the very reforms he once deemed folly.
At a recent event—his first appearance after weeks of silence post-uprising—Mahmud appeared almost repentant, though it was clear that old habits die hard. Attempting a dignified pivot, he assured his audience that he was “always an advocate for democratic values.” The line was delivered with the sincerity of a character in a Restoration comedy, and the audience responded with what could only be described as a collective gasp of incredulity.
A keen observer might draw comparisons to Chaucer’s Pardoner, a man who sells indulgences with a face so earnest that one could almost forget his dubious dealings. Much like the Pardoner, his newfound alignment with BNP’s calls for transparency and electoral fairness reeks of opportunism dressed as redemption. “I agree with the BNP on many issues,” he declared in a voice as smooth as an actor’s monologue, his words carefully rehearsed for maximum effect.
Mahmud has gone beyond mere agreement; he now echoes BNP’s proposals as if they were his own, including the idea of a bicameral parliament. With a straight face, he praised BNP’s acting chairman for “championing the cause of intellectual inclusion,” seemingly oblivious to his own years-long campaign against him and the BNP. In a feat of cognitive dissonance that would make Orwell proud, Mahmud now promotes Tarique’s vision for governance reform, a cause he had once called “antithetical to Bangladesh’s stability.”
One might wonder, is this newfound admiration genuine, or merely a last-ditch attempt to salvage his relevance in the present scenario? Perhaps he sees himself as a transformed man, like Scrooge on Christmas morning, proclaiming his repentance to an unsuspecting world. Yet, unlike Scrooge, Mahmud lacks the charm of a man humbled by self-awareness; instead, he projects the aura of a politician whose convictions change as easily as the tides.
This metamorphosis, this shedding of old skin for a new one, is almost too convenient to believe. Just as Shakespeare’s Polonius is quick to switch allegiances to remain in favour with the court, Mahmud’s chameleon-like shift seems less an act of principle and more a strategy of survival. The difference, however, is that Polonius’s fickleness ultimately led to his downfall—a cautionary tale that Mahmud might do well to heed.
In his newfound role as BNP’s begrudging ally, Mahmud’s journey resembles that of a character from Molière—perhaps Tartuffe, the unctuous hypocrite who feigns virtue to gain favour. If history is any guide, his overtures will likely be met with the same distrust and ridicule as Tartuffe’s grand gestures. After all, in the court of public opinion, where actions speak louder than words, Mahmud’s record as AL’s attack dog cannot be erased with a few conciliatory statements.
As we watch this spectacle unfold, one cannot help but see the humour in Mahmud’s plight. Here is a man who spent over a decade railing against BNP’s every move, only to find himself on the other side of the table, professing solidarity with those he once derided. It is a tale worthy of satire, a drama of contradictions played out on the national stage. Perhaps the moral of Mahmud’s story is one he himself might struggle to accept: that in politics, as in literature, irony has a way of catching up with those who least expect it.
HM Nazmul Alam is lecturer at the Department of English and Modern Languages in the International University of Business, Agriculture and Technology (IUBAT). He can be reached at [email protected].

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