The last time Awami League was not in power, I was still in primary school. I came into adulthood under the current prolonged reign of this party, and for a long time, I held a positive view of it. Given the opportunity to vote, I probably would have supported AL. During my mid- to late-teens, my perception of the BNP was tainted by memories of arson attacks on buses with passengers still aboard. Mostly it was things I had learned of from the media. The load-shedding problem loomed large, and the efficiency of book distribution in schools had room for improvement. The economy at large also wasn't at its best. Jobs were paying less. In particular, government job holders were so underpaid that the ideal way to go was to seek employment in the private sector.

Once the Awami League came to power, our educational curriculum increasingly emphasised lessons, stories, and history related to the Liberation War, with a particular focus on Awami League's contributions and tales about Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. This cultivated a sense of national pride in myself and my peers. We cherished the "free country" we enjoyed, thanks to the sacrifices of the martyrs and all those who had played a role for us in the war. Through all this, we subconsciously inherited the notion of nationalism.

However, as I grew older, the sense of freedom in our country began to wane. I distinctly remember the moment my perspective on the government underwent a drastic transformation – during the quota reform movement. I joined the protests one day upon hearing about their reasonable demands. Though the issue did not directly affect me, I was drawn to the passionate gathering of young people advocating for their rights in a peaceful manner.

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On the day of the sit-ins, I participated eagerly. There were hours of chanting slogans and making demands. However, as the sun set, the police unexpectedly released tear gas on the protesters and charged at us. The once peaceful assembly of demonstrators scattered, and the entire Dhaka University campus area was engulfed in tear gas. It was a chaotic and distressing situation, to say the least. The protest took a violent turn, with students being beaten and many arrested. Our eyes, affected by the gas, didn't stop tearing up until the next day. In the media, the narrative shifted to blame the opposition party for inciting unrest – a narrative we knew to be false. There was no political party involved there. It was the general youth heading the movement.

This was a pivotal moment for me. How could a political party, in the midst of its second consecutive term in power, unleash such brutality on a group of educated youths who were peacefully advocating for their rights? The aftermath further baffled me, as some political leaders blamed the opposition party, and the organisers of the protests were suddenly being accused of having extremist ties. Throughout this ordeal, my friends and I remained perplexed because, to us, the demands appeared logical and justifiable.

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That same year, the students' road safety movement unfolded – an inspiring display of the youth's power. Students were conducting the protests with remarkable discipline, stopping vehicles which didn't have the proper documents and allowing emergency vehicles to pass. However, this time, the ruling party's student wing, the Bangladesh Chhatra League, attacked students while the police stood by as mere spectators. The protest was further undermined by the spread of fake news. Once again, ruling party leaders shamelessly urged the public not to believe in what they termed propaganda, even though it was evident that these young students had no connection to the false information. Still, the propaganda did affect us. On the streets and at home, the rumours were painted so violently that the movement's mood turned gloomy and dark.

Once more, we questioned the authorities' actions. How could they resort to violence and aggression against peaceful student protesters? By this point, my dissatisfaction with the government's harsh response to reasonable and justified protests and demands had grown.

It is a well-known fact that politicians seek to retain power once they attain it. However, the government belongs to the people, and regardless of the party in power, those occupying government positions have the most significant influence on the functioning of our lives in the country.

It is a well-known fact that politicians seek to retain power once they attain it. However, the government belongs to the people, and regardless of the party in power, those occupying government positions have the most significant influence on the functioning of our lives in the country. If we, as the general public, feel neglected or even despised by the government, then this is a profound concern. We may not have allegiances to any political parties, but we do have the right to demand changes from our government. After all, the government is entrusted with the welfare of the nation, and the nation is its people.

The quota reform movement concluded on a sombre note. Yet, a few months later, after the protests subsided, the government eventually removed the quota system even though that was not the primary demand of the movement. Still, at the very least, the government acknowledged the existence of a problem and took what it considered were appropriate steps.

A similar pattern emerged in the 2018 road safety movement. The violent attacks on students quelled the protests, forcing protestors off the streets. Subsequently, a new set of regulations was introduced, leading to a noticeable improvement in road safety. The number of individuals driving without proper documentation plummeted, and motorcycle riders without helmets became a rare sight. These were positive changes that the government successfully implemented.

But questions remain: why resort to hostile behaviour toward the general public in the first place? What would the government have lost by implementing these changes while we were still on the streets?

But questions remain: why resort to hostile behaviour toward the general public in the first place? What would the government have lost by implementing these changes while we were still on the streets? Could it be an attempt to convey the message that protests and demands would be met with hostility, even when the government may ultimately support the cause?

In recent years, the prevalence of social media use has enabled dissent to find its place across the globe. But due to the Digital Security Act (now rebranded as the Cyber Security Act), we see the persecution of journalists, writers, teachers, politicians, students, activists and anyone who voices dissatisfaction with any major policy changes or points out the corruption of politicians and government officials. All this sends out one clear message: forget protests, you cannot even discuss within a community any faults you find with political parties, government organisations, or even people of influence who are connected to said state establishments.

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A Jagannath University student, Khadijatul Kubra, is still in jail today after being arrested under the DSA for trying to "cloud the existing political situation," "involve the general public in anti-government activities," and "impact the reputation of Bangladesh in the international world." Even though she was granted bail by the high court in February, the chamber judge stayed the order due to a petition by the state. In sum, a regular university student is being persecuted by the state. This made me recall the time when my father, journalist Shafiqul Islam Kajol, was in jail for seven-and-a-half months, after his two-month disappearance. The court dates come and go. Bail petitions are denied. And the suffering never ends.

The command the government exercises over digital and social media has made our generation so afraid that I have seen my peers putting their phones away, switching them off, or not talking about certain topics even in private with the people close to them. The thought of being flagged by the state as being anti-government and being persecuted over months on end has created a practice of self-censorship in Bangladesh's youth. They now choose to not be conscious citizens.

I believe that we, the youth, would feel more appreciated and valued if the government engaged in open dialogues and took positive actions in response to protests. It would demonstrate that we live in a state that is governed with reason and respect towards its citizens.

Monorom Polok is a member of the editorial team of The Daily Star.

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

Follow The Daily Star Opinion on Facebook for the latest opinions, commentaries and analyses by experts and professionals. To contribute your article or letter to The Daily Star Opinion, see our guidelines for submission.

As someone who has actively campaigned against the many abuses that the Digital Security Act (DSA) has instrumentalised since its introduction, I would have been pleased had the law or at least the most problematic sections been repealed, but we are nowhere close to it. Instead, the DSA is being renamed to Cyber Security Act (CSA) with some cosmetic changes and hefty fines.

Law Minister Anisul Huq's press briefing highlighted that most penal actions or the jail terms are being replaced with fines, and he suggested that the failure of paying the fines could amount to three to six months' imprisonment. Upon a quick review of the draft of the CSA, I found to my dismay that most of the problematic penal actions of the DSA are retained in the CSA.

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A repackaged DSA brings renewed worries

For example, the penalty for Section 21 of DSA, which stipulates a 10-year imprisonment for using "propaganda" against Bangladesh's Liberation War, the first president of the country, the national anthem, and the national flag, will be reduced to seven years. The penalty for Section 25, which stipulates a three-year imprisonment for transmitting "offensive, false or threatening" information, will be reduced to two years.

Reducing jail terms from 10 years to seven years or from three years to two years does not change the nature of the law. The use of criminal punishment in the CSA for what may constitute a legitimate form of expression has the same concerns as the DSA on this day.

In fact, the prison data that I obtained in July 2021 under the Right to Information Act indicates that most prisoners of the DSA (185 to be precise) were targeted under Section 25, followed by Section 31 (data causing "enmity, hatred and hostility"; 163 prisoners), Section 29 ("defamation"; 162 prisoners), Section 28 ("hurting religious sentiment"; 40 prisoners) and Section 21 ("propaganda"; 13 prisoners).

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This is only so far as the data indicates. What about the human rights violations induced by indefinite pre-trial detention and sessions of hearing? Renowned photographer Shahidul Alam, who was charged under the now non-existent section 57 of the Information and Communication Technology (ICT) Act for his criticism of the government in a televised interview in August 2018, still attends court every month. A jail term of 14 years still hangs over his head if convicted in the obsolete law. What's the legitimacy of a trial under a non-existent law?

No one should forget the price writer Mushtaq Ahmed had to pay with his life for sharing his criticism of the government on a Facebook post. He died in custody of the state authorities after being detained for 10 months. His colleague, who was detained on the same charges but released on bail shortly after Mushtaq's death, said that they both were tortured in custody of a state security agency.

Any government that is genuinely concerned by human rights abuses would take lessons from its mistakes and make sure that they do not repeat these. Instead, we see that the government is taking the same route as it did in the past, drafting the Cyber Security Act and attempting to hastily pass it in parliament, just like it did with the Digital Security Act ahead of the 2018 election.

Raising the fine and removing the jail term for defamation is nowhere close to rectification of the DSA. The reason defamation law has been abused is because a third party can file a defamation case under the DSA in the pretext of claiming defamation of another individual. The government should make sure that no one but the affected person can file a defamation suit in a civil litigation on grounds that clearly demonstrate the personal harm.

The High Court on August 8 ordered a stay of proceedings in the DSA case against environmental activist Shahnewaz Chowdhury, who raised his concerns about a coal-fired power plant in his neighbourhood in Banshkhali, Chattogram. Had the government not weaponised the ICT Act and the DSA, Mushtaq would not have had to lose his life for his words, Shahnewaz Chowdhury and Shahidul Alam would not have had to spend time in jail for their words. But the government does not seem to have any remorse.

Except for defamation, the government has retained the penal actions against all the sections of the DSA discussed above. In case of defamation, the government has proposed an increment of the fine from Tk 10 lakh to Tk 25 lakh. At this rate, fines from DSA might become an alternative source of the national revenue.

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Raising the fine and removing the jail term for defamation is nowhere close to rectification of the DSA. The reason defamation law has been abused is because a third party can file a defamation case under the DSA in the pretext of claiming defamation of another individual. The government should make sure that no one but the affected person can file a defamation suit in a civil litigation on grounds that clearly demonstrate the personal harm.

A political party mindful of public interest would aim to do away with harmful pieces of legislation and place human rights at the heart of its campaign. In line with those actions, the government would make sure that the next piece of legislation is transparently reviewed by a wide range of stakeholders, including members of the media and civil society. Only after those reviews are publicly discussed and incorporated should a law be sent to parliament for approval.

The government should do away with the criminal punishment for expressions entirely, and make cybersecurity specific to criminal offences such as child pornography, stealing of protected personal data, and financial crimes. We don't want to see more people being jailed for their posts on the internet.

Saad Hammadi is Global Governance Fellow at the Balsillie School of International Affairs, University of Waterloo, and a human rights advocate. He can be followed on X at @saadhammadi

The cabinet on Monday approved the final draft of the Cyber Security Act (CSA), bringing the curtain down on two weeks of speculations about it. This is supposed to be a "replacement" for the repressive Digital Security Act (DSA) – a "transformed" and "modernised" version, as state officials initially billed it. However, as a careful reading of the final draft shows, what has transpired, even after the so-called incorporation of feedback from stakeholders, is not a replacement per se but a repackaging of sorts, or as a report by this daily puts it, "a spitting image of the very law it means to improve on." So why bother bringing it in then?

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From DSA to CSA: The same two bottles of agony

In letter and spirit, the final draft remains almost the same as the one first presented to the cabinet on August 7. Experts have highlighted how it retains all but one offence from the DSA, and how all other changes are related only to sentencing, meaning that all controversial sections/provisions of the DSA remain intact. Moreover, cases filed under the DSA will remain active under the CSA, which means there will be no relief for the DSA victims. And even though we're told that the bill, once passed into law, will have "safeguards" against the filing of cases or arrest without a court order in all but four sections, we know how fragile such safeguards can be when the all-powerful state wants to harass critical voices.

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The new CSA: A draconian law made more ‘efficient’

The government claims that it has consulted with the UN's OHCHR before preparing the CSA draft. This is only half-true given the denial by said UN offices, or lack of reflection of their recommendations in the draft. But what about consulting with the most important stakeholders of this law – the journalists? What about addressing the concerns they frequently raised? We still remember how the lawmakers made a mockery of pre-legislative review by media representatives when passing the DSA in 2018. The CSA appears to be headed in the same direction. So far, beyond cosmetic changes and the pretence of consultation, nothing has been done to indicate that citizens' rights to speak, write or publish will not be muzzled.

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Relabelling the DSA won’t protect citizens from cybercrimes

The government can bulldoze its way through the legislation of DSA 2.0 if it wants, but the fact remains that, in its current form, it is every bit as dangerous as its earlier iteration. We, therefore, urge the government to properly engage with journalists and rights defenders and address their concerns before proceeding any further with the CSA. Not doing so will only further tarnish the country's image abroad.