By K S T Qureshi

The most basic moral claim of any government is that it exists to protect the lives, dignity, and security of the people under its authority. Political philosophers from Thomas Hobbes to John Locke, and jurists across civilisations, have agreed on this foundational premise where individuals surrender certain freedoms to the state in exchange for safety from violence, chaos, and arbitrary harm. When a government fails in this obligation, or worse, becomes a direct source of fear for its own population, it forfeits its moral legitimacy. In many Muslim-majority countries, this tragic inversion has become a defining feature of political life. Across vast regions of the Muslim world, citizens often fear their governments more than external enemies, criminal networks, or social instability. The instruments of state power – police forces, intelligence agencies, militaries, courts, and prisons – are frequently deployed not to protect the population, but to control it. Surveillance replaces service, coercion substitutes consent, and repression stands in for accountability. As a result, the state ceases to function as a shield and instead operates as a looming presence capable of sudden and devastating force.

This condition did not emerge in a vacuum. Many Muslim nations inherited authoritarian structures from colonial rule, where governance was designed to extract resources and suppress dissent rather than nurture public trust. Colonial administrations prioritised order over justice and obedience over participation. After independence, these structures were often preserved by local elites who found them useful for consolidating power. Rather than dismantling coercive institutions, post-colonial governments frequently strengthened them, wrapping repression in nationalist, religious, or security-oriented rhetoric. One of the most striking paradoxes is that many of these states publicly justify their actions in the name of stability and national safety. Emergency laws, broad anti-terror legislation, and vaguely defined crimes against the state allow governments to arrest journalists, academics, political opponents, and ordinary citizens with minimal due process. In theory, these measures are intended to protect society. In practice, they generate a permanent atmosphere of fear, where no individual can be certain that lawful behaviour today will not be reclassified as subversive tomorrow.

For the ordinary citizen, insecurity takes multiple forms. Physical safety is compromised when security forces operate with impunity, employing torture, enforced disappearances, and extrajudicial killings. Legal safety evaporates when courts function as extensions of executive power rather than independent arbiters of justice. Economic safety erodes when corruption, nepotism, and predatory governance deprive people of livelihoods and social mobility. Psychological safety disappears when expressing an opinion, writing a post, or attending a gathering carries the risk of state retaliation. Ironically, Islam as a moral and legal tradition places extraordinary emphasis on justice, accountability, and the protection of human life. Classical Islamic political thought viewed rulers as trustees bound by divine and ethical limits. Oppression was considered a grave sin, and scholars historically reserved the right to criticise rulers who violated the rights of the people. The contemporary reality in many Muslim countries stands in stark contradiction to this intellectual and spiritual heritage. Power is personalised, dissent is criminalised, and moral authority is selectively invoked to legitimise domination. Another contributing factor is the securitisation of politics. Governments frequently frame social grievances, ethnic diversity, sectarian differences, and political opposition as existential threats. This framing allows the state to militarise everyday governance. Schools, mosques, media outlets, and civil society organisations are placed under constant scrutiny. Loyalty is demanded rather than earned, and obedience is portrayed as patriotism. In such an environment, the citizen is no longer a rights-bearing participant in public life, but a subject to be managed and disciplined.

The international system has also played a role in sustaining this imbalance. Powerful global actors often prioritise strategic alliances, resource access, and regional influence over democratic accountability. Authoritarian governments in Muslim countries receive military aid, surveillance technology, and diplomatic cover in exchange for cooperation on security or economic interests. This external support insulates regimes from domestic pressure and signals to citizens that their suffering is negotiable on the global stage. However, in Bangladesh, a rare moment of political transition has opened a narrow window of public expectation. The country is scheduled to hold general elections on 12 February 2026, the first national polls since the upheavals that toppled the previous regime. Many people view this election not merely as a routine constitutional exercise, but as a decisive opportunity to reset the relationship between state and society. There is a widespread hope that the next elected government will address the excesses and structural failures of the past, reform coercive institutions, and restore the principle that the state exists to protect and not to intimidate its own people. Whether these expectations will be fulfilled remains uncertain, but the election has become a symbolic test of whether political authority can once again be rooted in public trust.

However, the human cost of this broader reality is immense. When people cannot rely on their government for protection, social trust deteriorates. Communities fragment along ethnic, sectarian, or ideological lines as individuals seek safety in smaller, informal networks. Talented people emigrate, draining societies of intellectual and professional capital. Cynicism replaces civic engagement, and politics becomes associated with danger rather than collective problem-solving. Over time, the very concept of the state as a shared project loses meaning. Reversing this condition requires more than superficial reform. It demands a fundamental rethinking of the relationship between power and the people. Security institutions must be subordinated to law, not placed above it. Courts must be independent, not performative. Governments must accept that criticism is not treason and that dissent is not disorder. Most importantly, legitimacy must be derived from the consent and welfare of the people, not from force, fear, or inherited authority. Until such transformations occur, the central tragedy remains unresolved. A government that cannot keep its people safe from itself has abandoned its most basic purpose. In Muslim societies, where ethical governance is deeply rooted in both religious and historical consciousness, this failure is not only political but profoundly moral. Safety is not merely the absence of chaos; it is the presence of justice. Without justice, no state – however powerful – can truly claim to protect its people.