Sheikh Hasina’s trial: My argument was misread

The recent article by Sangita F Gazi takes issue with what she presents as my description of Sheikh Hasina’s trial as “imperfect”. I consider that framing as “inaccurate” and “misleading”.

First of all, I did not characterise the trial as “imperfect” in the manner she attributes to me, nor did I advance an argument that questioned the legitimacy of the proceedings or the justice of the verdict.

The word “imperfect” did not constitute a normative judgement authored by me. To form an argument based on an editorial headline is a hasty generalisation of my position and essentially distorts it, fundamentally misrepresenting my argument.

What I argued, plainly and categorically, was that the trial was a trial for justice—one that directly rebutted the claim advanced by the former Bangladesh State Minister of Information Mohammad Ali Arafat that the proceedings were a political farce.

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My article was not an exercise in relativising crimes, nor was it an attempt to lower the bar of due process. It was a factual and legal response to the assertion that no credible evidentiary or juridical basis existed for holding ousted Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina accountable.

At no point did I suggest that procedural criticism invalidates the moral or legal responsibility established by the tribunal’s findings. To suggest otherwise is to read into my writing an argument I did not make.

Sangita’s article builds much of its critique on the rhetorical danger of calling a capital case “imperfect”, yet she attributes that danger to me rather than to the editorial language she herself relies upon.

This sleight of hand allows her to argue against a position I did not take, while avoiding engagement with the core of what I actually wrote: that the tribunal’s verdict rested on a substantial evidentiary record, that it addressed crimes against humanity within a lawful statutory framework, and that dismissing the entire process as illegitimate is neither legally sound nor morally defensible.

More troubling than this misreading, however, is what Sangita’s article omits. Her analysis carefully avoids any substantive engagement with the evidentiary backbone of the case, particularly the audio recordings produced before the International Crimes Tribunal (a domestic war crimes tribunal in Bangladesh).

These recordings were not journalistic leaks or politically circulated snippets. They were submitted by the prosecution, examined by the tribunal, and subjected to forensic verification by the ICT’s own technical team. The court explicitly noted that the audio, along with accompanying materials, established a clear chain of command—linking directives issued at the highest level to actions carried out on the ground.

This is central to the finding of command responsibility. To ignore this fact while lecturing readers on the dangers of rhetoric is, at best, selective analysis and, at worst, a deliberate narrowing of the evidentiary lens.

My argument was rooted in the legal reality that crimes against humanity are not evaluated in a vacuum of ideal procedural conditions. International criminal jurisprudence—from Nuremberg to The Hague—is replete with trials conducted amid political upheaval and contested legitimacy.

The presence of procedural challenges does not, by itself, negate the validity of evidence or the responsibility of the accused. To acknowledge this is to recognise how accountability actually functions in post-conflict or transitional contexts.

Sangita’s article treats any deviation from an abstract ideal of process as fatal to justice, without grappling with the consequences of that position: namely, that powerful actors can evade accountability simply by destabilising institutions or refusing to submit to jurisdiction.

She places particular emphasis on the fact that Sheikh Hasina was tried in absentia, presenting this as a fundamental violation of fairness. Yet trial in absentia is neither unprecedented nor inherently unlawful.

It exists precisely to address situations where an accused person, having been duly notified, chooses not to appear before a competent court. In this case, Hasina was not in hiding, incommunicado, or denied access to representation. She remained abroad, beyond the reach of the tribunal, despite summons.

To argue that her absence should paralyse the judicial process indefinitely is to elevate the convenience of the accused above the rights of victims and the obligations of the state.

I do not deny that human rights organisations have raised concerns about aspects of the ICT’s procedures, including the use of the death penalty. Those concerns deserve discussion. But acknowledging criticism is not the same as conceding illegitimacy.

Sangita’s article collapses that distinction, suggesting that unless a trial meets every benchmark of Western liberal criminal procedure, it must be rejected wholesale. This is an argument that, if applied consistently, would dismantle much of international criminal law as it has actually been practised.

Equally important is the question of jurisdiction. My original article addressed the claim that the ICT lacked authority to try contemporary crimes. This claim is legally untenable. The tribunal’s statutory framework was amended through lawful processes to encompass crimes against humanity beyond 1971.

Legislative evolution does not invalidate jurisdiction; it defines it. Sangita’s refusal to engage with this legal reality allows her to imply that the tribunal overstepped its mandate, without confronting the statutory basis on which it acted.

What emerges, then, is not a disagreement over facts alone but over responsibility—legal and moral. It is one thing to argue that a trial should have been conducted differently. It is another to misrepresent the words of an author, omit key evidence, and frame accountability itself as a rhetorical hazard.

My position has been consistent: justice for mass crimes is rarely tidy, but it cannot be abandoned simply because it is inconvenient or politically uncomfortable.

The danger to justice does not lie in acknowledging complexity; it lies in erasing evidence, omitting details, flattening arguments, and substituting editorial inference for authorial intent. I did not call the trial “imperfect” to undermine it.

I argued that it was necessary, evidence-based, and legally grounded—and that dismissing it as a farce serves neither the rule of law nor the memory of those who suffered.

If public discourse is to contribute anything meaningful to accountability, it must begin with accuracy. Words must be attributed correctly. Evidence must be confronted honestly. And criticism, however sharp, must engage with what is actually argued, not with a convenient caricature.

Without that discipline, we are no longer debating justice; we are merely rehearsing narratives.

(Faisal Mahmud is the Minister (Press) of Bangladesh High Commission in New Delhi. Views expressed in the above piece are personal and solely those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect Firstpost’s views.)