When “Yes” Is Not Simple: Why Bangladesh’s Gono Vote Demands Informed Consent

A few days ago, I realized something unsettling, not from an official briefing, not from the ballot explanation, but from scattered conversations and social media discussions. Through this Gono vote, citizens may also be endorsing administrative decisions like the creation of new divisions, including places such as Cumilla and Faridpur. Many people didn’t know this. Not because they are disengaged or careless voters, but because no one clearly told them. And that realization raises a deeper concern: if such concrete, everyday administrative outcomes are unclear to voters, what else might be slipping through unnoticed?

So how did we get here?

The interim government has been consistently telling us that this Gono vote is historic. We are told it puts the country’s future firmly in the hands of citizens. That voting “yes” means choosing change, justice, and a new Bangladesh. It sounds empowering. It sounds hopeful. But here’s the uncomfortable question we need to ask before we get carried away by the rhetoric: do we actually know what we’re voting for?

On the day of the vote, every voter will get a separate ballot with just four broadly worded points asking: do you support the implementation of a reform charter with a simple “yes” or “no”? But that ballot won’t show the full picture. Behind those four points sit 84 individual reform proposals hidden in the charter.

Eighty-four!

Of those 84 proposals, 47 would change the constitution itself, and 37 would take effect through ordinary laws or executive actions. These are not small tweaks. They are big structural decisions that could alter how elections are run, how constitutional institutions operate, how future governments are constrained by law, and even whether Bangladesh will introduce a new Upper Chamber in parliament.

Some of these proposals actually respond to deep, long-standing concerns that activists and civil society groups have raised for years. Formal recognition of indigenous peoples and their languages is not a fringe idea, it reflects basic democratic inclusion in a diverse society. Other proposals, like strengthening the independence of constitutional bodies, reforming the Election Commission, and checking executive power, speak directly to issues that have repeatedly eroded public trust in our institutions. These are not abstract ideals. They are responses to real, lived frustrations with contested elections and institutional capture.

The problem is that these essential, widely supported clauses are bundled together with far more contentious and less urgent proposals, forcing voters into an impossible position. If you want the reforms you agree with, you have to accept the full package, even the parts you might question. It turns a collective choice into a forced trade-off.

In effect, the safest reforms become leverage for the entire charter, so voters end up not choosing between good policy and bad policy. They are asked to choose between partial justice and total uncertainty. 

Think of it this way: imagine someone handed you a contract that could affect your whole life, but only let you read the summary and not the fine print. Would you sign it? Would you feel respected as someone making that decision? Or would you feel rushed, expected to trust the summary and go with the flow? That’s how many voters are being asked to decide.

Here's what strikes me: we don't all agree on everything, and that’s not a flaw in democracy; that is how democratic debate works. Someone might strongly support reforms to the Election Commission but be sceptical about creating an Upper Chamber. Someone else might agree with certain constitutional safeguards but worry about binding future governments to a fixed 30-point commitment. These differences matter. They deserve space in public conversation. Yet this referendum’s structure leaves no room for nuance.

Bangladesh has had national referendums before in 1977, 1985, and 1991 but those asked about one clear question at a time:

confidence in a leader, continuation of a political system, or a specific constitutional amendment. Voters were asked to decide on one outcome at a time. What makes the current Gono vote fundamentally different is its scope. For the first time, citizens are being asked to approve an entire reform charter, dozens of constitutional and legal changes through a single yes-or-no decision. That changes the meaning of consent itself: it turns a tool for discrete decisions into a mechanism for endorsing an entire future framework all at once.

What makes this moment even more complicated is the political context in which this Gono vote is being held. As reporting has shown, this referendum is unfolding in the aftermath of mass uprisings, a legitimacy crisis, and a transition overseen by an interim government that is trying to reset the rules of governance at once. The reform charter is not emerging from a long parliamentary process or sustained public negotiation; it is being introduced as a corrective, almost an emergency intervention. In that setting, the Gono vote begins to function less as a tool for careful public consent and more as a shortcut to political validation. It asks citizens not only to approve specific reforms, but to retroactively endorse the way those reforms were assembled, prioritised, and rushed into a single moment of decision.

The interim government hasn’t been neutral in how it presents this vote. Public statements, televised messages, and official campaigns have framed a “yes” vote as the gateway to ending inequality, exploitation, and oppression as the door to a new Bangladesh. Professor Muhammad Yunus himself has urged citizens to vote “yes” if they want change. 

But let’s be honest with ourselves for a second. Can a single vote, by itself, guarantee change?

History tells us otherwise. Change doesn’t arrive automatically because a box is ticked. Change comes from political behaviour, from accountability, from institutions being allowed to function independently, from reforms being implemented thoughtfully and adjusted when they don’t work. A referendum can open a door, yes, but it cannot walk us through it.

So when citizens are told that “yes” equals change, it risks becoming not an explanation, but a slogan. And slogans are powerful, but they are also blunt. They simplify what deserves careful thought and debate.

There’s another uncomfortable dimension here. By bundling such a wide range of decisions into one yes-or-no vote, the responsibility for future outcomes,  good or bad, quietly shifts onto citizens. If some reforms prove costly or ineffective, it becomes easy to say that the people approved them. In that sense, the interim government creates a cushion for future political actors, redirecting accountability away from decision-makers and onto the masses themselves.

This is where the process starts to feel less empowering and more tactical. Participation alone doesn’t make something democratic; informed participation does. Consent only has meaning when it’s based on understanding. If a “yes” vote is framed as the progressive or socially desirable choice, a “trend” to be part of, then real choice starts to blur into performance. We’ve seen how governance can sometimes bend to social media sentiment. But when likes and virality begin to influence major constitutional reform, the risks increase. Social media buzz is not a substitute for public deliberation, and reducing complex decisions into shareable slogans makes consent symbolic rather than substantive.

What if, a few years from now, citizens realise that some of the reforms they unknowingly approved are costly, ineffective, or poorly designed? What if future governments struggle to govern flexibly because they’re bound to commitments that no longer make sense in a changed context? What if trust in democratic processes erodes because people feel they were not told the full story?

These are not far-fetched scenarios. They are very real risks.

Countries that have dealt with complex constitutional questions often handle them differently. In Switzerland, voters usually decide each issue on its own ballot, and receive detailed information about costs, legal consequences, and risks before they vote. In Iceland, draft changes were publicly debated and revised with extensive citizen input before going to a vote. These systems are not perfect, but they respect the idea that people should understand and weigh individual elements before endorsing sweeping change.

Let’s come back to Cumilla and Faridpur for a moment. The fact that so many people didn’t know this aspect of the vote is not a minor oversight. It shows how disconnected the public conversation is from the actual substance of the decision. If voters don’t even know that such administrative restructuring is part of the deal, what else might they be missing?

This isn’t an argument against reform. Most people agree that Bangladesh needs change. This isn’t even an argument against a referendum in principle. It’s an argument against opacity, against rushing major decisions, against selling complexity through slogans.

At the end of the day, democracy doesn’t ask us to blindly trust; it asks us to understand, to question, and to choose with clarity. We are being told that the key to the country’s future is in our hands. But keys are only powerful if we know which lock they open and what lies behind that door.

So before we rush to say “yes” or “no,” maybe the most democratic thing we can do is pause and ask: do we truly know what we are being asked to approve?

Because voting with hope is important, but voting with understanding is essential.

Reference: https://www.bbc.com/bengali/articles/cn0k9n56wlyo

---

Tanzina Rahman Prome is a Development Studies student at the University of Chittagong. Passionate about social change, she volunteers with various organizations and writes about pressing societal issues. As a cause-driven entrepreneur, she strives to create impactful solutions for community well-being.