The Constitution: Rule of Law, or Rule by Interpretation?

In Bangladesh today, the Constitution stands in a troubling duality. On paper, it is the supreme law of the Republic; in practice, it increasingly appears as a flexible instrument; stretched, reshaped, and reinterpreted to suit shifting political needs. What is most alarming is not merely the political contest around it, but the quiet transformation of law itself into a tool of convenience.

Article 7 of the Constitution leaves little room for ambiguity. It declares that all powers in the Republic belong to the people, and that the Constitution is the supreme law of the land. The implication is direct and uncompromising: no authority, executive, legislative, or otherwise can act outside its framework and still claim legitimacy. Yet, the current reality tells a different story. A referendum is invoked in the name of the people when it serves a purpose, only to be dismissed as non-binding when its implementation becomes inconvenient. One is compelled to ask: does the sovereignty of the people, as enshrined in Article 7, operate consistently or only when it aligns with political convenience?

The answer becomes even clearer when one turns to Article 142, which lays down the exclusive procedure for amending the Constitution. Any amendment must be passed by a two-thirds majority in Parliament. This is not a procedural formality; it is a constitutional safeguard, deliberately designed to prevent impulsive or politically motivated alterations to the state’s foundational structure. However, when attempts are made to generate constitutional momentum through referendums, despite the Constitution itself remaining silent on their legal status; what emerges is a form of indirect pressure on the very process Article 142 seeks to protect. In legal theory, a well-established principle applies: what cannot be done directly cannot be achieved indirectly. Yet, that principle seems increasingly negotiable.

The use of presidential ordinance-making power raises further constitutional concerns. Article 93 permits the President to promulgate ordinances only when Parliament is not in session and when circumstances demand immediate action. But can constitutional reform arguably one of the most serious and deliberative functions of the state ever be classified as an “immediate necessity”? More importantly, Article 93(2) requires that such ordinances be placed before Parliament; failing which, they lapse within a prescribed period. When ordinances central to a major reform agenda are not even presented to Parliament, their eventual lapse is not just a procedural outcome. It is an implicit acknowledgment of their fragile legal standing. The question then becomes unavoidable: if the legal foundation itself collapses, what remains of the structure built upon it?

Article 26 reinforces another critical boundary. It declares that any law inconsistent with the Constitution is void to the extent of that inconsistency. This provision ensures that the Constitution is not merely symbolic but enforceable. Similarly, Article 7(2) reiterates that any law inconsistent with the Constitution shall have no legal effect. These are not abstract principles; they are concrete limits on state power. Yet, when the same referendum is alternately portrayed as the “will of the people” and then as a non-binding exercise, the line between constitutional authority and political narrative begins to blur.

The tension extends into the very framework of parliamentary governance. Articles 55 and 56 establish the accountability of the executive to Parliament, one of the defining features of a parliamentary democracy. When major political and constitutional decisions are pursued through mechanisms that sidestep or weaken Parliament, this accountability is inevitably undermined. The executive, in effect, begins to answer not to the legislature, but to processes of its own making.

Bangladesh’s higher judiciary has, over time, articulated the doctrine of the “basic structure” of the Constitution, affirming that certain foundational principles such as democracy, rule of law, and separation of powers cannot be altered even through formal amendments. This doctrine serves as a constitutional compass, ensuring that procedural compliance does not override substantive integrity. If the process of change itself deviates from constitutional norms, then even legally framed outcomes risk becoming constitutionally suspect.

What emerges from this evolving landscape is not merely a legal debate, but a deeper institutional dilemma. The issue is no longer whether the Constitution is being followed, but how it is being interpreted, and who controls that interpretation. A referendum becomes binding when it is politically useful, and optional when it is not. Ordinances are justified as urgent when introduced, and quietly allowed to expire when contested. This fluidity is not a sign of constitutional adaptability; it is a symptom of constitutional uncertainty.

The final question, therefore, is both simple and unsettling: is the Constitution truly the supreme law of Bangladesh, or has it been reduced to a document whose meaning shifts with political necessity? If the former is true, then its procedures and limitations must be respected without exception. If the latter is closer to reality, then the country is no longer governed by the rule of law, but by the rule of interpretation, where legality itself becomes a matter of convenience rather than principle.