Morality, Realism, and Parliamentary Debate: Where Does Consistency End and Statecraft Begin?
By Rezaul Karim
In recent parliamentary debates, a notable tension has arisen between Member of Parliament Barrister Andaleeb Rahman Partho, Chairman of BJP and a political ally of BNP, and members of the opposition. At the center of the debate are two interconnected agendas: proposed constitutional amendments and the so-called ‘July Signing’ narrative. Opposition figures, particularly young leaders like Hasnat Abdullah, have publicly questioned Barrister Partho’s moral standing. They point to his past statements where he appeared to acknowledge the necessity of constitutional amendments, contrasting them with his current parliamentary stance of denying amendments as demanded by the opposition.
This controversy, while seemingly a matter of political posturing, opens a far deeper theoretical question relevant to any student of political science: Under what conditions can political actors justify either moral or seemingly immoral acts? And when does a shift in position constitute hypocrisy rather than statecraft?
In political science, the assertion that both moral and immoral acts can be justified rests primarily on the school of political realism. Realism argues that the supreme goal of politics—maintaining state security, order, and stability—can necessitate actions that violate conventional ethical standards. This perspective, often associated with Niccolò Machiavelli, holds that in public life, the ends may justify the means.
Two key realist doctrines are relevant here. First, the Dirty Hands Doctrine suggests that political actors must sometimes get their ‘hands dirty’ to prevent a greater evil or to secure the greater good of the community. Second, the Lesser Evil argument posits that acts normally considered immoral—such as deceit, selective disclosure, or strategic reversal of stance—are justified if they are necessary for national survival or institutional stability. Machiavelli’s Dual Morality further proposes that private morality is not suitable for rulers. Instead, a separate ‘public morality’ dictates that a leader must be willing to abandon narrower ethical considerations to maintain power and prevent chaos.
Applying this to Barrister Partho’s case, a realist would argue that if his current parliamentary stance—denying opposition-demanded amendments—serves national stability or protects the constitutional framework from what the government perceives as partisan disruption, then his apparent inconsistency may be justified as statecraft, not hypocrisy.
Here, Hasnat Abdullah’s insistence on immediate ‘Constitutional amendment’ appears both illogical and irrelevant to the present legislative context. Constitutional reform is neither a one-session affair nor a tool for political point-scoring. It demands national consensus, expert review, and institutional preparation—none of which can be manufactured under ultimatum. To frame the denial of such amendments as a ‘moral failure’ ignores the procedural gravity of the Constitution itself. More critically, the previous interim government had nearly a year to implement the so-called ‘July Agendas’, including any urgent amendments they deemed necessary for democratic transition. They did not. To now demand immediate execution from a newly mandated BNP-led government, which is still consolidating state functions after years of political upheaval, is not only unrealistic but borders on a hypothetical scenario. One cannot ignore an agenda for eleven months and then expect it to become another government’s emergency in eleven days.
Conversely, the idealist perspective justifies moral acts as essential for long-term legitimacy and trust. Legitimacy and stability are intertwined: a government that operates ethically gains trust from citizens and allies, which is inherently stabilizing. From this viewpoint, young leaders like Hasnat Abdullah have a political basis to demand consistency. If a figure changes position on constitutional amendments without transparent explanation, the public has the right to question it. Here, morality functions as a check on arbitrary power.
Beyond realism and idealism, many thinkers argue that politics is not immoral but amoral—judged by functional standards, not ethical ones. From this perspective, whether Barrister Partho’s statements are ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ is less relevant than whether his position is effective in implementing the government’s legislative agenda and maintaining institutional discipline. His rejection of the opposition’s proposed amendments—regardless of past remarks—may simply be an amoral strategic calculation. Partho is not a government spokesperson, but the leader of an allied party and a member of parliament. That distinction matters.
The debate between Barrister Andaleeb Rahman Partho and opposition figures like Hasnat Abdullah should not be reduced to personal attack or accusations of hypocrisy. It reflects a timeless tension in political science between realist necessity, idealist morality, and amoral functionalism. The public and the press would do well to recognize that in parliamentary politics, consistency is not always the highest virtue—nor is change always a vice.
What matters ultimately is whether the actions taken serve the stability, security, and long-term welfare of the state, and whether citizens are given honest justification for apparent shifts in position. Demanding constitutional overhaul without context, consensus, or continuity of responsibility—as the opposition does now—risks turning a foundational legal process into a transient slogan. As Bangladesh’s political evolution continues, such theoretical clarity will help move the discourse from personal vilification to substantive policy debate.
Author, Researcher & Analyst (Politics, International Relations and Security Affairs)
