Law is often introduced to us as neutral, almost sacred. In our first-year lectures, we are told that law stands above politics, above wealth, above emotion. It is meant to regulate us all equally, whether rickshaw puller or minister, whether corporation or citizen.
Yet as I have moved further into studying jurisprudence, a quieter question has begun to press on me: if law is neutral, why does inequality persist so comfortably within its boundaries? And more importantly, is persistence accidental or structural?
In Bangladesh, as in most modern states, law functions not merely as a set of rules but as an authority that shapes how society understands legitimacy. A governmental decision becomes acceptable once declared ‘lawful.’ A policy, once passed through Parliament, gains a moral weight that discourages dissent. This transformation from power to legitimacy is subtle but powerful. It is here that critical jurisprudence becomes useful not to accuse, but to analyse.
Karl Marx famously wrote that the legal and political superstructure arises from the economic base of society. His claim was not simply that wealthy individuals influence law, but that legal systems develop within material conditions shaped by economic power. If capital dominates production, law will often reflect and stabilise that dominance. We do not need to read this as revolutionary rhetoric; we can read it as structural observation.
Consider the economic reality of litigation in Bangladesh. Bringing a constitutional challenge or a complex commercial claim requires resources, time, skilled counsel, and procedural endurance. While public interest litigation has widened access in important ways, the cost of sustained legal engagement still filters who can effectively use the system. Corporations can litigate repeatedly; marginalised individuals often cannot. The law itself does not explicitly exclude the poor, but the structure of legal access quietly privileges those with economic capital. In this sense, hierarchy is not imposed through dramatic oppression; it is reproduced through ordinary procedure.
Antonio Gramsci deepened this discussion through the idea of hegemony. Power, he argued, is most stable when it is accepted as natural. Dominance does not survive by force alone; it survives by consent. When people believe that the system is legitimate, they participate in their own governance. Law plays a central role in creating that consent. Court judgments, constitutional amendments, and regulatory frameworks present decisions as rational and inevitable, even when they align closely with dominant political or economic interests.
We can see this dynamic globally. In Western democracies, corporate lobbying operates within legal channels. Policies affecting taxation, trade, and regulation are shaped through formally lawful mechanisms. Nothing appears unlawful. Yet economic actors with greater resources exert greater influence over legislative outcomes. The process is legal, transparent even, but not evenly balanced. The structure of participation itself reflects inequality.
Bangladesh is not immune to similar tensions. The relationship between political authority and legal endorsement often illustrates how legality strengthens power. When controversial measures are validated through procedural correctness, opposition is softened. The debate shifts from whether a decision is just to whether it is constitutionally defensible. Legality becomes a shield of legitimacy.
At the same time, our constitutional framework introduces an additional dimension. The Constitution of Bangladesh recognises Islam as the state religion while simultaneously affirming principles of equality, the rule of law, and fundamental rights. This recognition is not merely symbolic; it contributes to the moral vocabulary through which law is understood. In a society where religion carries deep social authority, constitutional acknowledgement of Islam reinforces the moral credibility of the state. Legal authority is not only political; it is also culturally resonant.
This does not necessarily mean that the law is manipulated in the name of religion. Rather, it illustrates how legitimacy in Bangladesh draws from multiple sources: constitutional supremacy, democratic representation, and religious identity. When these elements align, legal authority becomes especially strong. Gramsci’s insight becomes relevant here; hegemony operates most effectively when law reflects the values people already hold. In such contexts, elite stability is not enforced harshly; it is normalised.
Pierre Bourdieu described law as a form of ‘symbolic power.’ Legal language, he argued, carries an aura of objectivity that disguises the social forces behind it. The courtroom transforms political struggles into technical disputes. The language of precedent, jurisdiction, and interpretation can make deeply social conflicts appear purely legal. Once translated into legal discourse, decisions gain an authority that is difficult to challenge without seeming irrational.
We can observe this symbolic power in international contexts as well. International financial institutions often condition loans on regulatory reforms. These reforms are adopted through domestic legislative processes and become national law. Formally, sovereignty is preserved. Substantively, global economic structures shape domestic legal frameworks. The result is not overt domination but structured influence, law functioning within a global hierarchy of capital.
Similarly, surveillance legislation enacted worldwide in the name of national security illustrates how public fear can generate consent for expanded state power. Citizens accept intrusive monitoring because it is framed as lawful protection. Again, legality converts power into legitimacy.
Yet to suggest that law simply reinforces elite dominance would be incomplete and unfair. Bangladesh’s judiciary has, at various moments, asserted independence in ways that challenge political authority. Public interest litigation has expanded environmental protection, labour rights, and administrative accountability. Globally, courts have invalidated executive overreach and defended civil liberties. These instances reveal that law contains internal mechanisms capable of resisting dominance.
This duality is what makes the question complex. Law may reproduce hierarchy structurally, but it also provides tools for reform. The same constitutional framework that legitimises power can empower dissent. The same legal language that obscures inequality can articulate rights. In Marx’s terms, while law emerges from material conditions, it can also mediate them.
As a student of jurisprudence, I find this tension more intellectually honest than extreme positions. It is too simplistic to claim that law is purely neutral; social realities contradict that claim. It is equally simplistic to argue that law is nothing but an instrument of oppression; historical struggles for rights demonstrate otherwise. The more difficult and perhaps more accurate conclusion is that law operates within power structures while simultaneously offering pathways to challenge them.
In Bangladesh, the interplay between economic capital, political authority, constitutional recognition of Islam, and global influence creates a layered form of legitimacy. Elite dominance, where it exists, is rarely maintained through crude coercion. It is sustained through institutional design, procedural formality, cultural resonance, and economic asymmetry. The strength of modern legal systems is not that they eliminate hierarchy, but that they render hierarchy orderly and defensible.
The question, then, is not whether elites influence law. Influence is inevitable in any structured society. The more pressing question is whether that influence is transparent, contestable, and accountable. When access to legal processes widens, when judicial reasoning remains independent, and when citizens remain critically engaged, the balance can shift.
Law, in the end, is neither saint nor villain. It is a framework within which power moves. Its neutrality is aspirational, not automatic. Recognising this does not weaken respect for law; it deepens it. For only when we understand how legitimacy is constructed can we meaningfully participate in shaping it.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author
The author is a student of LLB (Hons) final part at the University of London International Programmes.
