By Konka Karim
A few years ago, a cousin who works in a government office in Dhaka told me something that stuck: “Every morning, I ask myself—will this outfit pass the silent test?”
Not the dress code, mind you. Just the gaze. The piercing glances that follow if your sleeves are short, or your scarf a bit misplaced. If eyes could rape, those looks raped me a million times.
Last week, that gaze nearly became official policy.
On 21 July, the Bangladesh Bank issued a circular instructing employees—particularly female employees—on how to dress “modestly and professionally”. Sarees and shalwar-kameez with scarves were in. Short sleeves, leggings, and anything “ornate” were out. Male employees, meanwhile, were simply advised to avoid jeans and stick to shirts and trousers. The circular warned of disciplinary action for failure to comply.
Had it stood, this directive would have signalled far more than a preference for conservative dress. It would have conveyed a creeping return to institutional paternalism, where appearance is policed under the guise of professionalism.
At first glance, it may have seemed harmless—a simple guideline in an office setting. But look closer, and it reveals something deeper: a discomfort with difference, a quiet mistrust of personal expression, and an impulse to control rather than to trust. Men received a casual dress note, while women were handed a tightly choreographed script. The message was clear: your clothing is a reflection not just of you, but of how well you’ve conformed.
The bank’s spokesperson explained that the circular aimed to reduce “psychological distance” between employees caused by differences in attire. That logic is telling. If sartorial variety creates discomfort, is the solution truly to silence difference—or to examine why difference feels threatening in the first place?
This version of professionalism isn’t about ethics, skill, or competence. It’s about uniformity. About smoothing the edges of individuality so that no one looks too bold, too feminine, too much. When an institution takes on the task of regulating dress—particularly for women—it’s no longer just a workplace issue. It becomes a social signal.
Such policies don’t arise in a vacuum. They reflect and reinforce a wider pattern, one where women’s bodies and choices are persistently regulated under the guise of order, culture, or morality. In Bangladesh, as in many parts of the world, clothing is often treated as a moral index: modest dress equals good character, bold dress equals bad judgment.
But who decides what is modest enough? And why is it almost always women who are asked to adjust?
There is an unspoken assumption in these codes which essentially implies that women’s appearance is a distraction, a liability, or a symbol that must be managed. This doesn’t just infantilise women—it reduces their presence in the workplace to a visual problem to be solved. What this creates is not order, but quiet anxiety.
Beyond the sexism lies something more insidious: social control disguised as policy. Clothing is one of the most basic expressions of self—of identity, comfort, culture, and creativity. When institutions dictate that expression, they’re not just choosing colours and cuts. They’re curating conformity.
And conformity, ironically, undermines the very professionalism institutions claim to uphold. It stifles individuality, discourages creativity, and tells young professionals that fitting in matters more than standing out. It tells the analyst from Chattogram in a patterned kurta that she doesn’t belong. It tells the woman in her 50s wearing bold prints that she’s “not professional enough”. In enforcing sameness, we lose richness. We silence personality. We create offices filled with people dressed alike, thinking twice before speaking once.
Women in Bangladesh have long fought to define their own presence in public life—be it in activism, education, finance, or governance. Many do so in sarees, others in jeans. Some wear hijabs, some do not. That diversity is not a flaw. It is our strength.
Importantly, the directive didn’t go unchallenged. After the news spread on social media, it sparked a backlash. Civil society voices, professionals, and netizens criticised the move as unnecessary, tone-deaf, and discriminatory. The response was swift and loud enough to make the bank backtrack.
By the following day, the circular was withdrawn.
This turn of events reiterates something significant: public opinion, amplified through digital spaces, has real influence. When institutions overstep, people now have a platform to call them out and expect to be heard. What might once have passed quietly as administrative policy is now instantly subject to public judgment.
But the speed of the withdrawal should not lull us into complacency. The very fact that such a directive was drafted, approved, and circulated reflects an instinct to regulate rather than to respect. It suggests a latent conservatism in institutional culture that sees control as a substitute for leadership.
Policies like this may seem minor. But they send messages. They tell people how to fit in—who belongs and who doesn’t. Left unchallenged, they set precedents. Today, it’s about sleeves and sandals. Tomorrow, it could be something less visible, but just as invasive.
This is not just an issue about a dress code. It’s about the subtle ways control can enter the public space, disguised as discipline. And it’s a reminder that vigilance matters. That public reaction counts. And that even in silence, people are watching.
Considering the recent political landscape and the visible fragility of the social fabric that binds us, pulling a thread or two from this will change the very thread count—giving space to more discord.
What began as a quiet office memo became a subject of intense scrutiny because citizens refused to ignore it.
And that, perhaps, is the most important takeaway of all.