The idea of truth and reconciliation is as old as human conflict, yet it has rarely been successfully implemented in most societies. When people cause harm—whether through war, genocide, colonization, or political persecution—they carry trauma not only personally but also within the very fabric of their nation. If left unacknowledged, this trauma festers silently until it erupts again. However, when approached with care, truth and reconciliation can repair what politics and punishment often cannot.
This is what South Africa tried in the post-apartheid era, what Rwanda pursued after one of the most brutal genocides in modern history, and what many other societies have attempted with varying degrees of success. The question isn’t just whether such processes work, but whether they can be adapted for nations like Bangladesh, where political polarization is now more evident and volatile than ever before.
In the shadow of South Africa’s apartheid—a system that entrenched racial segregation and stripped millions of dignity from 1948 to 1994—the country faced a reckoning when Nelson Mandela’s African National Congress won the first multiracial democratic elections. Apartheid wasn’t just a policy; it was a brutal, calculated regime of racial violence, forced removals, torture, and institutional exclusion that made Black South Africans second-class citizens in their own land. When this regime fell after sustained resistance and international condemnation, the nation faced a daunting dilemma: how to move forward without descending into civil war.
The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), established in 1995 under the Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act and chaired by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, became a global model for transitional justice. Its mandate was to uncover the truth about human rights violations between 1960 and 1994, providing victims with a platform to share their experiences and allowing perpetrators a chance to confess in exchange for amnesty.
Public hearings, broadcast nationwide, brought raw testimonies of torture, forced removals, and killings into people’s living rooms, fostering a collective acknowledgment of pain. Over 7,000 perpetrators came forward; around 20,000 victims gave statements; the commission documented 7,000 political deaths and nearly 19,050 gross human rights violations. Amnesty was granted to 849 of the 7,111 applicants, subject to full disclosure of politically motivated acts.
The process focused on restorative justice, inspired by Ubuntu—the African philosophy of interconnected humanity, highlighting healing over punishment. This was a stark contrast to the retributive approach of Nuremberg. The TRC’s strength lay in its transparency and inclusivity, giving voice to the voiceless and exposing the apartheid regime’s brutality, which helped prevent large-scale retribution. However, it had flaws: its focus on “gross” violations overlooked everyday humiliations of apartheid, and reparations were limited, leaving many victims feeling betrayed.
Critics argue the amnesty process shielded perpetrators from full accountability, frustrating those seeking justice through the courts. In the long run, the TRC laid the moral foundation for democratic stability, but economic inequalities and racial tensions persist, indicating that reconciliation—while initiated—remains incomplete. The motive was pragmatic: to hold together a deeply fractured society and prevent civil war in a newly democratic, nuclear-armed nation. Its success in fostering a shared history is genuine, but it is tempered by the glaring socioeconomic divides that remain unresolved.
Rwanda’s approach after the genocide of 1994 was born out of a different and even more desperate context. The genocide, which claimed nearly a million lives in just 100 days, was one of the most intimate and horrific acts of mass violence in modern memory. Ethnic tensions between Hutu and Tutsi—deepened and weaponized by Belgian colonial rule and decades of inequality—exploded after the assassination of President Juvénal Habyarimana.
What followed was a nationwide massacre, carried out with machetes, clubs, and unspeakable cruelty. The Rwandan Patriotic Front, led by Paul Kagame, took control and ended the killings, but was left with the herculean task of rebuilding a state where killers and survivors often lived on the same street. The formal justice system was overwhelmed, with over 120,000 suspects crowding Rwanda’s broken prison system.
In response, the country established the National Unity and Reconciliation Commission in 1999 and revived Gacaca courts—traditional community-based tribunals—in 2003. These courts allowed community-elected judges to oversee confessions, apologies, and reparations, creating a mechanism to handle nearly two million cases.
About 65% of those tried were convicted, with punishments ranging from imprisonment to community service. Programs like Itorero ry’Igihugu sought to instill cultural values and rebuild national unity, banning ethnic labels and encouraging a singular Rwandan identity. “Itorero ry’Igihugu” means “National Itorero” in English. It is a Rwandan program designed to promote civic education, Rwandan culture, and patriotism among its citizens.
The strength of Rwanda’s model lay in its grassroots nature, allowing communities to confront the horror directly and rebuild trust where it had been shattered. But the process was not without its challenges. Coerced confessions, inconsistent sentencing, and the suppression of Hutu and Twa narratives raised accusations of state control and selective justice.
The government’s firm grip over the narrative sometimes came at the expense of personal healing. While Rwanda has since seen remarkable economic growth and political stability, democratic backsliding and human rights abuses under Kagame’s regime cast a shadow on claims of genuine reconciliation.
The motive behind the Rwandan process was both practical and political—to empty the prisons, to foster national unity, and to ensure control over a fragile post-genocide society. The results are complex: impressive on paper, but less reassuring when examined up close.
Other nations have also turned to truth and reconciliation as a means of healing deep wounds, with mixed results. Sierra Leone’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, established after the brutal 1991–2002 civil war that left tens of thousands of dead, aimed to document atrocities and promote healing through public testimony. It exposed perpetrators and gave victims a voice, but political divisions and limited reparations hindered the establishment of lasting unity. In Canada, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was not born out of war or genocide, but out of the long, slow violence of colonialism.
From 2008 to 2015, it collected testimonies from Indigenous survivors of residential schools—institutions that forcibly assimilated children, banned Indigenous languages, and left a trail of physical and emotional abuse. The Commission issued 94 calls to action, ranging from educational reforms to systemic changes in child welfare and justice.
While it has been praised for confronting historical injustices, implementation has been slow, and systemic inequalities persist. Both examples show that truth-telling is only the start; without political will and social consensus, reconciliation remains an unfinished journey. Their motives were genuine: to confront the past and build a more inclusive future. However, incomplete follow-up limits their impact, reminding us that acknowledgment without action is insufficient.
Now, let us turn to Bangladesh. Since its independence in 1971, the country has struggled to agree on its history. The stories of the Liberation War, the assassination of the father of the nation, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the coups and counter-coups, the rise of political Islam, and the persecution of the opposition- all have been manipulated by various regimes. History is not genuinely studied here; it is curated to serve those in power.
The events following the regime change of August 5, 2024, have revealed this old wound with an even sharper edge. Sheikh Hasina’s lengthy rule—marked by authoritarian tendencies, enforced disappearances, media censorship, and a crackdown on dissent—was finally ended by a student-led uprising, initially sparked by protests over the civil service quota system. The unrest quickly escalated, resulting in over 875 reported deaths and forcing Hasina from office. An interim government, led by Nobel laureate Muhammad Yunus, took power, promising democratic reform.
However, the country remains deeply divided. The Awami League still retains significant support; the BNP and Jamaat are regaining influence; and Islamist factions, long suppressed, are seizing the opportunity. Violence against minorities, particularly Hindus, and reprisals against Hasina’s supporters indicate that the wounds are still fresh, and the desire for revenge remains strong.
Can truth and reconciliation be possible in this Bangladesh? Painful as it is to say, perhaps not yet. But to imagine it is both painful and tempting. Because the alternative is national fracture, revenge politics, and a future defined by fear rather than hope, Bangladesh could look to South Africa’s victim-centred model and Rwanda’s community-based justice for inspiration. A Bangladeshi TRC could provide a space for victims of political violence, disappearances, and repression to tell their stories, publicly and without fear. Perpetrators—on all sides—could be encouraged to speak the truth, in exchange for conditional amnesty or restorative accountability.
Public hearings could document abuses from the past fifteen years, creating a living archive of our collective trauma. Yet, the risks are real. In a deeply polarised political culture, a top-down process might be dismissed as partisan. Ethnic and religious tensions could complicate local justice. The interim government, already fragile, may lack the necessary political capital to implement it.
International support, as suggested by Human Rights Watch, might be helpful. Still, in reality, it is often not welcomed by the general population, who believe the role of the United Nations and other international agencies was deeply questionable—especially as evidence emerges that the movement was being meticulously planned and instigated by the deep state, with warnings from Russian Intelligence about the conspiracy in December 2023, just ahead of the January 2024 national election.
Therefore, even if such initiatives take place in Bangladesh, the process must remain firmly led by Bangladeshi authorities to avoid perceptions of foreign interference. The goal would be to prevent further violence, rebuild trust in institutions, and ensure that the post-Hasina era is not merely a regime change but a moral reset. Success will depend on balancing justice and inclusivity, truth and compassion, and national memory with moral courage.
As a Canadian Bangladeshi academic, watching from afar yet feeling the tremors within, I believe the time to plant the seed for such a process is now. It may not bloom today, but one day, it must because a country that cannot confront its truths is a country permanently at war with itself. And no victory in such a war is ever complete.
The writer is a public health academic and development economist, and can be reached at: kindlejitu@gmail.com.