The pyramid of power and promotions: How Bangladesh’s bureaucracy became a political battlefield

In the mystical land of Bangladesh, a new power has taken the reins, and the nation's interim government is in full swing—well, almost. Professor Dr Muhammad Yunus, a Nobel Laureate turned reluctant statesman, finds himself at the helm of an administration resembling anything but the efficient, streamlined operation he envisioned. Instead, he's leading a merry band of bureaucrats whose main skill, it seems, is fighting over who gets the biggest title and cushiest office chair.

Welcome to the "pyramid" of Bangladeshi bureaucracy—no, not the majestic stone monuments of Egypt that inspire awe and wonder. This pyramid is something else entirely: a top-heavy administrative structure where every rung of the ladder is filled with officials clinging on for dear life, fighting for a place in the sun. It's a sight to behold—a bureaucratic ecosystem bloated by promotions, inflated egos, and more Deputy Joint Senior Undersecretaries than anyone knows what to do with.

The magic carpet ride

For over a decade and a half, under the reign of the Awami League government, the wheels of promotion spun faster than a fidget spinner on steroids. The traditional hierarchy—where those at the bottom labour and those at the top oversee—has been turned upside down. It's as if someone took the pyramid, shook it like a snow globe, and watched the chaos unfold.

Take the position of secretary, for instance. According to some outdated notion called "rules," there are supposed to be 60 secretaries. But the Awami League, ever the generous rulers, decided that the government of Bangladesh deserved more secretaries than most developed nations. So, 82 people were lovingly granted the title of secretary. 

And that's just the beginning. The number of additional secretaries was another exercise in bureaucratic inflation. Though the official roster called for 212, somehow 546 people ended up with the title. And let's not forget the Joint Secretaries—a position that apparently nobody could live without. Only 502 were authorised, but over 1,100 found their way into these coveted chairs. Who needs efficiency when you can have endless layers of top brass?

But don't be fooled into thinking these promotions were given out based on merit or accomplishment. These promotions were the currency of loyalty. Much like how a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat, the Awami League conjured promotions from thin air, rewarding those who waved the flag of loyalty and whispered the right slogans. 

Who needs actual governance when you can build a fiefdom of loyalists? After all, it's easier to rule when your bureaucrats are too busy with their new titles to ask any pesky questions about, say, democracy or governance.

The power struggles begin

The moment the Awami League regime fell and the interim government took charge, the once-loyal bureaucrats found themselves in a bit of a pickle. You see, promotions given on political grounds don't exactly come with lifetime guarantees. Like children fighting over toys, these bureaucrats have been squabbling—literally—in the halls of the secretariat. 

Fisticuffs over office space, arguments about who gets which file, and public protests demanding more promotions have become the order of the day. The previously suppressed anger of the "unpromoted" ones has bubbled to the surface, creating an environment that would make a high school cafeteria look like a haven of maturity.

One of the most absurd spectacles of this bureaucratic theatre came in the form of "riot day." On September 10, senior officials descended into chaos, sparring over who would get to be the next Deputy Commissioner. Imagine, if you will, the corridors of power filled with men in suits grappling with each other over a title that, in theory, should represent service to the nation. The interim government's mission to restore order? A distant dream, as long as these title-hungry warriors are locked in bureaucratic combat.

Steering a sinking ship

Professor Dr Yunus, who likely expected his interim role to be a peaceful time of implementing reforms, finds himself on the Titanic. The iceberg? An army of dissatisfied bureaucrats. While Dr Yunus dreams of an administration built on fairness, merit, and transparency, his reality is a bloated system packed with individuals who have spent more time polishing their nameplates than working on actual governance.

So, what's the good professor to do? His first step was to initiate a mass reshuffle, cancelling the dubious contractual appointments made by his predecessors. Out with the old, in with the slightly less old—but wait, here comes the kicker. The bureaucrats who had been out-promoted (yes, it's possible to be out-promoted) are now shouting for their turn at the top. This led to a curious sight: retired officials demanding their old jobs back, while those still in power sulk like school children denied their recess time.

Meanwhile, the real work of governance grinds to a halt. Decision-making slows as everyone waits for their next promotion or transfer, and the public administration drifts along like a ship without a captain. There's even talk that some officials, particularly those who enjoyed a little too much luxury under the Awami League, are intentionally dragging their feet, hoping to sabotage the new government's efforts.

The human pyramid: A recipe for disaster

If this all sounds ridiculous, that's because it is. The public administration in Bangladesh has become a twisted version of a meritocracy, where talent and hard work are no longer the currencies that get you ahead. Instead, promotions are doled out based on political loyalty, the ability to lobby the right person, or sometimes, simply out of sheer randomness.

The bloated administrative pyramid not only wastes money but also talent. Offices designed for two officials are now stuffed with five. Workloads are passed around like hot potatoes, as nobody quite knows whose responsibility anything is. 

The over-promoted and under-worked fill their days with pointless tasks or simply sit idle, drawing their inflated salaries while the rest of the country wonders when something—anything—will get done.

The result? An administration that is slower, more inefficient, and more wasteful than ever before. Salaries and perks have ballooned, but output has shrunk. It's a perfect storm of bureaucratic waste, one that is quickly turning Bangladesh's public administration into a bloated relic—a pyramid so top-heavy that it risks collapsing under its own weight.

The final punchline

In this tragicomedy of errors, the punchline is clear: a bloated, politically driven bureaucracy isn't just a problem for the government; it's a problem for the entire country. As Bangladesh struggles to transition to a new era, its public administration is mired in petty squabbles, political favouritism, and a culture of entitlement that refuses to die.

The interim government, for all its good intentions, finds itself facing an uphill battle. Reform won't come easy—not when every promotion is treated as a birthright and every title a trophy. The bureaucratic pyramid stands tall for now, but one can only wonder how long before it crumbles under the weight of its own absurdity.

The tragedy, of course, is that when the pyramid falls, it won't be the bureaucrats who suffer. It'll be the people of Bangladesh—those who expected governance but got a circus instead.

H M Nazmul Alam is a Lecturer at the Department of English and Modern Languages, International University of Business, Agriculture and Technology.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.