Friday, 06 February, 2026
As Bangladesh heads towards the February 12 national election, the campaign trail has become a harsh proving ground for women candidates, exposing how deeply gender bias, money politics, media imbalance and muscle power remain embedded in electoral life.
From the narrow lanes of Chattogram to the crowded streets of Dhaka and the semi-rural heartland of Dhamrai, women contenders describe an uphill battle that begins even before the first leaflet is handed out.
For many, the most basic challenge is social acceptance. Female leadership still triggers scepticism among large sections of voters, both urban and rural.
Several women candidates say they are routinely asked whether women should contest elections at all, or whether voters must cast a separate ballot for a female candidate alongside a male one. The confusion reflects how rare women’s participation in general parliamentary seats remains, despite decades of rhetoric about empowerment.
In Chattogram, where only four women are contesting across 16 constituencies, the obstacles are stark. Asma Akhter of Bangladesh Samajtantrik Dal (BaSaD, Marxist), contesting Chattogram-10, says that while many voters respond warmly, gender bias surfaces repeatedly.
“Some men tell me to approach only women voters because I am a woman,” she said after campaigning in Pahartali. “There are nine candidates here, but only one or two heavyweight contenders dominate the ground, backed by state machinery, administration and media attention.”
Her fellow contender in the same constituency, Sabina Khatun of Insaniyat Biplob Bangladesh, says resistance is often subtle but persistent. On the streets, criticism is muted; online, it is relentless. “Social media is full of comments asking why women should even be candidates,” she said, adding that negative narratives spread far faster than her campaign messages.
In neighbouring Chattogram-11, BaSaD candidate Deepa Majumdar says she is repeatedly forced to explain that she is contesting a general seat, not a reserved women’s seat.
“People are not used to women contesting parliamentary seats,” she said, recalling voters who refused to accept her leaflets simply because she is a woman. She also accuses the Election Commission and administration of failing to ensure a level playing field.
Independent candidate Jinnat Akhter, contesting Chattogram-2, paints an even bleaker picture: campaign banners torn down, resources stretched thin, and her Facebook account hacked. “For women without party backing, the barriers multiply,” she said.
The Dhaka campaign offers a wider lens on the same struggle. In Dhaka-9, independent candidate Tasnim Jara—known nationally for her health-awareness work and maternal care app—has drawn emotional support from ordinary voters. On one recent evening, a woman embraced her in a narrow street, praising her decision to leave a comfortable life to serve the people.
“This love keeps me going,” Jara said later. Yet even with name recognition, she had to fight a last-minute legal battle to restore her candidacy after her nomination was initially rejected over technicalities.
Her experience underscores a broader failure. During months of political reform discussions, parties pledged to nominate at least five per cent women candidates. In practice, most fell far short. Major parties fielded only a handful nationwide; some nominated none at all. The result is a ballot where women remain a small minority, forced to contest elections designed around male dominance.
The 12th Parliament recorded the highest number of women MPs, despite being elected without voters
In Dhaka-14, BNP candidate Sanjida Islam Tulee—an activist known for advocating for victims of enforced disappearances—says campaigning as a woman means constantly proving legitimacy. “Men are assumed to be leaders,” said one candidate elsewhere. “Women must first convince people that leadership under a woman will even work.”
That scepticism is amplified in semi-rural constituencies such as Dhaka-20. There, National Citizen Party candidate Nabila Tasnid says her gender has been weaponised politically. Although Jamaat-e-Islami formally backs her alliance, another allied party failed to withdraw its nominee, who continues campaigning with messaging that questions women’s leadership.
“He is exploiting the fact that I am a woman,” she said. “This would not happen if it were a contest between two men.”
Yet the story is not uniformly bleak. In Dhaka-19, NCP candidate Dilshana Parul says she encountered unexpected acceptance while campaigning alongside conservative religious networks. “No one questioned my leadership on the ground,” she said.
The backlash, she added, came later—online, where she faced intense harassment, much of it from self-described progressive circles. “The double standard is deeply disturbing,” she said.
Across constituencies, women candidates point to two structural barriers that hit them hardest: money and media. Campaigning is expensive, and access to finance is uneven. Without personal wealth or strong party funding, candidates are forced to rely on unrealistic crowdfunding efforts. “Politics here still runs on money and muscle power,” Parul said.
Media coverage compounds the problem. Several candidates argue that women are judged less on policy substance than on appearance, personality or celebrity appeal. “If I were a celebrity, half these obstacles would disappear,” Parul remarked. “The media looks for glamour, not grassroots work.”
Despite these constraints, women candidates are reframing the campaign around service delivery and accountability. Jara’s manifesto in Dhaka-9 focuses on urban inequality, healthcare shortages and a proposed “No Service, No Bill” policy to protect consumers.
Tulee’s campaign in Dhaka-14 centres on poverty reduction, healthcare access and family security, aligned with BNP’s national platform. Nabila, in Dhaka-20, frames governance as a management challenge, promising evidence-based policies to unlock Dhamrai’s agricultural and human-resource potential.
These agendas point to an alternative politics—less about patronage, more about outcomes. Yet candidates insist that policy alone cannot overcome entrenched barriers. Without safer online spaces, fair media treatment and genuine party commitment, women will continue to be discouraged from entering politics.
Still, many sense the beginnings of change. Elderly men blessing candidates on doorsteps, young voters demanding new leadership, and women voters pledging solidarity all hint at a slow shift. “True empowerment will come when women lead at every level, not as tokens,” Jara said. “We have to create that space.”
For now, the election lays bare a simple truth: for women in Bangladeshi politics, the contest is not just against rival candidates, but against a system still stacked firmly against them.
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As Bangladesh heads towards the February 12 national election, the campaign trail has become a harsh proving ground for women candidates, exposing how deeply gender bias, money politics, media imbalance and muscle power remain embedded in electoral life.
From the narrow lanes of Chattogram to the crowded streets of Dhaka and the semi-rural heartland of Dhamrai, women contenders describe an uphill battle that begins even before the first leaflet is handed out.
For many, the most basic challenge is social acceptance. Female leadership still triggers scepticism among large sections of voters, both urban and rural.
Several women candidates say they are routinely asked whether women should contest elections at all, or whether voters must cast a separate ballot for a female candidate alongside a male one. The confusion reflects how rare women’s participation in general parliamentary seats remains, despite decades of rhetoric about empowerment.
In Chattogram, where only four women are contesting across 16 constituencies, the obstacles are stark. Asma Akhter of Bangladesh Samajtantrik Dal (BaSaD, Marxist), contesting Chattogram-10, says that while many voters respond warmly, gender bias surfaces repeatedly.
“Some men tell me to approach only women voters because I am a woman,” she said after campaigning in Pahartali. “There are nine candidates here, but only one or two heavyweight contenders dominate the ground, backed by state machinery, administration and media attention.”
Her fellow contender in the same constituency, Sabina Khatun of Insaniyat Biplob Bangladesh, says resistance is often subtle but persistent. On the streets, criticism is muted; online, it is relentless. “Social media is full of comments asking why women should even be candidates,” she said, adding that negative narratives spread far faster than her campaign messages.
In neighbouring Chattogram-11, BaSaD candidate Deepa Majumdar says she is repeatedly forced to explain that she is contesting a general seat, not a reserved women’s seat.
“People are not used to women contesting parliamentary seats,” she said, recalling voters who refused to accept her leaflets simply because she is a woman. She also accuses the Election Commission and administration of failing to ensure a level playing field.
Independent candidate Jinnat Akhter, contesting Chattogram-2, paints an even bleaker picture: campaign banners torn down, resources stretched thin, and her Facebook account hacked. “For women without party backing, the barriers multiply,” she said.
The Dhaka campaign offers a wider lens on the same struggle. In Dhaka-9, independent candidate Tasnim Jara—known nationally for her health-awareness work and maternal care app—has drawn emotional support from ordinary voters. On one recent evening, a woman embraced her in a narrow street, praising her decision to leave a comfortable life to serve the people.
“This love keeps me going,” Jara said later. Yet even with name recognition, she had to fight a last-minute legal battle to restore her candidacy after her nomination was initially rejected over technicalities.
Her experience underscores a broader failure. During months of political reform discussions, parties pledged to nominate at least five per cent women candidates. In practice, most fell far short. Major parties fielded only a handful nationwide; some nominated none at all. The result is a ballot where women remain a small minority, forced to contest elections designed around male dominance.
The 12th Parliament recorded the highest number of women MPs, despite being elected without voters
In Dhaka-14, BNP candidate Sanjida Islam Tulee—an activist known for advocating for victims of enforced disappearances—says campaigning as a woman means constantly proving legitimacy. “Men are assumed to be leaders,” said one candidate elsewhere. “Women must first convince people that leadership under a woman will even work.”
That scepticism is amplified in semi-rural constituencies such as Dhaka-20. There, National Citizen Party candidate Nabila Tasnid says her gender has been weaponised politically. Although Jamaat-e-Islami formally backs her alliance, another allied party failed to withdraw its nominee, who continues campaigning with messaging that questions women’s leadership.
“He is exploiting the fact that I am a woman,” she said. “This would not happen if it were a contest between two men.”
Yet the story is not uniformly bleak. In Dhaka-19, NCP candidate Dilshana Parul says she encountered unexpected acceptance while campaigning alongside conservative religious networks. “No one questioned my leadership on the ground,” she said.
The backlash, she added, came later—online, where she faced intense harassment, much of it from self-described progressive circles. “The double standard is deeply disturbing,” she said.
Across constituencies, women candidates point to two structural barriers that hit them hardest: money and media. Campaigning is expensive, and access to finance is uneven. Without personal wealth or strong party funding, candidates are forced to rely on unrealistic crowdfunding efforts. “Politics here still runs on money and muscle power,” Parul said.
Media coverage compounds the problem. Several candidates argue that women are judged less on policy substance than on appearance, personality or celebrity appeal. “If I were a celebrity, half these obstacles would disappear,” Parul remarked. “The media looks for glamour, not grassroots work.”
Despite these constraints, women candidates are reframing the campaign around service delivery and accountability. Jara’s manifesto in Dhaka-9 focuses on urban inequality, healthcare shortages and a proposed “No Service, No Bill” policy to protect consumers.
Tulee’s campaign in Dhaka-14 centres on poverty reduction, healthcare access and family security, aligned with BNP’s national platform. Nabila, in Dhaka-20, frames governance as a management challenge, promising evidence-based policies to unlock Dhamrai’s agricultural and human-resource potential.
These agendas point to an alternative politics—less about patronage, more about outcomes. Yet candidates insist that policy alone cannot overcome entrenched barriers. Without safer online spaces, fair media treatment and genuine party commitment, women will continue to be discouraged from entering politics.
Still, many sense the beginnings of change. Elderly men blessing candidates on doorsteps, young voters demanding new leadership, and women voters pledging solidarity all hint at a slow shift. “True empowerment will come when women lead at every level, not as tokens,” Jara said. “We have to create that space.”
For now, the election lays bare a simple truth: for women in Bangladeshi politics, the contest is not just against rival candidates, but against a system still stacked firmly against them.
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