As Bangladesh heads toward its next national elections on 12 February 2026, the numbers alone reveal how profoundly women remain sidelined from electoral politics. Of more than 2,500 candidates contesting the 300 directly elected seats of the Jatiya Sangsad, only around 100 are women, accounting for just about four percent of the total. Even more striking, more than half of the registered political parties contesting the polls have not nominated a single woman candidate for a general seat. In a country where women make up roughly half of the electorate and where female leadership at the very top has become normalized, the upcoming Bangladeshi polls are once again exposing a deep and persistent gender gap on the ballot itself.
Bangladesh is often portrayed as an outlier in South Asia because it has been governed for years by women. The long political dominance of Sheikh Hasina and Khaleda Zia has shaped both domestic narratives and international perceptions, creating the impression of a system unusually open to female leadership. Yet this visibility has always been narrow and vertical. Beneath the apex of power, politics remains overwhelmingly male, controlled by entrenched patronage networks, money-driven nomination practices, and a political culture that continues to treat women as auxiliaries rather than contenders.
Recent nomination lists underscore this reality. Dozens of parties have opted for all-male slates in direct elections, relying instead on the constitutional provision of reserved seats for women. These reserved seats, known as সংরক্ষিত আসন (shongrokkhito ashon), are allocated proportionally to parties after the election and filled internally rather than through direct voting. While originally introduced as a corrective mechanism to boost representation, the system has increasingly become a convenient substitute for genuine inclusion. Critics argue that it allows parties to claim commitment to women’s participation while keeping competitive constituencies firmly in male hands.
For women who do attempt to contest general seats, the barriers are formidable. Electoral politics in Bangladesh is expensive, adversarial, and often unsafe. Campaigns require access to significant funds, protection from intimidation, and constant negotiation with local power brokers, conditions that disproportionately disadvantage women. Female candidates report facing harassment, threats, and character attacks that are rarely directed at their male counterparts. Politics is still widely viewed as a rough ক্ষেত্র (khetra, “arena”) unsuited to women, particularly those without powerful family connections.
Party structures themselves further narrow the path. Candidate selection remains highly centralized, dominated by senior male leadership and opaque decision-making. Loyalty, factional alignment, and financial contribution often outweigh grassroots support or policy expertise. Women are frequently encouraged to work as organizers, mobilizers, and campaigners—কর্মী (kormi, “workers”)—but are overlooked when nominations are distributed. This pattern persists across the political spectrum, from major parties to smaller alliances.
Cultural expectations also play a decisive role. Despite notable gains in girls’ education and women’s participation in the workforce, social norms continue to frame political ambition as incompatible with ideals of নারীসুলভতা (nari-shulovota, “proper femininity”). Women are expected to prioritize family responsibilities, manage households, and avoid the visibility and confrontation inherent in campaigning. Married women, in particular, face scrutiny over their mobility, public presence, and perceived moral conduct, pressures that discourage many from even considering a run.
The implications of this exclusion extend far beyond symbolic representation. When women are largely absent from electoral contests, issues such as gender-based violence, reproductive health, labor protections in the garment sector, and access to justice struggle to gain sustained political traction. Reserved seats may ensure numerical presence in parliament, but they rarely provide the same legitimacy, accountability, or constituency power as a direct electoral mandate.
As Bangladesh approaches the February polls, the persistence of such low female participation raises uncomfortable questions about the depth of democratic inclusion in the country. Without reforms to nomination practices, campaign financing, security, and political culture, women will continue to be present in parliament largely by appointment rather than by choice of the voters. For many Bangladeshi women watching the election unfold, the message is unmistakable: leadership may have a woman’s face at the top, but the road to power remains overwhelmingly closed below.
Spicy Auntie is tired. Not surprised, just tired. Bangladesh is heading toward another election, and once again the ballot paper looks like a men’s club guest list. Thousands of candidates, hundreds of constituencies, and women? Barely visible. Four percent is not a “gap.” It’s an exclusion strategy dressed up as tradition, logistics, and political realism.
Let’s be clear: this is not about women being “not ready,” “not interested,” or “not strong enough.” Bangladeshi women run households, factories, classrooms, NGOs, protests, microfinance schemes, and entire family economies. They survive floods, inflation, unpaid labor, and social policing with a resilience most male politicians could not handle for a week. The idea that they somehow evaporate when it comes time to contest elections is frankly insulting.
The favorite excuse is always the same. Politics is too rough. Too violent. Too expensive. Too dirty. And yet men are welcomed into this mud pit with garlands, while women are told to stay clean, stay decent, stay home. Parties love women as symbols, vote mobilizers, and post-election appointees. They love them in reserved seats, where they don’t threaten anyone’s turf. But put a woman in a winnable constituency? Suddenly everyone develops cold feet.
Spicy Auntie has seen this movie across Asia. Female prime ministers at the top, male gatekeepers everywhere else. The existence of powerful women leaders is used as proof that the system works, while the pipeline underneath is deliberately clogged. It’s political gaslighting on a national scale. “Look,” they say, “a woman made it.” Yes—and how many were quietly blocked so she could remain the exception?
And don’t get Auntie started on the moral policing. A male candidate can shout, threaten, spend, disappear for days, and it’s called leadership. A woman does the same and suddenly her চরিত্র (chôritro, “character”) is under investigation. Her marriage, her motherhood, her clothes, her tone, her nighttime whereabouts—all fair game. Democracy, apparently, comes with a gendered dress code.
What makes this worse is that women are half the electorate. Half. They vote, queue, argue politics at tea stalls, survive policy failures, and pay the price when laws ignore their realities. Yet when it comes to deciding who gets to represent them, party bosses close ranks like a boys’ hostel at midnight.
Spicy Auntie will say this plainly: reserved seats are not empowerment, they are containment. If parties were serious, they would field women where power is real and votes are contested. Until then, all the speeches about equality are just background noise.
Bangladesh doesn’t have a women’s participation problem. It has a men’s power-hoarding problem. And Auntie promises you this: women are watching, remembering, and running out of patience.