The Unfinished Memoirs: Why stop sales if not banned?

The University Press Limited’s Bangabazar sales outlet was locked, and two of its sales representatives were handed over to police on Monday afternoon over allegations that they were selling Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s autobiography, The Unfinished Memoirs (Oshampto Attojiboni).

According to media reports, two young men went to the outlet around 5:30 pm and asked to buy the book. When employees brought out a copy, the men objected to its sale, claiming that the book had been banned. They then gathered several people from the area and pulled down the outlet’s shutter.

Police took the two sales representatives to the Lalkuthi Ghat area and later to the Banglabazar police outpost. They were released at around 7:45 pm after providing written undertakings that they would no longer sell the book, according to Prothom Alo.

Police said no complaint had been filed over the incident.

At the centre of the controversy lies a fundamental question: is the book actually banned?

The publisher, UPL, said it was not aware of any government or court order banning the book and would comply with any lawful directive if such an order were issued. It also said it stands by every book it publishes.

If there is no specific order prohibiting the sale of the book, then on what legal basis were the employees stopped from selling it? And why were they made to provide written undertakings that they would not sell it?

The incident is troubling not simply because a particular book was involved, but because of what it says about the way disagreements are increasingly being handled.

In a state governed by law, books are banned through formal decisions by competent authorities, not through crowds gathering at a bookshop and demanding their removal.

It raises questions about the rule of law, freedom of publication and the role of state institutions when confronted with pressure from groups seeking to impose their own interpretation of what should or should not be available to the public.

Bangladesh has laws and procedures governing restrictions on publications. In a state governed by law, books are banned through formal decisions by competent authorities, not through crowds gathering at a bookshop and demanding their removal.

Equally important is the role of the police. Their primary responsibility in such a situation should be to prevent an escalating confrontation, protect people and property, and determine whether any law has actually been broken.

Yet in this case, the immediate outcome was that the sales representatives were taken away and the shop remained shut.

Even if the police were attempting to defuse the situation, releasing the employees on the condition that they would not sell the book creates the impression that a group of people on the spot could effectively determine what a private publishing house could sell.

That is where the incident becomes more troubling than a dispute over a single book.

It also reflects the persistence of mob pressure in public life. While reports of mob actions have declined compared with incidents during the tenure of the interim government, episodes such as this suggest that individuals can still attempt to gather crowds and use collective pressure to settle disputes that should instead be handled through established institutions.

There is also an important distinction to be made regarding the government’s ban on the Awami League and its affiliated organisations.

The government announced the ban in May 2025 under the Anti-Terrorism Act, covering the party’s activities, including publications and campaigning, until the completion of trials of its leaders and activists before the International Crimes Tribunal.

However, legal measures taken against a political party do not automatically extend to every publication associated with its leaders unless such action is specifically provided for through due process and formal orders.

There is another reason why this controversy deserves a more thoughtful response.

The Unfinished Memoirs, regardless of one’s political views, remains an important historical and political text. The book is a first-person account of a significant period in the political history of this region. It covers Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s early political life and the events and political currents that eventually contributed to the emergence of Bangladesh.

Agreeing with its perspectives is not a prerequisite for recognising its value as a historical document.

A mature political culture is strengthened, not weakened, by exposure to competing ideas. Readers naturally gravitate towards books that reinforce their own beliefs, but there is often greater value in engaging with views they disagree with. Understanding opposing arguments and ideological traditions allows citizens to develop a deeper and more informed view of politics and history.

Otherwise, we risk establishing a dangerous precedent: if a book is suppressed because its author belonged to a particular political camp, then books written by political figures from another camp could face the same logic when the political tide changes.

Books should be read, examined, criticised, challenged and argued over – not suppressed simply because their authors, political associations or ideas challenge their own assumptions.

One does not have to agree with Sheikh Mujibur Rahman to read The Unfinished Memoirs. One does not have to agree with any political leader to read his or her autobiography. Reading is not endorsement. Studying a political idea is not supporting it.

If the state has a legal reason to prohibit a book, it should clearly state that reason and follow due process. If there is no such prohibition, neither a mob nor an informal police undertaking should become a substitute for the law.

The larger issue, therefore, is not simply whether one particular book should be sold. It is whether we are comfortable allowing crowds, political sentiment and intimidation to decide what can be read.