In what can only be described as a blatant display of bureaucratic favouritism and administrative malpractice, the interim government of Professor Muhammad Yunus is set to push through another round of retrospective promotions—this time extending the controversial scheme to hundreds of retired officials from non-administration cadres. This decision, cloaked in vague justifications and veiled references to “public interest,” is not only fiscally irresponsible but also ethically indefensible.  

What makes this decision particularly disturbing is that these officials, many of whom have been out of service for years, are being granted notional promotions and financial benefits without ever having served in the higher roles. These retrospective promotions effectively revise history, granting inflated pensions and one-time arrears based on hypothetical positions. They offer no functional contribution to the state and serve only to reward select individuals at the public’s expense.

Experts and senior bureaucrats alike are raising alarm bells. Firoz Miah, a former additional secretary, pointedly questioned the opacity of the process: “There are no explanations as to why certain individuals are being promoted while others are excluded.” Indeed, the absence of clear criteria, the secrecy of the committee proceedings, and the arbitrary selection of beneficiaries all point towards a system guided less by merit and more by proximity to power.

This phenomenon reeks of cronyism a quiet but corrosive nepotism engineered under the guise of "correcting past injustices." It is worth recalling that Yunus’s interim administration emerged from the ashes of a mass uprising against a deeply corrupt regime. For it now to mimic the very practices it once denounced, and worse, to institutionalise them under the cloak of reform, is nothing short of betrayal. As one official from the Cabinet Division wryly noted, “This interim government is outdoing even the past political regimes in terms of retrospective promotions.”

The financial implications of these decisions are staggering, particularly for a nation grappling with mounting debt, fiscal austerity, and developmental backlogs. With inflation pressuring ordinary citizens and infrastructure projects languishing from lack of funds, awarding millions in pensions to already-retired officials reflects a grotesque misallocation of state resources.

Former secretary Abdul Awal Mazumder rightly questioned the morality of this policy: “If the previous government had deprived competent officials, why haven’t the unqualified beneficiaries of that regime been demoted or had their benefits reversed?” His argument underscores a fundamental flaw in Yunus’s justification: there is no effort to clean house only to indulge in selective reparations, reinforcing the privileges of a small, politically aligned elite.

Perhaps most revealing is the government’s invocation of “public interest” in its gazette notifications. As Mazumder stated, such terminology is laughably inappropriate. These decisions serve no public purpose. They neither improve governance nor address public needs. Instead, they entrench a dangerous precedent: that public funds can be used as political capital to secure allegiances and reward loyalty, regardless of merit or service.

What is unfolding under Professor Yunus’s interim stewardship is not the promised reformist agenda, but a sophisticated reshaping of the same old patronage system more discreet, more technocratic, but equally corrosive. If left unchallenged, this culture of retrospective promotions and elite compensation will only deepen the people's mistrust in public institutions and turn reform into a euphemism for redistribution of power among the privileged few. In the end, the only thing truly “retrospective” in this policy is the return to the old habits of state-sponsored nepotism one that this so-called new beginning was meant to leave behind.