It took over a hundred years and a growing sense of legal fatigue, but Bangladesh finally made a serious attempt to rewrite its criminal procedure framework. The 2025 draft ordinance—officially, the Second Amendment to the Code of Criminal Procedure—arrives like a long-overdue correction to a system still running on colonial machinery. At first glance, the reform seems ambitious: it reworks rules around arrest and detention, lays out new protections for the accused, and injects language that sounds more in step with human rights norms.
And yet, scratch the surface, and a different picture emerges. What’s been drafted is less a clean break from the past than a partial remodel. The old scaffolding still stands. The draft touches the symptoms but skirts the root causes. For all its procedural upgrades, the system remains tilted toward state power and leaves meaningful rights protection hanging by a thread.
Colonial Bones in a New Suit
Let’s start with the inheritance. Bangladesh’s criminal procedure law, originally written in 1898 under British rule, wasn’t designed for a democratic society. It was built to maintain control, not to protect liberties. While other post-colonial states have moved steadily toward participatory lawmaking—through parliaments, public consultation, and judicial oversight—Bangladesh continues to lean on presidential ordinances. This latest reform came by executive fiat under Article 93(1) of the Constitution, avoiding the noise of parliamentary debate altogether.
That matters. Laws passed without democratic engagement tend to reflect the priorities of a few, not the needs of the many. In countries like the UK, Australia, or Canada, changes to criminal justice systems typically go through lengthy public scrutiny—sometimes frustratingly slow, but grounded in democratic process. Here, reforms land fully formed, with limited room for course correction.
Arrest Powers: Still Too Much Room to Move
One of the most discussed revisions in the 2025 draft ordinance is to Section 54, which governs arrests without a warrant. Police now need to clear a few more hurdles before detaining someone for offences punishable with up to seven years’ imprisonment. It’s no longer enough to say there’s reasonable suspicion—they also have to show that arrest is necessary for specific reasons, like preventing further crimes or ensuring a court appearance.
But for serious offences—those carrying sentences beyond seven years—the bar remains worryingly low. Police can still arrest based on “credible information” and a subjective belief that the person committed a crime. That language leaves a lot of room for interpretation, and in the wrong hands, abuse.
Compare that with how similar powers work in the UK. Under Section 24 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act (PACE), officers must show that arrest is necessary and tied to specific outcomes—like preventing harm or loss of evidence. The law spells it out. There’s no vague “credible information” clause. The burden is higher, and so is accountability.
In New South Wales, Australia, the Law Enforcement (Powers and Responsibilities) Act adds a second layer: arrest must not only be based on reasonable suspicion but must also be the least intrusive way to achieve the policing goal. Again, necessity isn’t a buzzword—it’s a requirement with real legal teeth.
Rights on Paper, But What About Enforcement?
Bangladesh’s proposed ordinance includes new language meant to safeguard the rights of arrested individuals. Officers are now expected to identify themselves, draft a written arrest memorandum, notify a relative within twelve hours, and—if needed—arrange for a medical check. Access to legal counsel is also part of the text, both before and after interrogation.
All of that sounds promising. The problem is that enforcement in Bangladesh often runs on informal workarounds and gaps in capacity. Legal aid exists but is patchy. Police training on rights is inconsistent. And the courts, already burdened, are rarely in a position to check compliance in real time.
Contrast this with Canada. The Charter of Rights and Freedoms makes immediate access to counsel not just a policy goal but a constitutional right. Police who fail to inform or facilitate that right face real consequences—cases can be thrown out. It’s a structure that pushes compliance because the cost of failure is high.
The UK’s model is also rooted in procedural discipline. PACE mandates clear steps from the moment of arrest. Custody officers—who are separate from arresting officers—must document everything, from the time of arrival to each conversation. There’s built-in oversight, and it works not because the laws are flawless, but because systems exist to back them up.
Detention Limits: Still Lagging Behind
One of the few areas where the draft ordinance makes a firm promise is in detention timelines. It caps police custody at fifteen days, with judicial review required for extensions. That’s an improvement—but still far outside the norms of most democratic systems.
In the UK, suspects must be brought before a court within 24 to 36 hours. In Canada, “as soon as practicable” is the standard, usually meaning within a day. Most Australian jurisdictions fall within a similar timeframe. Bangladesh’s fifteen-day window feels long by comparison—too long. It leaves detainees vulnerable, especially in cases where legal access is delayed or absent.
Worse still, judicial oversight often lacks real bite. Magistrates sign off on detention extensions with minimal scrutiny. Without meaningful review or an adversarial process, this “safeguard” becomes a formality.
Investigation Delays and the Clock That Doesn’t Tick
The ordinance proposes a sixty-day timeline for completing investigations. On paper, this tackles one of the system’s chronic problems—delays so long that justice gets buried under bureaucracy. But unless investigators have resources, unless prosecutors are equipped to meet the clock, and unless judges enforce the deadlines, nothing will change. Deadlines in law mean little if they aren’t backed by structure.
Elsewhere, countries have found ways to keep things moving. The UK uses custody time limits tied to case type, with strict judicial oversight on extensions. Canada’s Jordan decision set ceilings on how long a case can take, with trial delays leading to dismissals. These are more than policies—they’re pressure points. They keep the machinery in motion.
The Deeper Fault Lines
Even with its new language and expanded protections, the 2025 draft ordinance can’t shake off some serious flaws.
It still allows for prolonged police custody. It lacks mechanisms for routine, independent judicial review. It promises rights but doesn’t fund the systems needed to deliver them. Prosecutorial discretion remains unchecked. And it operates almost entirely within a statutory frame—with little constitutional backup to make those rights truly inviolable.
Most troubling is that the ordinance doesn’t address the broader ecosystem in which criminal justice operates. Courts are overburdened. Police training is outdated. Legal aid is underfunded. So even the best-drafted provision can wither from lack of oxygen.
What It Will Take to Get This Right
Fixing a criminal procedure system isn’t about technical tweaks. It’s about values—and about the institutions that turn values into action.
For starters, Bangladesh should reduce the window for police custody. A 48 to 72-hour maximum, with real judicial scrutiny, would be a step toward aligning with global standards. Legal aid should kick in immediately upon arrest, not days later. Judges should have the tools and independence to challenge police decisions, not just endorse them.
On a deeper level, there’s a case for weaving these rights into the Constitution itself. Statutes can be changed quietly. Constitutional protections are harder to erode. That’s the kind of backbone a fair criminal justice system needs.
And finally, there has to be investment—in people, in infrastructure, in oversight. Rights on paper are only as strong as the institutions that uphold them.
Final Thoughts
The 2025 proposed ordinance is a beginning, not a solution. It acknowledges a broken system but tries to patch it instead of rebuilding. The reforms signal a shift in attitude, but they fall short of the kind of structural realignment that justice truly demands.
Bangladesh has an opportunity here—to reimagine its approach to criminal justice, not just reword it. But to seize that chance, it has to move beyond paperwork and into the messier, costlier, but ultimately more meaningful work of institutional reform. Otherwise, the promise of this new law will stay exactly where it began: on paper.
Md. Ibrahim Khalilullah is vice-president of Bangladesh Law Alliance (BLA). He can be reached at ibrahimkhalilullah010@gmail.com
