The budgetary test of moral leadership

Imagine a village school where a teacher shares worn-out textbooks among children. Or a mother waiting anxiously outside a district hospital for an ambulance that may never arrive in time. Or a young doctor accepting a posting in a remote area despite limited facilities because patients have nowhere else to go. These scenarios may seem isolated, unfolding as they do quietly across the country, but together they show what is ultimately at stake in budgetary decisions.

A national budget is meant to serve citizens. The question is: how much of the nation’s resources really reaches citizens in the end, and how much is used in simply maintaining the machinery of government?

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No country can function without an effective public administration. Civil servants, judges, police officers, teachers, healthcare workers and countless others keep the state operating every day. Their work deserves respect, and they should be provided with the tools necessary to perform their duties. The challenge arises when the cost of maintaining the establishment steadily expands while investment in people struggles to keep pace.

This challenge is also evident across many other developing countries. Governments struggle to meet recurring administrative obligations year after year—running institutions, funding various projects and undertakings, sustaining a growing bureaucracy. These expenditures are often unavoidable, and as they continue to grow, they gradually reduce the resources available for the investments that shape a nation’s future. The effects manifest in various forms: a school renovation postponed, a rural health centre doing without essential equipment, a bridge remaining unfinished, a research laboratory floundering, a scholarship programme reaching fewer students than it could.

No single decision causes these outcomes. Rather, they emerge from countless budgetary choices made over many years. Leadership, in this case, is not judged only by the policies a government announces. It is also judged by the priorities they reveal.

We have quite a few historical examples of leaders who understood this. Nelson Mandela, José “Pepe” Mujica, Thomas Sankara and Lee Kuan Yew came from different societies and political traditions, yet each demonstrated that public office need not be accompanied by unnecessary extravagance. Their personal restraint strengthened the moral authority of the institutions they led. For Bangladesh, this conversation has become increasingly important as geopolitical uncertainties, rising energy prices, and supply-chain disruptions hammer their way into the daily lives of citizens. Families adjust their household budgets. Farmers pay more for production. Small businesses struggle with rising costs. In such circumstances, citizens expect the government to demonstrate the same discipline it asks of the people.

A government resembles a family in one important respect: every household must distinguish between expenses that keep life functioning today and investments that create a better tomorrow. Paying utility bills is necessary, but so is paying for a child’s education. A nation faces the same choice. While keeping the machinery of government functioning is vital, equally important is ensuring quality education, healthcare, scientific research and infrastructure, and so on for the sake of the future. But when the cost of maintaining the system grows, the scope for investing in people diminishes.

This is not an argument against public servants. On the contrary, capable and honest public servants deserve safe workplaces, reasonable housing in difficult postings, and the resources needed to serve citizens effectively. The issue here is one of balance. Public administration should remain a means of serving society, not an end in itself.

But we can see striking contrasts across Bangladesh. Teachers in remote schools work tirelessly despite limited facilities. Healthcare workers often serve communities with inadequate equipment. Police officers sometimes perform difficult duties with limited logistical support. At the same time, visible symbols of official privilege continue to attract public attention. Economist Thorstein Veblen observed more than a century ago that societies often display status through visible consumption—a suggestion that remains relevant to this day. Prestige can quietly become associated with larger offices, bigger vehicles, and greater personal comfort rather than with better public service. Once such values become embedded within institutions, they gradually become accepted as the norm.

Fiscal discipline should, therefore, begin with the establishment itself. Periodic reviews of recurrent expenditure, scrutiny of administrative expansion, greater use of digital governance, modest official procurement, and practical, fuel-efficient public transport are not simply exercises in saving money; they represent a philosophy of governance in which every public expenditure is measured against a simple question: does it create value for citizens? Does it serve the nation’s interests? Ultimately, this is not a debate about cars, buildings or offices. It is a conversation about trust.

When citizens see restraint in those who govern them, they become more willing to cooperate and accept sacrifice themselves. When they see unnecessary privilege or wastage, confidence erodes. After all, governments exist not to maximise the comfort of the establishment but to expand the opportunities of the people.

Against this backdrop, as Bangladesh enters a new fiscal year with a brand-new budget, the expectation from the government is not merely prudent accounting, but visible evidence that public resources will be directed first and foremost towards improving the lives of ordinary citizens, especially the poor and marginalised. In the end, the true measure of a good budget lies in whether it leaves behind better schools, stronger hospitals, safer roads and greater opportunities for the people it is meant to serve.

Author Dr Rubaiul Murshed is a healthcare management expert and researcher on kindness and moral leadership.

Views expressed in this article are the author's own. 

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