7
On his first day at high school, Khalid Hussain was accused of being the son of a war criminal.
“A group of Bengali kids surrounded us and made it clear that we were not welcome.
The incident still shocks me to this day,” says Hussain, who was 12 at the time.
“But we just wanted to learn.”It was not the last time Hussain, now a lawyer at the Council of Minorities, a human rights organisation he founded in 2013, experienced discrimination in his native Bangladesh.As a member of the Bihari community, the Urdu-speaking non-Bengalis who migrated from north-east India to what became East Pakistan and eventually Bangladesh after the partition of India in 1947, he has grown used to being viewed with distrust and hostility.In 1971, the Biharis found themselves in a diplomatic dilemma.
Linguistically tied to Urdu-speaking West Pakistan (now Pakistan), they were living in Bengali-speaking East Pakistan when a brutal nine-month war broke out between the two states.
During the war, many Biharis sided with West Pakistan, which resulted in repercussions for the whole community, including their homes being seized after the war.
This forced the Biharis into temporary settlements, where most remain to this day.A sign at an entrance to the CRO camp in central Dhaka Photograph: Farzana Hossen/The GuardianDespite repeated calls for repatriation, the Pakistani government refused to facilitate their full-scale return, in effect rendering the Biharis stateless – or “stranded” as they are often referred to in Bangladesh.
For years, the Biharis could not get work or an education; in 1994, Hussain was among the first Bihari children to be admitted to a state school.“We are not stranded Pakistanis,” says Hussain.
“We are Bangladeshis.
We were born here, we live here, and we have the right to live in dignity – just like everyone else.”Biharis continue to live on the fringes of Bangladeshi society, mostly in 116 squalid camps scattered across the country.
The largest of these is the Geneva camp in Mohammadpur, central Dhaka, a sprawling settlement that is home to more than 40,000 Biharis.
The living conditions are poor: housing is cramped and dilapidated and whole families, with six or more members, often live together in a single room.For decades, poverty in the camps was exacerbated because Biharis, deprived of citizenship, were unable to work in an official capacity.
This changed in 2008, when Biharis were granted citizenship, but subsequent progress has been slow and many Biharis are now entering the workforce for the first time.Geneva camp is the largest temporary Bihari settlement in Dhaka.
Photograph: Farzana Hossen/The GuardianDiscrimination is still a huge barrier for Biharis, and informal jobs such as rickshaw driver, tea stall owner and market vendor continue to be the forms of employment most accessible to them.
There are no official figures on unemployment in the Bihari community but jobs and income were cited among Biharis’ most urgent needs in a recent survey – second only to safe drinking water.At university, Fatema Parveen would typically hide her Bihari identity, only revealing it to friends once they had gained her trust.
“People always judge you, so sometimes it’s just easier to hide who you are,” says Parveen, a quiet 20-year-old who lives in Town Hall camp, a mile south of Geneva camp, which is home to 10,000 Biharis.Fatema Parveen, 20, lives with her family in Town Hall camp, Dhaka, and hopes to pursue a career in finance.
Photograph: Farzana Hossen/The GuardianDespite her youth, Parveen needed a job to boost her family’s finances.
“I am the eldest of three daughters and living in the camp can be extremely difficult.” She says she has lost out on work opportunities because of her ethnicity but her high grades recently landed her a job as a part-time assistant at a local politician’s office.
“I feel extremely lucky,” she says, as the first in her family to enter formal employment.Parveen hopes to graduate soon and pursue a career in finance.
She also wishes to one day travel the world, though that dream is on hold as she is still waiting for a passport.
Although Biharis are increasingly granted national identity cards, many are routinely denied passports.
Mohammad Parvez, 41, is tall with a serious demeanour.
From an early age, he knew he wanted to be his own boss and after doing various jobs for 16 years, in 2015 he finally made the leap.
The father of three now runs his own construction company.
Every morning he wakes early for prayer, has breakfast and drops his daughter off to school before heading into work.
“Running your own business can be difficult but as the main breadwinner, it’s important to me that my earning potential is not limited,” says Parvez, who works on average more than 10 hours a day.skip past newsletter promotionSign up to Global DispatchGet a different world view with a roundup of the best news, features and pictures, curated by our global development teamPrivacy Notice: Newsletters may contain info about charities, online ads, and content funded by outside parties.
For more information see our Privacy Policy.
We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.after newsletter promotionParvez is the first in his family to live outside the Bihari camps.
Every day he passes Geneva camp and is reminded of how hard his family had to work for him to get to where he is now.Mohammad Parvez runs a construction company.
He is the first in his family to live outside the Bihari camps.
Photograph: Farzana Hossen/The Guardian“I know many Biharis who have the motivation and skills to lead a successful career,” says Parvez.
“But sadly many still face discrimination when trying to enter the workforce.
This can really knock a young person’s confidence.” He says he was constantly undermined because of his Bihari identity.
“People would often talk behind my back, but it made me work harder to prove myself,” he adds.Parvez is a strong believer in entrepreneurship and thinks it holds the key for the Bihari community in Bangladesh.
“Entrepreneurship can play a crucial role for the realisation of potential among marginalised communities everywhere,” he says.
“We need to create our own economic opportunities and find ways to elevate ourselves.”Runi Akhter lives in the CRO camp in Dhaka and works for a charity that assists the camps’ inhabitants.
Photograph: Farzana Hossen/The GuardianRuni Akhter, a single mother of one, lives in the CRO camp in Dhaka.
After her husband migrated to the Middle East without informing her, the 30-year-old returned home to live with her mother.
“My family don’t have enough space as it is so I felt like I was adding to their burden,” says Akhter, who shares a tiny room with her elderly mother and young son.
A loud fan whirls above her head while a refrigerator hums in the corner, both drowning out the sound of road traffic outside.After moving back, Akhter knew she had to get a job to help make ends meet.
“We were really struggling and my son wasn’t getting enough to eat,” she says.
She began looking for work but kept facing one rejection after another.
“At one point, I became so depressed I didn’t think there was any point in living,” she recalls with sadness.Akhter finally landed a job a year later, as assistant coordinator at Al-Falah Bangladesh, a local charity that works to integrate camp dwellers into mainstream society.
Akhter works on a programme to help more young Biharis get into education.
“I process grant applications to ensure students from low-income families get the support they need,” she says.
“It’s a great job and I’m glad I have the opportunity to help my community.”Since she started working, Akhter has discovered a new sense of independence.
“I only ever want to rely on myself,” she says.
“I’m really glad I have this job, which has helped to improve my confidence.
Everyone should be allowed to work, especially women.
We all deserve the chance to realise our God-given potential and contribute to a better society.”.
This article first appeared/also appeared in theguardian.com
