In the shadows of booming remittance flows and the quiet resilience of Bangladesh’s labour diaspora, a disturbing reality persists: numerous Bangladeshi female migrant workers, particularly those employed as domestic help in Gulf countries, are returning home in coffins.
I remember—it was late afternoon, the sun leaning westward. From a distance, a soft yet resolute melody drifted through the air. I was just a boy then, curious and drawn by the sound. I approached quietly.
Under the vast skies of northern Bangladesh, in the corners of Rajshahi, Dinajpur, Rangpur, and the hillier terrains of the Chittagong Hill Tracts, lives a vibrant community whose roots run deep into the soil and soul of the region—the Oraons.
As the climate crisis worsens, its effects in Bangladesh are becoming increasingly visible and destructive.
Tucked away beside a mosque in the quiet village of Tekani in Rangpur’s Mithapukur upazila stands a tree that once changed the course of an entire region’s agricultural history.
When the traditional haor song Lechur Baganey (“In the litchi orchard…”) was repurposed as an “item song” in a recent Bengali film, it sparked an outpouring of debate among music lovers and across social media platforms.
On the sun-scorched Arabian Peninsula lies Qatar—a nation of just over 11,500 square kilometres, where extreme temperatures, rocky terrain, and meagre annual rainfall make agriculture an improbable endeavour.
In the middle of Farmgate’s frantic rush, where buses roar and buildings crowd the sky, a quiet miracle unfolds each day.
In the shadows of booming remittance flows and the quiet resilience of Bangladesh’s labour diaspora, a disturbing reality persists: numerous Bangladeshi female migrant workers, particularly those employed as domestic help in Gulf countries, are returning home in coffins.
I remember—it was late afternoon, the sun leaning westward. From a distance, a soft yet resolute melody drifted through the air. I was just a boy then, curious and drawn by the sound. I approached quietly.
As the climate crisis worsens, its effects in Bangladesh are becoming increasingly visible and destructive.
Under the vast skies of northern Bangladesh, in the corners of Rajshahi, Dinajpur, Rangpur, and the hillier terrains of the Chittagong Hill Tracts, lives a vibrant community whose roots run deep into the soil and soul of the region—the Oraons.
When the traditional haor song Lechur Baganey (“In the litchi orchard…”) was repurposed as an “item song” in a recent Bengali film, it sparked an outpouring of debate among music lovers and across social media platforms.
Tucked away beside a mosque in the quiet village of Tekani in Rangpur’s Mithapukur upazila stands a tree that once changed the course of an entire region’s agricultural history.
In the middle of Farmgate’s frantic rush, where buses roar and buildings crowd the sky, a quiet miracle unfolds each day.
On the sun-scorched Arabian Peninsula lies Qatar—a nation of just over 11,500 square kilometres, where extreme temperatures, rocky terrain, and meagre annual rainfall make agriculture an improbable endeavour.
In the lowlands of northern Bangladesh, where the Brahmaputra weaves its ancient path and songs echo across open fields, a quiet fight to preserve cultural memory is underway.
Jaya and Sharmin—a film produced by Jaya Ahsan—is a quiet reminder of who we were and still are, five years after the pandemic struck. In this quiet, haunting two-woman film, the pandemic is never centerstage—rather the film avoids its dramatization. There are no sirens, no scenes of hospital chaos, no feverish handheld camera work. Instead, the film offers what most pandemic stories avoid: the internal climate of a shared household. Time slows. Fear settles. News flits across the TV, unnoticed. Through understated rhythm, the film accomplishes something powerful—it keeps the focus on the emotional, relational toll of confinement, rather than its spectacle.
