Blog

Shariful Islam

Recent weeks have revealed a painful truth about Bangladesh’s social structure: the people who suffer the most are the ones who hold the least power. On one side, Bauls were attacked after the arrest of Abul Sarkar. On the other side, the Karail slum—home to thousands of river erosion victims—was reduced to ashes. These events might look separate, but at their root lies a deeper question: Why do the poorest bodies always become the battlefield for larger cultural, political, and economic tensions?

The Hidden Economics Behind Cultural Clashes

Publicly we often frame conflicts like “Baul vs. Tawhidi Janata” as ideological or religious. But behind these clashes lies an economic competition no one talks about.

A young madrasa student—often an orphan—grows up with one dream: to become a waaz preacher traveling across the country. Preaching brings respect, visibility, and crucially, income. Bauls, on the other hand, keep alive a musical tradition rooted in rural Bengal. Their presence means local communities still support music, gatherings, and cultural events.

When cultural life thrives, large winter waaz events might decline.
When waaz events decline, preachers lose earning opportunities.

Underneath the slogans and chants is a simple struggle: livelihood.

The Story of the Teesta Father and His Three Sons

To understand how conflict shapes lives, consider one story—tragically common yet rarely discussed.

A father dies in the fierce currents of the Teesta river.
His three sons scatter in three directions, each shaped by poverty:

• One moves into Karail slum, hoping a city job will save his family.
• One becomes a Baul, because music is the only inheritance he recognizes.
• One is sent to Aminbazar’s Madrasai Madinatul Ulum, in the hope that religious education may offer security.

Three different paths.
Three different identities.
But the same result: whenever violence, fire, or social unrest occurs, they are always the first victims.

If their father had not drowned, their lives might have been completely different. None of them would grow up in such fragile circumstances where one fire, one attack, or one conflict could erase everything they own.

Are We Looking at the Real Culprits?

Take the Karail fire.
Such fires in major urban slums rarely occur by accident. They often follow patterns—land interest, pressure from powerful groups, real-estate speculation, or political intimidation.

Yet, who suffers?
The same families who already survived river erosion, lost homes, lost land, lost identity.
They rebuild in Dhaka, only to lose everything again.

But our outrage often targets the visible victims, not the invisible planners.

The Missing Conversation: Jobs for Madrasa Students

Another question rarely asked:
What employment pathways exist for madrasa students?

When thousands of young men graduate with no clear job market, they become vulnerable. Vulnerable to exploitation, to radical influence, and to seeing cultural identity as economic competition.

If a madrasa graduate had stable employment, professional skills, or vocational training:

• He would be less drawn to violence.
• He would not see Bauls as economic rivals.
• Cultural coexistence would be easier.
• Communities would be calmer.
• And the most vulnerable groups would not clash with each other.

This is not about blame. It is about infrastructure.

Bauls Too Are Economic Victims

Bauls are often portrayed as cultural figures, but they too struggle to survive. When rural festivals shrink, when communities fall under social pressure, when winter events become dominated by religious gatherings—Bauls lose income and visibility.

They are not opponents to religion.
They are fellow survivors in an unequal economy.

The Cycle We Must Break

Every time conflict arises—religious, cultural, or political—the ripple of harm hits the same people:

• The slum dweller
• The Baul
• The madrasa student
• The rickshaw puller
• The river erosion victim

They are not the designers of conflict.
They are the ones who inherit its consequences.

Instead of asking who fought whom, we should ask:

• Who benefits when a slum burns?
• Who gains when poor communities clash?
• Who profits when cultural spaces shrink?
• Why are vulnerable youth left without pathways for real employment?
• And why does the state allow the same families to lose everything again and again?

The Real Work Ahead

If we want long-term peace and dignity for all, we must shift focus from surface clashes to structural solutions:

• Create real job opportunities for madrasa students.
• Protect slum residents legally and economically.
• Preserve cultural diversity so Bauls can survive.
• Investigate fires and hold powerful groups accountable.
• Support communities displaced by river erosion with long-term rehabilitation.

When livelihood is secured, conflicts naturally decrease.
When opportunities exist, extremism declines.
When stability grows, culture becomes a shared space, not a battleground.

Conclusion

The deaths, the fires, the clashes—none of these begin with ideology.
They begin with insecurity, displacement, and powerlessness.

Until we address these foundations, the poorest will continue to be the first to burn, the first to fight, and the first to fall.

And the Teesta father’s three sons—living in a slum, singing on the road, or studying in a madrasa—will keep carrying burdens they never created.