Hardship, hope and heritage: Life inside Syedpur's Bihari camps

In the heart of Syedpur, a small town in northern Bangladesh, resides a community of Urdu-speaking people. Over 21,848 Urdu-speaking people, bound together by a shared history of migration, survival, and hope, live in camps that were meant to be temporary but have endured for over half a century. 

The roots of Syedpur's Bihari settlement trace back to the late 19th century when the British established a railway workshop, luring skilled labourers from Bihar and Uttar Pradesh. By 1947, Partition reshaped their fate, and the Liberation War of 1971 sealed it with tragic finality. 

Jamal Uddin, a long-time resident of Cinema Hall Camp, recalls his father's stories, "He spoke of how they had to leave everything behind, clutching onto only what they could carry. For years, we hoped it would get better, but this is still our reality." 

That "reality" is a life in camps originally built by the International Red Cross, now home to over 4,680 families crammed into dilapidated, 8 x 8 feet rooms. 

The walls, once sturdy, are now riddled with cracks, and the roofs leak during monsoon, forcing residents to cover their belongings with plastic sheets to prevent water damage. Photo: Anonno Afroz

These rooms were intended to serve as temporary shelters but have since become permanent homes for generations. The walls, once sturdy, are now riddled with cracks, and the roofs leak during monsoon, forcing residents to cover their belongings with plastic sheets to prevent water damage.

As generations grow within these walls, the space shrinks further. Jamal explains, "It was manageable when the camps were initially set up, but now, six or 10 people share a single room. It's suffocating." Makeshift extensions offer little respite, as the surrounding land is overburdened and overcrowded. 

Families build partitions using cloth or tin sheets to create the illusion of privacy, but this does little to alleviate the claustrophobia. Children often sleep on the floor, and belongings are stacked precariously to maximise the limited space.

Take the story of Asma Khatun, a housemaid whose family of 11 shares one room. "My husband is a carpenter; our two children also work in a cotton mill. Still, we barely scrape by," she shares. "I dream of a day when my children won't have to live like this." 

Asma's voice carries a quiet determination, but the weight of generational poverty looms heavy. The lack of personal space has also taken a toll on mental health, with frequent arguments breaking out among family members due to the stress of living in such close quarters.

Sanitation is another everyday battle. In Chamra Gudam Camp, residents like Mohammad Nur Hasan Molayem contend with overflowing drains and flooded rooms during the monsoon. 

"Diseases spread like wildfire," he laments, describing how children play barefoot near stagnant water. The drains, clogged with garbage, emit a foul odour that permeates the air, making it hard to breathe, especially during the hot and humid summer months.

Even a small improvement, like access to functioning toilets, feels like a distant luxury. "We line up for hours, sometimes missing work," says a mother of three, gesturing toward a single, overused latrine. "We're always hoping for something better, but nothing changes." 

There are not enough toilets to accommodate the growing population, forcing many to resort to open defecation, which further exacerbates health risks. Skin diseases, diarrhea, and respiratory infections are rampant, with children and the elderly being the most affected.

Photo: Anonno Afroz

The camps are alive with activity as residents engage in odd jobs to make ends meet. Men push rickshaws, women sew clothes, and children sell snacks on the streets. 

Day labourer Saddam Hussain reflects on the precariousness of his livelihood, "Yesterday, I worked at a brick factory. Today, I'm unloading goods. Tomorrow? Who knows?" 

The uncertainty of daily income leaves families in constant fear of hunger, as even a single day without work can mean going to bed on an empty stomach.

Discrimination compounds their plight. "No matter how hard we work, we're still 'camp people,'" explains Mohammad Saddam, a local activist. This stigma means fewer opportunities and lower wages, locking families into poverty. 

Residents often face prejudice from employers, who view them as unreliable or unskilled, despite their willingness to work hard. This systemic bias makes it nearly impossible for them to break out of the cycle of poverty.

The Supreme Court of Bangladesh ruled to grant the camp residents Bangladeshi citizenship in 2008, ending decades of statelessness. With National ID cards, they could now vote and access services like education which was once denied to them. 

However, legal recognition hasn't erased their struggles. Most of the camp residents remain trapped in overcrowded camps, unable to leave due to poverty. 

"We have the right to move out, but no means to start over. We have to face social discrimination everywhere, particularly in securing jobs", explained activist Mohammad Saddam.

"On paper, we're citizens, but life hasn't changed," he added.

Despite their challenges, the camp's cultural heritage shines as a testament to their resilience. Rehana Begum, a widow, keeps the tradition of handmade fuchka alive. With pride, she says, "This isn't like machine-made fuchka; it's special. My elders taught me, and it's how I support my family after losing my husband and son." 

Handmade fuchka is a rare delicacy now only found in Syedpur, and is on the brink of extinction. Her humble stall attracts customers who come from far away just to taste the unique taste of this delicacy, but the income is barely enough to cover daily expenses.

Mohammad Raja, an artisan, showcases a vibrant panjabi adorned with intricate beadwork called karchupi. Photo: Anonno Afroz

The art of karchupi embroidery is another enduring skill. Mohammad Raja, an artisan, showcases a vibrant panjabi adorned with intricate beadwork. "We've passed down this craft for generations. It's our identity," he says. Yet, his voice carries a tinge of worry, "We earn so little, it's hard to keep going." 

Many artisans are forced to sell their creations at low prices to middlemen, who then profit by selling them at a premium in urban markets. This exploitation leaves the craftsmen with little to show for their hard work.

Crafts that were once the pride of the community now struggle against market forces. Mohammad Selim, who makes wooden toys, explains, "When I was a child, everyone wanted these toys. Now, plastic has taken over. My sons don't want to learn because there's no money in it." 

The declining demand for traditional crafts has also led to a loss of interest among the younger generation, who see no future in continuing their family trades. Without intervention, these traditions risk fading into obscurity, taking with them a vital part of the community's cultural identity.

Camp leaders and activists have long petitioned for better living conditions. Majid Iqbal, president of the Urdu Speakers Camp Development Committee, sums it up, "The government gives us free electricity and water, but that's it. We've begged for better housing and more space, but no one listens." 

The free utilities, while helpful, are not enough to address the myriad issues faced by the residents. The lack of political will to improve their living conditions has left the community feeling abandoned and voiceless.

In contrast, Khalid Hussain, a human rights lawyer and the founder and chief executive of the Council of Minorities, highlights the disparity between Dhaka's camps and those in Syedpur. 

"In Dhaka, there are better jobs and NGOs providing more support. Syedpur doesn't have that. Economic stagnation and a lack of awareness about family planning make things worse." 

The absence of local industries and infrastructure means fewer opportunities for sustainable employment, forcing many to migrate to larger cities in search of work.

But amid the hardship, hope flickers in small victories. Raja's embroidery workshop employs seven residents, offering them a steady income. NGOs occasionally organise skill-building programs, and some young people dream of leaving the camps for a better future.

Jamal Uddin captures the collective longing, "We've survived this long, but survival isn't enough. We want to live with dignity." His words reflect the community's resilience but also serve as a reminder of the urgent need for change.

As Rehana Begum stirs her pot of fuchka dough, she dreams of a brighter future. "Maybe my children will leave this camp someday," she muses, her hands steady even as her voice quivers. "Maybe they'll have a life beyond these walls."