Life on the edge: Violence pushes women migrants into the city's harshest corners

The first time Ayesha slept beside a footpath, she held her 18-month-old son so tightly that he woke up crying. 

She tried to hush him, worried the miscreants prowling the lane would take notice. By dawn, she had barely slept, but she was relieved they had made it through without incident. This, she told herself, was still safer than the home she had left behind.

Ayesha grew up in a small village in Bagerhat with two sisters and a brother. Her father, a day labourer, struggled to feed the family, let alone keep his children in school. 

She longed for education and a life unlike her mother's. But harassment, neighbours' taunts, and relentless financial pressure forced her family to marry her off at just 16.

Sixteen, an age for school uniforms and carefree squabbles, became for Ayesha an age of compromise. On her wedding day, she brought the few pieces of furniture her father had built with his last savings. 

Ayesha discovered on her wedding day that she was her husband's second wife. With no home of their own, they stayed in his brother's house, where she faced constant insults, quarrels, and humiliation. 

"More women like Ayesha are coming to the city, yet they cannot escape abuse. Most never file reports, but around 72% face some form of violence."

Lipi Rahman, executive director of Badabon Sangho

When he began to hit her, no one came to her aid.

Only then did she realise her husband's cruelty stemmed from mental instability, and that no one would come to save her.

When she approached the police, they demanded money to file a complaint.

With no one to help, Ayesha decided to be her own saviour. 

The survival trap

Holding her baby, Ayesha left for Keraniganj, hoping the city would offer anonymity, opportunity, and a little safety.

Acquaintances found her a small corner in a crowded slum, where she began knocking on doors for work. But every opportunity came with a hidden demand: men who promised jobs wanted a physical relationship in return. 

Some stated it openly; others assumed she would comply. Without agreeing, she had no chance of earning a living. Driven by hunger and exhaustion, she relented once, after which the slum owner began visiting her regularly. When neighbours and his wife noticed, what followed was, in her words, "inhuman torture." 

She was thrown out, her belongings kicked into the mud, and she ended up beside a footpath outside an abandoned house, where she still lives. Over the past two years, she has faced constant city violence—miscreants vandalise her belongings, hurl obscenities, and try to frighten her away. 

She briefly worked in a juice factory, but it closed without notice. 

Now, she survives on one meal a day, relying on leftovers or kind neighbours, unable to leave her child or afford childcare.  

A widening pattern of silent migration  

Ayesha's story is not an exception; it is part of a widening pattern.

Lipi Rahman, executive director of Badabon Sangho, has been tracking this movement. "More women like Ayesha are coming to the city, yet they cannot escape abuse. Most never file reports, but around 72% face some form of violence," she said, adding that patriarchy continues to shape their suffering. 

To break the silence, Badabon Sangho launched 'Collaboration Lab', placing complaint boxes across Dhaka's slums. "Our volunteers raise awareness first, then install the boxes. Even after the project ends, the boxes remain, with local police collecting complaints," Lipi explained. 

Yet change is slow. 

Reporting violence: A safety net fraught with cracks 

Women seeking economic independence in Dhaka quickly learn that freedom is expensive, and protection is scarce. 

Local volunteer Fuljan Begum has seen the pattern unfold repeatedly.

"Women are coming to the city in groups from the villages, seeking work without worrying about honour or reputation. They already know about the risks of violence; our role is to make them aware of how to report it," she explained.

But for women like Ayesha, the real fight is surviving without family, childcare, income, a home, or affordable legal support. 

Her story highlights the cracks in rural and urban safety nets, where poverty, patriarchy, and neglect push women further into vulnerability. 

When asked about the future, Ayesha speaks little, mentioning her child first. 

Now, she dreams of just one thing: a room of her own, where she can lock the door at night. 

[This article has been produced in association with Badabon Sangho.]