Dignity denied: For keeping their cities clean, Rangpur's Harijans are rewarded with segregation

Even before Rangpur city's sky turns pale, sanitation workers begin sweeping the streets, lanes and shopfronts. 

Like the runner from Sukanta's poem, these people, known as Harijans, carry the responsibility of making the town sparkle before the first rays of sunlight appear. They have been carrying out this responsibility for generations. 

Yet it is this profession of theirs — men and women together cleaning an entire day's worth of waste in an attempt to make the city liveable — that makes them undesirable in the eyes of the community they serve. 

After cleaning up, many step out to have breakfast. At a restaurant right in front of their colony, the sanitation workers have to carry their own sets of glasses, cups or bowls if they want to be served. 

Photo: TBS

The reason is as simple as it is cruel; they are not served tea in the restaurant's cups, nor given water in ordinary glasses, and in many cases, not even allowed to enter the restaurant. The staff pour water, tea or food into the Harijans' own utensils. They sit outside, on the pavement or on the road, and eat their breakfast there. To society, they are untouchable — impure and unclean.

Harijans can be found in almost every region of Bangladesh. And everywhere, their stories are just as painfully tragic.

The so-called untouchable Hindu community was named Harijan by Mahatma Gandhi himself. The word Harijan means children of God. 

During the British colonial period, they were brought from various regions of India to different parts of what is now Bangladesh to clear jungles, work in tea gardens, and handle sewage and sanitation. There is no accurate data on the number of Harijans living in Bangladesh, but various sources estimate the population at around three million. 

The term "Harijan" first appeared in the national census in 1991 under the list of small ethnic groups.

Tea, but not dignity

In the social hierarchy, Harijans are placed at the very bottom. The wider population avoids mixing with them. They cannot sit and eat in hotels or restaurants alongside others. Even the idea of drinking tea from a cup touched by a Harijan is unacceptable to many.

This everyday humiliation eventually boiled over in Gaibandha's Mahimaganj union, where Harijans took to the streets in protest on 19 October this year. 

Their demand was modest, even restrained: the right to sit and eat in the same hotels as everyone else. 

Suman Bashfor, a Harijan, explained the demand plainly, "We are not asking for too much. We only want to not be looked down upon at the place where we eat. That's all we ask. But people are unwilling to do even that."

When asked why this practice continues, several hotel owners pointed not to policy but to habit. 

Ismail Haider, owner of Shantona Hotel, defends the status quo as tradition rather than discrimination, "Look, this has been going on like this for years. I alone can't change it. We do have food arrangements for them here. They can eat using one-time plates and glasses. There is a separate seating area for them." 

Another restaurant owner in Mahimaganj market, Faruk Ahmed, describes the issue as a social reflex — something learned early and rarely questioned. 

The sanitation workers have to carry their own sets of glasses, cups or bowls if they want to be served. The reason is as simple as it is cruel; they are not served tea in the restaurant's cups, nor given water in ordinary glasses, and in many cases, not even allowed to enter the restaurant. They sit outside, on the pavement or on the road, and eat their breakfast there. To society, they are untouchable — impure and unclean.

"Basically, we do what we are used to seeing. We have grown up seeing things this way. But yes, if everyone wants it, we can give Harijans the same opportunity as others. But who would want to risk losing business by acting alone?" he said.

Harijans in Mahimaganj said they raised the issue formally with the upazila administration. Officials later visited the market and warned hotel owners against discriminatory practices. On the ground, however, the warnings appear to have changed little. 

Shiuli Hari recounted what followed, "Our UNO madam came and told the hotel owners that if this continues, their licences would be cancelled. But where is the change? Everything is still exactly the same."

When contacted, Gobindaganj Upazila Nirbahi Officer Syeda Yasmin Sultana acknowledged the complaint and left the door open for further action, "If someone still raises such complaints after administrative intervention and the issue remains unresolved, we will take further steps."

Asked directly whether fear of backlash or mob resistance restrains enforcement, she dismissed the concern, "No, we have no such concerns. The administration will look into this matter."

Colonies without land, lives without certainty

Beyond the indignity of being denied a seat in a restaurant lies a far deeper insecurity. Harijans have no land and no permanent housing of their own. They live in segregated settlements commonly known as colonies — a term that has survived decades of political change. 

These colonies were created deliberately, under state initiative, to keep Harijans separate from the rest of society. Since no one is willing to sell land to them, they are forced to live on government-owned plots as informal occupants, under constant threat of eviction.

For many, that insecurity defines everyday life. 

Despite being citizens of Bangladesh, Harijans remain largely excluded from state welfare schemes. Photo: TBS

Mohan Lal Domar described what it means to live without land of one's own. "If we had our own land, we would live there with our families. Now we live on government land, and we can't build anything there. If we try, someone comes and demolishes it or threatens eviction. We have nowhere left to go."

Most landlords refuse to rent houses to Harijans. Their low and unstable incomes make private rentals nearly impossible anyway. The result is forced confinement to unhealthy, overcrowded spaces on khas land. 

Sweeper colonies resemble blind alleys — cramped, filthy and foul-smelling. Every negative adjective seems applicable. Families of six or seven are squeezed into rooms smaller than 10 by 10 feet. There is no light, no ventilation, no sanitation — nothing. No one sees them. No one listens to them. No one resolves their problems. Politicians arrive before elections, collect votes and disappear once the ballots are cast.

Explaining the land issue from an administrative perspective, Assistant Commissioner (Land) of Gobindaganj Md Tamshid Eram Khan drew a legal distinction, "Gobindaganj is home not only to Harijans but also to Santal communities. Santals are recognised as indigenous, but Harijans are not. 

"Under Bangladeshi land law, indigenous people can only sell or transfer land to other indigenous people," he added.

He further said that even when land is allocated, settlement is far from guaranteed, "Even when the government allocates land, Harijans often cannot live there due to social reasons. Social stigma cannot be removed overnight. Many people dislike the Harijan lifestyle, so even after allocation, local residents resist their settlement. And if someone refuses to sell private land, the administration has no power to intervene."

Jobs taken, protection denied and dreams delayed

Employment offers little security either. Even sanitation jobs — work that Harijans have performed for generations — are now increasingly taken by ethnic Bangalis. These are the very jobs that once pushed Harijans to the margins of society, and now even those are slipping away. 

Srikanta Bashfor described the shift bluntly, "We should have priority in these jobs, but reality is different now."

He alleged that bribery and corruption play a major role in excluding Harijans from recruitment. He also pointed out the contradiction in hiring practices — while educational requirements are listed as Class Eight, the written exams are often beyond the reach of even university graduates. 

Workplace safety is another concern. Shyam Kumar Bhakta, president of Bangladesh Harijan Oikya Parishad, argued that the risks they face are routinely ignored. 

"Our workplace safety must be ensured. We work at night on deserted roads. We face criminals. There may be regular police patrols, but there should be special patrols for sanitation workers," he said.

He went on to list a series of long-standing demands, the cancellation of NGO contracts in waste collection, an end to outside recruitment, wage increases in line with government regulations, job regularisation and the enforcement of labour laws.

Some eateries offer tea to Harijans in plastic cups as others refuse to drink from the same cup as them. Photo: TBS

"There is no fixed pay structure for Harijans. In many places, people still earn just Tk500 to Tk1,000 a month. That amount is meaningless today," Shyam Kumar added.

Despite being citizens of Bangladesh, Harijans remain largely excluded from state welfare schemes too. Elderly members do not receive old-age allowances. Widows do not receive widow benefits. Some say that even NGOs hesitate to help them in times of crisis. 

Dasharath Bashfor has been paralysed for seven years. His frustration is raw and unresolved, "I've gone everywhere asking for help. My children are in college. Who will pay their expenses? I received no help from anywhere. NGOs say we won't be able to repay loans, so they refuse to help us."

NGO officials reject accusations of discrimination. Nurun Nabi, manager of SKS Foundation in Mohimaganj, offered a formal rebuttal, "We don't have such practices. Others may, but I can't say. Many of the people mentioned are our members."

He insisted that assistance depends on documentation and repayment capacity. ASA's Mahimaganj branch manager Mohammad Badal Mia expressed the same position.

Discrimination extends into classrooms as well. Children from Harijan families often face obstacles during school admissions and in everyday classroom life. 

Akash Bashfor, president of Bangladesh Harijan Student Oikya Parishad, said such incidents are common enough to require intervention. 

"In the past, our brothers and sisters faced harassment during admissions. We had to intervene with district administrators and education officials. As citizens, ensuring our right to education was the state's responsibility," he added.

Despite countless barriers, some children continue to attend school and college, holding on to the idea of a different future. In many cases, however, those dreams collapse early. Child marriage is widespread, particularly for girls, as families attempt to shield them from harassment.

Anu Bashfor, a college student in Mahimaganj, refuses to give up. 

"I know what happens to our community. Other jobs are nearly impossible for us. But someone has to try. I'm trying to reach a place where I can live like an ordinary citizen," she said.