Tenants of the weeping wood: Life and labour of Bandarban rubber garden workers
For families in Bandarban, rubber trees provide income, but falling prices, outdated technology, and uncertain land tenure threaten their survival
Thowai Sa Mong Marma, a 50-year-old rubber garden worker, begins his day before 4 am, long before the sun appears.
On a stone-cold, foggy winter morning, carrying a torch and an iron blade, he rides his bicycle to the rubber garden, crossing narrow, bumpy hill roads. He stops at the specific plot assigned to him. Then, with skilled hands, he makes a precise, shallow, diagonal incision in the bark — carefully calculated to sever the latex vessels without damaging the cambium.
Almost instantly, milky white latex bleeds from the wound, dripping slowly into collection cups. "To get the maximum yield, we need to cut the tree early in the morning," he said with a smile.
This solitary labour is only the first half of the shift. By 10 am, the morning mist has lifted, and Thowai returns to the garden, this time accompanied by his wife. They carry buckets, funnels, and gallon containers. Together, they collect the liquor, emptying the cups that have gradually filled over the past few hours. With buckets and gallons full, they head back home. The same routine is followed everyday by at least one member of almost every family in Kibuk Para, a village in Kuhalong Union of Bandarban Sadar Upazila.
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Thowai's routine offers a microscopic view of a vast industry. According to a report titled "Current Situation and Export Potential of Bangladesh's Rubber Industry" by the Bangladesh Tariff and Trade Commission (BTTC), rubber is cultivated across 147,333 acres nationwide. The country produces approximately 70,357 metric tonnes each year. Of this total, the Bangladesh Forest Industry Development Corporation (BFIDC) oversees the production of 5,522.20 metric tonnes from 38,067.01 acres. The second-largest contributor is the Chittagong Hill Tracts Development Board (CHTDB), which produces 1,150 metric tonnes from 1,200 acres spread across Bandarban, Rangamati, and Khagrachhari.
However, these production figures come with a heavy environmental price tag. Vast areas of rubber gardens in the Lama, Naikhongchhari, Bandarban Sadar, and Alikadam upazilas of Bandarban district, largely under private ownership, have triggered a severe ecological crisis in the hills. According to district administration sources cited in a report titled "Rubber: A Death Sentence to Natural Forests", published on 1 March 2024 by the Brattyajan Resource Centre, approximately 45,000 acres of public land in the district have been leased for commercial rubber cultivation and horticulture.
These plantations are monoculture—nothing else grows on their floors. They may look green from a distance, but they are actually green deserts, devoid of wildlife.
As journalist and researcher Philip Gain notes in the report, "These plantations are monoculture — nothing else grows on their floors. They may look green from a distance, but they are actually green deserts, devoid of wildlife. When the leaves fall between January and March, the trees look completely burnt and barren. This is the exact opposite of a natural forest."
Thowai Sa Mong Marma has been working in one of these CHTDB-operated gardens for decades, but the story of how his community came to rely on these trees is rooted in a longer history of displacement and political change. Thowai's elder brother, Thowai Nu Mong Marma, who also manages several garden plots, recalled a time before the rubber trees.
"Like other Indigenous communities in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, we used to practise jum cultivation," his elder brother explained, leaning back as he reflects on the transition. "It was our tradition, and many people depended on it. But jum cultivation is a very tough process. It requires a lot of hard work."
He described a system of migratory farming in which land had to be left fallow for two to four years after a single harvest to restore its fertility. This necessity forced families to move from hill to hill, leading to a transient way of life. The shift from diverse jum farming to rubber cultivation has been deeply controversial. As Philip Gain pointed out, "Rubber has not just been successful in the CHT; it has caused massive ecological damage and harm to Indigenous communities."
"It has been a factor behind the eviction of many Indigenous people from their customary land, traditionally used for jum cultivation and the production of other crops. Rubber plantations do not bode well for nature, given their ecological impacts on local communities, particularly ethnic minority groups."
The move towards sedentary rubber farming was not an organic transition; it was part of a state-sponsored reconfiguration of the hills during the regime of President Ziaur Rahman.
"During President Ziaur Rahman's time, as you know, he took many initiatives in this region," the elder brother continued. "Alongside bringing settlers here, he also initiated rehabilitation programmes for Indigenous people."
In the Bandarban and Rangamati areas, ten distinct paras (villages) were selected under this initiative. In each village, fifty families were identified for rehabilitation and reintegration into a settled agrarian lifestyle. The government's promise was substantial: each family was meant to receive five acres and twenty-five decimals of land. Of this, 25 decimals were allocated for a homestead, one acre for a surrounding garden, and a significant four-acre plot for rubber cultivation.
The reality on the ground, however, fell well short of the blueprint. "We only got one acre and 25 decimals of land in our name — the house and the surrounding area. The rubber garden land is government-owned; it is not registered in our name."
Despite the lack of ownership, each rehabilitated family was assigned responsibility for a specific plot of government-owned rubber trees. They act as caretakers and harvesters, tapping the latex and selling it back to government-run collection centres.
Overseeing this supply chain in the villages of Bandarban is Chaing Swe Mong Marma. He serves as a bridge between the muddy reality of the gardens and the bureaucratic structure of the Chittagong Hill Tracts Development Board (CHTDB). According to Chaing, the initiative dates back to the late 1980s, when the Development Board first planted the saplings.
"From the beginning, they signed a contract with the cultivators," Chaing explained. "Under this arrangement, 40% of the rubber's price is taken by the government, while 60% goes to the cultivators. The association also maintains the garden." For instance, if the market price of rubber stands at Tk200 per kilogram, Tk80 is retained by the government for processing and maintenance, while Tk120 goes to the worker.
Almost every family depends on this system. While locals also engage in small-scale cultivation of pineapple, mango, and rabi crops, rubber provides a steady—if fluctuating—source of cash income. Over time, people have adjusted their biological clocks to the trees, waking before dawn to tap the winter sap flow.
As Chaing explained, the system under the CHTDB is overseen by a committee comprising the Chairman and Vice Chairman of the Development Board, two members from Bandarban, several from Rangamati, and the District Commissioners of the hill districts.
Chaing Swe Mong takes pride in the transparency he has worked to establish over his eight years of oversight. "Before, this was regulated from the central office, and workers did not receive fair payment," he said. "I protested against that repeatedly and eventually managed to set up an accounts section here, so the money stays here."
Now, Chaing regulates payments on a monthly basis, calculated according to individual production. To enter the system, a worker must have a family; plots are registered to households rather than individuals. When a young man or woman starts a family, they become eligible to apply for a plot.
The collection centre itself operates on precise measurement. At present, workers are paid Tk90 for liquid latex. A meter at the factory measures the rubber-to-water ratio in the liquor to ensure fair payment. The centre also buys kablang—the scrap rubber that hardens on the collection cup or drips down after the main harvest. As kablang cannot be processed into high-quality rubber sheets and requires different handling, it commands a lower price, typically between Tk70 and Tk80 per kilogram.
Yet when the arithmetic of the 60–40 split is translated into monthly household income, the picture is far less reassuring. Asked for a rough estimate, workers agree that a family earns around Tk15,000 a month from the garden. For most, this is simply not enough to sustain a household.
This economic pressure forces workers like Sho Kya Singh to divide their days into multiple shifts of labour. Sho Kya Singh is a rubber garden worker, but when he sets down the collection buckets, he does not rest. He drives a CNG auto-rickshaw and takes on part-time manual labour to make ends meet. He represents a significant segment of the hill tracts workforce, where people overwork their bodies because the system cannot support them adequately.
There is, however, another divide — between those who depend solely on government-assigned plots and those who, alongside these plots, have managed to cultivate private gardens. Thowai Sa Mong Marma belongs to the latter group, placing him in a slightly more secure economic position. In his backyard, he has set up a small-scale processing unit. He and his wife work together using a strainer machine, moulding their own rubber and pressing the liquor into sheets. By adding value to the raw product before selling it, they secure a modestly higher margin than those who sell liquid latex alone.
A rubber tree is an investment in time. It requires eight years of care after planting before it produces a single drop of commercially viable latex. Once tapping begins, the tree has a productive window of around 25 years. By the time it reaches the age of 32 or 33, its economic life cycle is effectively over. Yields drop, the bark becomes exhausted, and the tree must be felled.
The trees in Kibuk Para, planted in the early 1990s, are staring down the barrel of this expiration date. They are still producing enough latex to keep the village economy turning, but within five years, they are likely to go dry.
This impending deadline brings the issue of land ownership sharply back into focus. Chaing Swe Marma admits, "We don't know what will happen then. Of course, the trees will be cut down, and maybe they will replant rubber trees. If only the government wants, we can get to work again. Since these plots are still not in our name, we cannot say what will be farmed here."
The fear is tangible: if the government decides to shift priorities or change land use after the trees are felled, the families could be left with nothing — no trees, no land, no income.
Abu Shahed Chowdhury, the General Secretary of the Rubber Board, attempts to allay these fears regarding the continuity of the gardens. He explained that the end of a tree's lifecycle does not necessarily mean the land will be abandoned.
"It's not that after cutting down a tree, the land is left barren," Chowdhury said. "New trees are planted in between. We don't cut down all the trees at once, since they are planted in different cycles and at different times. So the garden is never without trees."
Critics, however, argue that this cycle permanently alters the landscape. Rubber — whether in the CHT, Madhupur, or the tea gardens — may bring economic benefits to the state and private entrepreneurs, but it has generally failed to benefit the people who once relied on these lands. Worse, wherever rubber trees have been planted, they have depleted the soil and other natural resources.
Despite these environmental warnings, the industry remains focused on production. Chowdhury, however, acknowledges that the rubber sector in the hills is suffering from technological stagnation. The biological infrastructure of the gardens is outdated.
"The clone we plant here is RRIM 600, which is really old," he noted. "In Malaysia or Sri Lanka, they use RRIM 1000 or RRIM 2000, which are high-yielding and can be tapped much earlier. We are trying to introduce some of those clones to our country and test whether they suit our conditions."
The introduction of modern clones could potentially revolutionise yields, but it cannot resolve the immediate problem of market volatility. The price of rubber in Bangladesh has been on a consistent downward trajectory, squeezing margins for everyone — from the CHTDB to the rubber garden workers.
On this constant price drop, Chowdhury admits, "It's true that the price has been falling day by day, but we don't really know why. And there is no fixed price — whoever can sell, does so."
He attributed part of the problem to the infancy of regulatory institutions. "As a comparatively new institute, we don't yet have the power or capacity to set prices or regulate imports and exports. We are still working on that."
