Outclassed
Bangladesh’s nomadic Bede children are being schooled into the mainstream, on a promise that can’t be kept.
- Journalist
- Naushad Ali Husein
- Photographer
- Farzana Hossen
- Story Design
- Carter Brown
Video: Farzana Hossen
- Published
- Like nomadic communities around the world, Bangladesh's river gypsies, the Bedes, are disproportionately left out of school.
- They once had floating schools that travelled with them. Now they only have a stipend — which reaches roughly one in 50 Bede children.
- Meanwhile, a master's graduate is looking for a job. And a 14-year-old dropout has decided to figure out her own way.
Khoriya, Louhojong. As you enter the village, there is no mistaking that mainstream Bangladesh has been left behind.
The postures of the women are defiant. Their hair is made up on top of their heads. Silver jewellery cascades down their ears and noses. Their boldly coloured saris are draped, and their blouses cut, for style rather than modesty. They occupy porches, shops and paths with ease. Elsewhere, public spaces are dominated by men. There is nothing here to suggest such an imbalance.
The Bede, or Manta, as they call themselves, are Bangladesh’s river gypsies, known for their nomadic lifestyle and unusual professions: snake charmers, lock pickers, folk healers, finders of lost gold items. For centuries, Mantas lived on boats, navigating the delta’s channels to peddle their services. Now, as the rivers dry out, more and more Manta families have traded in their boats for plots of land.
But despite having left the river behind, most of Louhojong’s Mantas maintain their nomadic occupations. Off the road, many of the homes, with their sloping, corrugated roofs, are locked up. Their owners are off in faraway districts, making a living.
Gowalimandra, Louhojong. Photo: Farzana Hossen
Evening in the marketplace in Khoriya, Louhojong. Photo: Farzana Hossen
Nima from Khoriya, Louhojong. Photo: Farzana Hossen
Khoriya, Louhojong. Photo: Farzana Hossen
Khoriya, Louhojong. Photo: Farzana Hossen
Khoriya, Louhojong. Photo: Farzana Hossen
On the pathways among the houses, are many children. Twelve-year-old Ahad shows off his handstand. He says his father taught him. A group of upbeat girls is peeling and cutting out 4- to 5-inch lengths of the stalk from grass-like plants. They make for miniature sugarcanes. Tasty.
But… shouldn’t they be in school?
Ahad says his mother told him and his brother to skip school and gather firewood instead. Later, he lets on that his father is not very interested in sending him to school. Ahad says he was initially sent to madrassah, but he didn’t like it because he was beaten. Photo: Farzana Hossen
Elsewhere, things are getting heated
Salman Shah, a rare master’s graduate among the Mantas of Louhojong, refers to his own community in the third person. He is increasingly agitated by the ongoing line of questioning: is there nothing worth preserving in Manta society?
“They still condone child marriage!”
“Their customs are not applicable in the modern world.”
Portrait of Salman Shah, one of only a few people in his village to have completed a master’s degree. Gowalimandra, Louhojong. Photo: Farzana Hossen
“This is no society. One day they’re one place, the next day they’re gone.”
Portrait of Salman Shah, one of only a few people in his village to have completed a master’s degree. Gowalimandra, Louhojong. Photo: Farzana Hossen
Child marriage illegal in Bangladesh. However, Manta communities practice their own traditions, under the stewardship of hereditary sardars (leaders). And Salman Shah is not masking his aversion to them. “They don’t do anything for the progress of the community. If a married man who has children at home wants to leave them and take another wife, they just take money and permit the wedding. Why can’t they stop them?”
Soud Khan, one of four sardars for Khoriya, is seated next to him. “No, son, you can’t blame us for these things,” he says. “We have advised many times that they should make contracts (kabin nama). But they follow their traditional ways. We are leaders, but we have no power.”
“Then why do you take their money?” shoots back Shah. The sardar points out that there are legitimate fees that must be paid to register a contract.
Salman Shah, young firebrand that he is, must have the last word. “The point is, the sardars do not bring any progress.
Baha Noor. Photo: Farzana Hossen
For Baha Noor*, 14, marriage was not a fate brought upon her by antiquated social customs. It was an act of rebellion. When she eloped with a boy who was slightly older than her, her grandfather beat her with a shoe. “My parents wanted me to continue school. But I decided to get married.”
Days later, she discovered that her husband was in a previous marriage – and that he had a propensity for physical abuse. In three months, she was back at her parents’ home. They supported her in getting a divorce.
In mainstream rural Bengali society, that would taint her for life. But as a Manta woman, she derides the social norms that stigmatise divorce. “I spit on the society that laughs while I suffer.”
We ask, don’t you worry that you’ll find it difficult to marry in future?
“One went, ten will come,” she says.
Just then the phone in her hand starts playing a tune. She smirks and shoots off a voice note: “Stop sending me romantic videos.” We realise that this whole time, while we’ve been interviewing her, she’s been exchanging messages with an eager suitor. “You’re trying to charm me, but I’m here with two other people. They’ll laugh at you.”
Baha Noor doesn’t have Salman Shah’s rage, but she also distances herself from the hereditary occupation of her parents. “I know nothing about that stuff,” she says. “You can ask me about anything else, I’ll tell you.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
“Hell no! I work the sewing machine.” The dress she is wearing is made by her.
We quickly discover that no young Manta person wants to be associated with their traditional occupations. School was supposed to provide a way out
