Along the quiet banks of the Teesta River in northern Bangladesh, life is slipping away much like the river itself—slowly, inexorably, leaving once-thriving fishing communities stranded in debt and uncertainty.
For generations, the fishermen of Rangpur’s waterways depended on these rivers, casting nets at dawn and returning with baskets of boirali, shing, and other native fish. Today, their nets often lie unused, their livelihoods eroded by shrinking rivers, aggressive leasing practices, and crushing debts that force them into factory floors or fields far from home.
Officially, the Rangpur region is home to 252 rivers. But according to Riverine People, a local advocacy group, more than 300 waterways once threaded through these northern plains. Over five decades, embankments, urban sprawl, and unchecked land grabbing have choked over 50 rivers into oblivion. Wetlands are being filled for housing, tilting ecosystems off balance and leaving fishing families with little to rely on.
“The river was our life. Now it’s a trickle,” said Babar, a fisherman from Mashankura in Pirgacha. “When the water goes, so does everything.”
In Hokdanga Majhipara, a small fishing village in Kurigram district, 48-year-old Nikhil Chandra embodies the quiet tragedy unfolding here. Once, his days revolved around the Teesta—launching his dinghy at sunrise, returning with enough to feed his family of five.
That changed last year when he married off his daughter, Smritirani. Pressured to provide a dowry of 240,000 taka, including gold jewelry, Nikhil sold his boat and nets and borrowed heavily from NGOs and neighbors. But within six months, the marriage crumbled. Smritirani was sent back, beaten and rejected by her in-laws because the promised gold never materialized.
“I gave up the very thing that fed us to secure her future,” Nikhil said, his voice breaking. “Now I have debts that keep me awake at night, and my daughter sits at home, unwanted.” Stories like Nikhil’s ripple across Rangpur.
Government figures show around 100,000 registered fishermen in the division—over 18,000 in Kurigram alone—but local activists say the true number is higher. Increasingly, these fishermen abandon nets for jobs in distant factories.
Ganesh Das from Haridanga Majhipara once earned his keep on the water. Today, he stitches bags in a Dhaka workshop. His elderly father, Swapan, sighed, “My grandson sends 5,000 taka a month from the city. Without that, we’d starve.”
Even in the peak fishing seasons, many species like boirali have all but vanished. “We still go to the river,” Swapan said. “But most days, we come back empty.”
Bangladesh’s 2009 wetland management guidelines promise fishing rights to cooperatives of genuine local fishermen. In practice, many are locked out. Either they fail to meet technical requirements, or they simply lack the know-how—and money—to form cooperatives.
“Businessmen grab the leases,” said Babur. “We can’t pay bribes. So we sneak nets into rivers during monsoon, and the rest of the year, beg to fish in ponds owned by others.”
Meanwhile, banks often refuse to lend to small-scale fishermen, driving them into the hands of NGOs whose high-interest microloans spiral into new cycles of debt. “They say government gives loans,” said Minati Rani, a fisherman’s wife. “But we’ve never seen it. If someone falls sick, nobody helps.”
Local observers argue that northern fisherfolk are overlooked compared to their counterparts along the coast or in Bangladesh’s vast haor wetlands.
“During the hilsa ban, fishermen here get 40 kilos of rice each. That’s something. But it’s not enough,” acknowledged Aynal Haque, director of the Rangpur divisional fisheries office. He promised new programs to train fishermen in alternative trades, though many say they want to keep fishing—just with fairer access and healthier rivers.
Nazrul Islam Haqqani, who leads the Teesta Bachao, Nodi Bachao movement, noted that neighboring countries help fishermen adapt by training them to farm fish in low-water periods. “Here, we cling to old ways without modern support,” he said.
Dr. Tuhin Wadud of Riverine People went further, arguing for a dedicated ministry for rivers. “Officials are either too busy or simply don’t care. A separate ministry could protect ecosystems and safeguard these communities together.”
Back in Hokdanga Majhipara, Nikhil now labors as a farmhand, hoping to someday earn enough to buy the gold that might restore his daughter’s marriage. Each evening, he sits by the river he once knew so well—its waters lower than ever—wondering how long before even the memory of fishing fades.
“It’s the river that made us who we are,” he said. “If it dies, so do we.”
