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A state-owned conspiracy What is the human cost of a covert government policy—backed by donors—to shut down Bangladesh’s biggest jute mills by holding back wages for months and then closing the mills and unleashing brutality on the workers when they rise in protest. Tanim Ahmed and Tapos Kanti Das find out. photo by Andrew Biraj What is the human cost of a covert government policy—backed by donors—to shut down Bangladesh’s biggest jute mills by holding back wages for months and then closing the mills and unleashing brutality on the workers when they rise in protest.    Tanim Ahmed and Tapos Kanti Das find out.    They came in waves and they came for blood. They got their vengeance. When the police raided the workers’ colonies of the jute mills in the Khalishpur industrial belt where workers had been protesting the non-payment of wages, the goal was to inflict maximum damage. The workers at three jute mills including the Platinum Jubilee Jute Mills in Khalishpur had not been paid for over 10 weeks. Since April 17, when the protests started, the workers clashed several times with the law enforcers who tried to suppress their demonstrations. In the clashes that followed, a few hundred workers were injured. Matters took a turn for the worse when a section of the demonstrators set a nearby police box ablaze and enforced a shutdown at the locality.    That was on April 20. The next morning, security agencies raided the residential colonies. They stormed into the living quarters of mill employees, hauling out the males, beat up the women and sometimes even children.        The Raid    Khalilur Rahman, who has worked as a cop winder at the Crescent Jute Mills since 1983 had just returned from a two-week vacation in his village in Jhalokathi, Barisal. Before he reached his own quarters, Khalil stopped by at his brother’s, another employee at the same mill, to divide the vegetables he had brought in the afternoon. That was when the police came.    ‘They stormed into the houses looking for men and took away whoever they could find,’ said Khalil’s sister-in-law. ‘They took away my son also but released him later that night after an acquaintance, now in the police force, went to the station and requested the officials to release the students.’    Abdullah al Mamun has only begun to sprout a moustache. He has just taken his Dakhil exams as a student of the Crescent Dakhil Madrassah. Mamun was hauled out of his house along with Khalil and beaten all the way to the police van awaiting them further away. ‘They took me to the Khulna Metropolitan Police station. They were nicer at the station and did not beat any of us there. I was released that night at about 10:30pm, but my uncle was sent to jail.’    The law enforcers arrested 72 people from the colonies that afternoon and picked up another seven the following night. Among these 79, six workers were under treatment at the Khulna Medical College Hospital’s prison cell till April 29.    Khalil sat on the floor of the prison cell, with a plastered arm. ‘I was not even here when the demonstrations were going on. Besides, people who were involved in the movement mostly stayed away from home at that time. So the police ended up beating and arresting people like me who had no role in the demonstrations.’    Khalil has six children to feed and is desperate for his wages that he needs to keep the family running. ‘I am in debt up to my ears. I must pay off at least part of that with the dues that the management is paying or the local shop owners will not give me anything on credit.’ He continues to mumble inaudibly.    ‘He has been acting strange with all the beatings and worrying over his family,’ says Abdur Rahman, another inmate whose palm had been fractured when he tried to show a document as proof of his recent tumour surgery. ‘I had only come home after removing a tumour on my forehead at the Jharna Clinic at Palpara and still had my head bandaged.’    The law enforcers presumed Rahman had been injured in the forehead during clashes with the police. ‘They would not listen to me at all. I tried to show them the papers and they hit on my palms with their truncheons before forcing me out of the house.’    Rahman’s father was also a worker of the jute mill when times were better for public sector. ‘My brothers and I went to the school at Crescent, but I did not study for long. See I was not particularly bright.’    Rahman soon joined the mill and has only recently become a permanent hand. Both his parents are sick and depend on him entirely for their survival. ‘I have other siblings but they cannot look after my parents. Some have married and have a hard time coping with their families as it is anyway.’    Still under treatment in the prison cell, Rahman wonders how his parents would be faring. He is also worried over the fate of the state owned mill.    ‘You think they will really shut down the mill for good, like Adamjee? You know I have only become permanent after a long time of temporary work just last year. I will not get any benefits if the mill shuts down. The others might get some benefits but I will be penniless.’    Rahman has patiently worked as a temporary hand for several years with the hope of become permanent and earning well given that the government pay-scale is rather decent compared to the pay at the private companies. ‘Besides this job has a lot of benefits too. I think they could have made the mills profitable if only the authorities were sincere. Out mills could have been gilted with gold if they ran them properly.’        Golden Fibre    It had been four days since the workers of the Platinum Jubilee Jute Mills first took to the streets when law enforcers raided mill colonies on the afternoon of April 21. The jute millers at Platinum had not been paid since the week of December 14, 2006. At other mills workers had not been paid for up to eight months. The call for work stoppage soon caught on at the neighbouring state owned jute mills. One by one workers of Crescent, Star and Peoples’ jute mills joined their comrades on the streets. By April 19 all four mills had ground to a halt with the workers demanding their outstanding wages.    The plight of the jute mills is not at all unfamiliar to the workers. They have had to take to the streets repeatedly in order to prevent the government from shutting down the state owned jute mills or privatising them in the past decade.    Although mismanagement, corruption and inefficiency have plagued the jute mills for long, privatisation of the public jute mills gathered momentum since 2002 when the largest public enterprise, the Adamjee Jute Mill, was privatised under the World Bank’s Jute Sector Adjustment Plan. Part of the funds received under the programme was spent in shutting down the mill for good. Since then shrinking the public sector had been consistently on the BNP-led government’s agenda till they relinquished power this January.    It has been reported that Saifur Rahman, finance minister with the past BNP-led government was more intent on paying big to close down these mills instead of allocating smaller sums to run them. It has become a general perception that the jute mills are loss making enterprises and require heavy subsidies, draining valuable government resources and depriving other sectors from the monetary allocations.    But contrary to that perception it is regularly pointed out that the jute mills could be run profitably given revival of natural fibre and the rising global demand for it, which has also led to an increase of the global market prices. Even the officials of the management believe that the mills could be run profitably on a strictly commercial basis.    The Indian jute sector is cited as a common example where export of jute goods has marked considerable rise with new jute mills opening up. It is also commonly alleged that the international financial institution that funded the closure of Adamjee and consistently recommends shutdown of other state owned enterprises, had actually funded the revival of jute and resumption of operations in old jute mills that had remained shut for years.    According to the zonal coordinator of the Bangladesh Jute Mills Corporation, Shamim Ahmed, also the general manager of the Crescent Jute Mills, the 22 public sector jute mills would require some Tk 300 crore per year to run. ‘The support would have to continue for several years till the mills could become profitable.’    Hafizur Rahman Bhuiyan, a politburo member of the Workers Party of Bangladesh, also a former leader of the workers union of Platinum Jubilee Jute Mills, said it had been possible to run the jute mills profitably between 1996 and 2001. He says there is no reason that the jute industry in Bangladesh should not run profitably if India can do it.    ‘Our jute is stronger. It also looks much better than Indian jute. But nowadays Indian jute seeds have come into Bangladesh and one can see the difference instantly.’    Hafiz says the government, egged on by the multilateral lending agencies, especially the World Bank, only considers mills as a commercial sector and does not consider the other benefits that the mills provide to entire economy. ‘Neither does the government consider welfare effects of the public sector jute mills. When they government shut down Adamjee, there was this estimate that the mill caused losses of about Tk 1,200 crore annually. But there were also estimates that the mill contributed to revenues of some Tk 12,000 crore every year.’    There is an exceptionally large proportion of the population involved with jute and no democratic government should ignore the interests of almost a quarter of the population, explains Ashraf Hossain, the local lawmaker of the Khalishpur Industrial Belt, also a whip of the BNP-led government.    Deriving his support base from labourers and workers, and himself involved with labour movement earlier in his political career, Ashraf also believes that the jute mills could surely be run profitably. ‘Jute, besides tea, leather and shrimp is such a sector where there is full backward linkage and where we have full expertise in every step of value addition and processing.’    ‘But due to wrong priorities set, in part by the economists and policy makers, and in part by the lending agencies, successive governments have never really nursed these sectors sincerely,’ said Ashraf. He said indicating the lending agencies, ‘They are actually trying destroy this sector and the government is helping them do it without considering the disaster it would mean for the local populace. That is rather unfortunate.’        A state owned conspiracy    Mohammad Hossain has been working at the Crescent Jute Mills since 1974 when he joined as a child labour and financed his own education with his earnings. ‘I began with a weekly wage of Tk 34 and change. At that time my lodging and food would cost about Tk 7 or so, and the rest I saved or spent for school.’    Hossain studied at the Crescent Secondary School and passed his secondary school exam from there but did not study any more. He is currently the assistant general secretary of Crescent’s workers union the designated Collective Bargaining Agent—or trade union—of the mill.    Other workers point towards his house complaining that it was the union leaders like Hossain who had ruined the mills in collusion with the management.    ‘Officially the unions do not deal with money at all. Sure, there are instances when the workers’ representatives have taken bribes or colluded with the management but one cannot really generalise just like that.’    Defending himself, Hossain says, ‘I myself have had to borrow from my brother-in-law who lives in Dhaka, and that is without groceries. I have been running on credit and very soon they will ask for payment, I am sure.’    Hossain claims that he has been threatened with termination before when he tried to speak up in the interest of the mill. ‘There is mismanagement at different levels. Once I had three stores sealed and proved that management had procured lower grade jute as higher grade. It was obvious that they were getting bribes from the suppliers but nothing really happened to any of the officials.’    According to Hossain and most other people, including workers and those in the management, there are some inherent problems that could effectively reduce the losses in the mills if not make them profitable.    Apparently, the jute mills corporation, agency overseeing management of all the mills, does not sanction funds during the peak harvest season of jute between end July and August when the rates are typically low. But the funds are released at a time when prices have appreciated and the best quality jute have already been exported in raw form to India.    ‘Let’s say at the beginning of the season raw jute costs a maximum of Tk 600. But the mills are compelled to buy the low quality jute for Tk 900 or Tk 1,000 per maund,’ said Hafiz as a hypothetical example. ‘Now for Platinum alone we need some 600,000 maunds for the mill to run the entire year. Even if you buy a third of that in November, the company would lose Tk 6 crore solely on purchase. Then of course there is the issue of buying low quality jute for higher prices.’    ‘As prescribed by the World Bank, the government agreed to scale down the operations of the jute mills. Currently they run at 30 per cent of their original capacity, which is illogical and counterproductive because the government is reducing its scope of revenue while the fixed expenditures remain the same. So it is only natural that losses would increase,’ said Ashraf.    MM Akash, an professor of economics at Dhaka University, speaking on behalf of a citizens’ group—a coalition of several non-governmental organisation involved with human and labour rights activism—said, ‘We do not subscribe to the World Bank’s idea of downsizing in the name of development. This is only a ploy to ensure that the jute industry is relocated elsewhere outside Bangladesh.’    Ashraf said it was quite obvious that the authorities were looking for opportunities to shut down the mills. ‘How can one expect poor labourers to go on without paying them for months at a time?’    He said, ‘It is only natural that sooner or later these workers would not take it any longer and call for work stoppage till their dues are met.’    It appears that the ploy has worked well. Many a worker has lamented and said they could not bear it any longer. They would rather the mills were shut down permanently meeting all their dues.    Ashraf went on, ‘You see even the current “lay off”—that is the official term for suspending operations—is illegal. The laws clearly state that workers must be paid their due earnings for the entire period of the lay off before the announcement and there are certain criteria for which the government might resort to such an action.’    Apparently quelling tension over non-payment of due wages and salaries is not among the acceptable reasons. According to the rules every permanent workers is supposed to get half their basic salary and full house rent for the first 45 days of suspending operations at the jute mills. For the following the 15 days they will get a quarter of their basic wages and full house rent, following which the government would have to announce whether the mill is going to be shut down permanently. The Platinum Jubilee Jute Mills have been ‘laid off’ for 45 days while three others, Crescent, Star and Peoples have been laid off for 21 days each but none of the workers have been paid their dues. The government only agreed to pay a third of the workers’ outstanding wages that had not been paid up to 32 weeks.    ‘But even that would be of little help since many of the workers have sold off their wage slips for much less than their worth. In fact the management officials encourage slip trading to further imperil the workers,’ said Ashraf.        Giving the slip    Mill worker Abul Kalam ate a modest breakfast at a roadside restaurant near the gates of the Platinum Jute Mills on April 26. His unkempt hair, a much wrinkled t-shirt all point out that he has not yet changed but come to the mill gate to find out whether there would indeed be some payment that day. Abul had reached Khulna that very morning.    He had fled to Barisal a few days ago when the law enforcers began to arrest workers of the mills suspecting them of their involvement in the protests. This time he had not been beaten. ‘But they—the law enforcers—cracked the back of my head the last time we launched a movement here,’ Abul says with a wrinkle of a smile at the corner of his mouth.    Having become a permanent worker at Platinum seven years ago, Abul earns just over Tk 1,000 a week. Both of Abul’s daughters go to the primary school run by the mill authorities.    But the payment is not going to help me at all, he says clutching his weekly wage slips. ‘I sold them a long time ago because I have not been paid since December 12. So I sold the slips for 85 per cent their value. Some others I sold for even 60 per cent their value. I have two slips I could cash in today. One is worth Tk 533 another Tk 990 but I will only get 533 since I sold the other one for about Tk 600 and have to hand over the money to the moneylender once I get paid.’    Abul’s mother had died for lack of treatment about three years ago when it was a similar situation. ‘It was the same problem, I had not been paid for several weeks and could not arrange for her treatment.’    Abul’s father was also a worker at Platinum but resigned a long time ago and has not been able to do much since then. Abul’s only brother also works at the mill but in another department.    ‘My father had come here last month for treatment but I could not tell him that I did not have any money so I lied to him saying I could not find the doctor that he had been referred to. So he went back to Barisal.’    Abul’s father is too old to work and depends on his sons for a living. ‘He will be able to eat only if I send some money from here. But I do not even have enough for myself.’    Abdul Khalek has been working the looms for the last 10 years. He joins the conversation from another table at the small restaurant, evidently frequented by workers, overhearing the long conversation with Abul.    Khalek has also sold off his slips. ‘I should get about Tk 18,000 tk. I have already sold them for about Tk 11,000 when times were hard.’    ‘There was no other way either. One of my sons goes to school. The others used to study too, but they have either failed or were never interested. But this one, he is in class VIII, is quite bright.’    Khalek would like his son to go all the way and wants his son to be regular in his studies. ‘But how can I do that? You see one has to have some reasonably good nutrition before going to school. There are some expenses simply to keep up his studies. I cannot afford that either.’    Khalek has told his wife and other children that they should scrimp and save all year. ‘I told them, “If needed eat less, but we must save some money for his tuition and education.” That must be ensured at all costs.’    This movement for their salaries is not really a demand as they are saying in the papers. ‘My salary is my right. I have earned it because I have worked for it. How can that be a demand? A demand is when I ask for something more. Say you pay me Tk 10 an hour, and I ask for Tk 12 per hour. Now that would be a demand.’    About why the jute mills are running into such trouble, Khalek says, ‘I do not quite remember the year, but I distinctly remember Khaleda [Zia, the immediate former prime minister] announcing that 54 state owned enterprises, that are not performing well, would be gradually privatised if they do not perform well.’    He repeats ‘54’ point to his ear and declares, ‘I remember it, because I heard it with my own ears. Ever since then there has been consistent problems here with at the jute mills and we have been making losses. I am a small employee at a jute mill. One such as I should not make such observations, but I think there is a certain link between the declaration and our losses, I tell you.’ ‘But they beat my little angel’ Three-year-old Begum was at home when the police stormed in. She was watching television sitting on the sofa of the congested bedroom. When the police began to shout and curse at the inmates of the house Begum began to cry, which further angered the police. They hit her on the cheek and she fell down as they beat her with their truncheons.    Begum’s real name is Tuktuki. Her grandfather Mohammad Ilias Hossain calls her ‘Begum’ affectionately. Her curious eyes turn away when she is asked if it hurt when the policemen beat her. She silently points to her cheekbone, throat and chest where her skin is still blue. Begum meekly says, ‘But why did they beat me?’ before running off outside to play.    Ilias Hossain, a charge hand of the mechanical department at the Crescent Jute Mills, was about lying on his bed at about 5:00pm on the afternoon of April 21 when the law enforcers raided the residential colonies of Crescent. He has been working at the mill since 1972 and is a member of Crescent’s employees’ provident fund trustee board as a representative of the workers.    Ilias is also a diabetic. It has been years since he took to the streets with other workers and labourers. ‘He is one of those types who stays away from all kinds of trouble and minds his own business. With a reputation for honesty, he has been on the trustee board for seven years now, a neighbour points out.    Ilias is currently under treatment at the prison cell of the Khulna Medical College Hospital. He was shown arrested in the cases that the police lodged against the workers of the four jute mills at Khalishpur industrial belt. There are two beds while four others share a mat on the floor.    Ilias remained quiet, lying back on his dirty pillow in the dimly lit prison cell, for most of the time his colleagues—five others are also under treatment and all are from Crescent—spoke of their ordeal and police brutality before they sent the workers to jail. Ilias is also a diabetic and takes insulin injections, which the hospital has not yet given him. ‘It is true they are under treatment but it is only for the injuries not for other ailments they have,’ says his daughter Shanto.    ‘Oh I did not get beaten up. See my wife and daughter hugged me tightly and the batons fell on them. I am hurt but it is nothing particularly serious,’ says Ilias covering the scars on his shin with his lungi. The others protest and declare Ilias has had his fair share of police treatment, or he would not be at the prison cell in the first place. Ilias brushes off the allegation.    ‘Once they came in and tried to haul me out of the house, my daughter and wife tried keep them from it. I do not mind the beating so much but the manner in which they spoke to my wife and daughter, how they hurled their abuses really broke my heart,’ says Ilias.    ‘These were young boys, almost as old as my daughter. They could be my sons. I felt like my son was calling me a whore and beating their sister,’ says Rehana Begum, Ilias’ wife as she breaks down in tears. She shows her arms that still bear marks of the beatings even after a week.    Ilias and Rehana have married off their daughter with the son of another worker of the jute mill. ‘But the two live separately because they work at different places. My daughter has become a postal operator at the Gopalganj General Post Office while the husband works in Dhaka. So my little Begum lives with the two of us,’ said Ilias.    Ilias’ son, Shameem will take his Higher Secondary Certificate exams in May and lives with his father. He had an overall grade of C in his Secondary School exams. ‘But I prepared really well this time and hoped to do much better. But everything is closed down and even the coaching centres are not running,’ said Shameem.    He was hiding under the bed that his father was resting on, when the police came in. ‘I watched with horror as they beat my mother and sister. But I did not get out because they were looking for young men to round up at that time. My father never allows me to go out when there is any kind of unrest at the mill.’    When the law enforcers beat Begum, Ilias thought it would be much better for him give in and take whatever the police meted out. ‘I could not bear it when they began to hit my little angel. She is only a child. It is as if they do not have children themselves, or how could they hit her like that?’    Ilias’ wife had come to visit him the other day and said Begum was not eating properly. ‘She always takes her food with me. My daughter stays away and my wife is busy with the household most of the time, so she spends most of her time with me,’ says Ilias.    ‘I only want to say this one thing, I want punishment of the brutes that beat my little Begum. It will remain in her memory forever that the police, who are the law enforcers, had beaten her when she was only a child,’ Ilias went on. He kept repeating clutching his chest, ‘Those brutes beat my little angel and I could not do anything.’