Rohingya Vision

A Bangladeshi Town in Human Trafficking’s Grip

A Bangladeshi Town in Human Trafficking’s Grip
July 23
17:25 2015

SHAH PORIR DWIP, BANGLADESH — From his shop overlooking a pier on this island near the border with Myanmar, Mohammad Hossain watched the human smuggling business swell.

Over the years, the trickle gradually grew into an unending stream. The late-night flashes of light on the water, signaling that the coast was clear to launch boats, multiplied until they looked like summer lightning. That the boats were not carrying fish was an open secret here: One day, when a trawler sank on its way out, the water was littered with floating human bodies.

The people of Shah Porir Dwip — fishermen, shopkeepers, police officers and shadowy bosses — were all drawn in, as participants or concerned observers, to a multimillion-dollar people smuggling business that sent roots deep into this impoverished corner of Bangladesh.

The outside world came to know of the smuggling this spring, through a series of awful revelations. Shallow graves were discovered in makeshift camps in Thailand, near the Malaysian border, where smugglers abused and starved their captives, demanding as much as $3,000 from their families for their release. Boats were abandoned in the middle of the ocean, packed with people on the edge of starvation.

People described an operation that, in its early years, promised great rewards, prompting thousands to set aside traditional livelihoods like fishing and salt mining for smuggling. But as the scale of the operation expanded, agents began to use high-pressure tactics to pack a larger number of boats, recruiting Bangladeshi fortune-seekers as well as innocent Rohingya fleeing persecution in Myanmar.

Migrants who had made the journey to Malaysia began to target relatives and friends, in the style of a pyramid scheme, pocketing large fees as new bodies were fed into the network. Stories of abductions became common. The operation grew, blanketed in silence.

Watching it became a burden to the shopkeeper, Mr. Hossain, who spoke to the migrants for a few minutes as they bought packets of cookies on their way to houses where they would hide, waiting for the signal to go to the boats. His sundries shop was their last stopping point before the journey, and it weighed on him.

“I told some of those young men, ‘Don’t go,’ ” he said in a recent interview. “I told them many boats sank on the way. But they didn’t listen. They had a dream. They wanted to earn money abroad.”

The story of the smuggling route is also the story of trapped people.

Most of the people fleeing were Rohingya, members of a Muslim ethnic group who years earlier fled Myanmar, where the government considers them intruders from Bangladesh. But their lives were little better in Bangladesh, one of the world’s poorest countries, where many of their neighbors despise them and also consider them outsiders.

Shah Porir Dwip, a coastal town of around 60,000 people, is at the mouth of the Naf River, which separates Bangladesh from the misty mountains of Myanmar. It was across this mile-wide river that hundreds of thousands of Rohingya poured into Bangladesh in 1992, fleeing a campaign of arson, rape and extrajudicial killing by the Burmese Army.

It was one of these stateless people, a Myanmar-born Rohingya fisherman named Tazer Muluk, who in 2000 discovered a way out, a sea route to Malaysia that could be made in less than a week, the Bangladeshi police concluded in an investigation last year. By last year, the network had become sprawling, including at least 600 smugglers and 1,600 low-level agents and boatmen.

Mohammad Ataul, a 26-year-old Rohingya who had grown up in one of the camps, occupied the bottom spot among 15 tiers of agents, the one whose job it was to persuade people to make the journey. His pitch began with simple math: A day’s work in Malaysia would bring three times as much as the 300 taka, or about $4, that undocumented laborers can earn in Bangladesh. Very little persuasion was necessary, he said, and safety was never the primary concern.

“There is no guarantee on the sea,” he said. “I would tell them, if you don’t die in the sea, you will end up having a job.”

In a year and three months, he and his partner recruited about 400 people, splitting a fee ranging from around $40 to $65 per head, so, as he put it, “if I can get more people I earn quite good money.” Three days before each journey, the agents routinely delivered a per-head payment to the police or border guards.

“Everybody gets money out of it,” he said. “Everybody knows.”

It is difficult to say exactly when the business turned predatory, but Abdul Hamid, a pharmacist in the town of Ukhia, about 40 miles north of here, recalls a sultry night last summer when, just as he was closing his storefront, a terrified man dashed in and threw his arms around Mr. Hamid’s legs.

Mr. Hamid had noticed some fluctuations in his business: He was selling unusual amounts of sleeping pills and surgical tape. Now, he gazed down at the man at his feet, his back and shoulders bruised, who said he had escaped smugglers as they tried to force him into a boat. When Mr. Hamid began to ask around, he was surprised at how many local men had disappeared; kidnapped, Mr. Hamid surmised.

“When we came to know the picture, it was extremely scary,” said Mr. Hamid, who began to organize rallies to condemn human smuggling. “It was not trafficking. It was like selling and buying people. Like animals.”

Activists monitoring trafficking in the Andaman Sea, west of Thailand and Myanmar, also noticed a leap in volume that began at the end of 2013. If one or two large boats had been making the journey earlier, now there were as many as 25 large ships at one time, said Chris Lewa, the director of the Arakan Project.

The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees calculates that 25,000 migrants left the Bay of Bengal in the first three months of this year, double the number who left in the corresponding periods of 2014 or 2013.

“The boats got bigger, the sailing season got longer, the stakes and the money got higher,” said Joe Lowry, a spokesman for the International Organization for Migration.

Now, the traffickers were looking for new ways to fill up their boats. Mr. Ataul’s duties grew to include extortion, a payment option for those unable to afford the $2,500 for the journey. These people, he said, would pay a small amount upfront, then be held in a camp in Thailand while the smugglers sought ransoms of about $2,500 to $4,000 from their families. About a third of the families were able to come up with the money, he said; the rest of the migrants were starved and abused, sometimes for months.

“I feel bad about it,” he said. “I started not knowing that this was going to happen.”

Note: Changes have been made, The New York Times is not responsible for these.

Source: The New York Times.

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