MAY Day, or International Workers’ Day, carries the memory of profound struggle, sacrifice, and the eternal aspiration for dignity among labourers. Rooted in the labour movement’s demand for an eight-hour workday, its origin traces back to the Haymarket Affair in Chicago in 1886. Workers who protested against exploitative working conditions faced brutal suppression; several lives were lost, and many were forever scarred by the injustices they endured. From this blood-stained beginning, May Day emerged as a global symbol of resistance, hope and the relentless fight for workers’ rights.
However, the true spirit of May Day often gets diluted amidst rituals and rhetoric. In Bangladesh, a country where labour is the cornerstone of national development, May Day has become increasingly symbolic rather than substantive. Grand rallies, corporate sponsorships, colourful processions, and political speeches mark the day, but the conditions of countless workers remain unchanged. What should be a day of reflection and action often becomes a spectacle, dominated by elites and capitalist interests who benefit from the very structures that perpetuate labour exploitation.
The irony is deeply unsettling. Workers in Bangladesh — garment factory employees, rickshaw pullers, tea garden labourers, brick field workers, farmers, sweepers, domestic workers — form the backbone of the economy. Yet, on a day meant to honour their sacrifices, they are conveniently rendered invisible. While the plight of garment workers occasionally enters the national discourse, an even larger section of informal workers remains unacknowledged. These workers, lacking legal protections, union representation, or access to social services, toil endlessly for survival, their struggles systematically ignored by mainstream narratives.
Rickshaw pullers ferry passengers under the blistering sun and relentless rain, earning meagre wages without healthcare, retirement plans, or safety nets. Tea garden labourers, remnants of a colonial legacy, live in near-bonded conditions, surviving on starvation-level wages. Brickfield workers inhale toxic dust and fumes daily, sacrificing their health for the construction of urban dreams. Farmers, despite feeding the nation, are chained by middlemen, volatile markets, and climate uncertainties, often spiralling into crippling debt. Sweepers, relegated to the fringes of society, sustain urban hygiene but live in segregated communities, facing social ostracism. Domestic workers — primarily women and children — labour in private homes, often subjected to physical and mental abuse, without any recourse to justice.
These marginalised groups constitute the hidden engines of Bangladesh’s progress. Their exclusion from the narrative of workers’ rights raises troubling questions about the integrity of our May Day celebrations. Can a nation truly honour labour while sidelining its most vulnerable workers? Can economic growth be sustainable when its very foundation is built on the exploitation of millions?
The glittering reports of Bangladesh’s economic achievements — booming exports, soaring remittances, and infrastructural growth — mask a grim reality: growth has come at the cost of labour exploitation. While the GDP figures might impress on paper, they fail to capture the deep-rooted inequalities that scar society. If economic development benefits only a select few while millions remain trapped in poverty and precarity, then such growth is not just incomplete — it is unjust.
The July Uprising of 2024 reveals the depth of discontent that festers beneath the surface. Sparked initially by a demand for a logical reform to the recruitment system in government jobs, the uprising pulled tens of thousands of commoners who were disgruntled with rising food prices, economic grievances and structural inequalities. It was a powerful assertion that development without dignity is unacceptable. The uprising envisioned an egalitarian society where labourers would not be treated as expendable commodities. Yet, decades later, the vision remains unfulfilled. Exploitation has not only persisted but evolved under new guises, and discrimination against informal workers continues unabated.
Today, Bangladesh’s capitalist structures thrive on the commodification of labour. Workers are seen as replaceable, cheap inputs rather than human beings with rights and aspirations. Corporations often engage in token gestures of corporate social responsibility while simultaneously lobbying against labour reforms. Minimum wage laws, where they exist, are poorly enforced, and many workers are paid below subsistence levels. Labour welfare policies are frequently designed to protect the interests of business owners rather than the labourers themselves.
The industrial sector, with its formal labour leaders and government collaborations, may celebrate May Day with parades and platitudes, but the informal sector remains outside the purview of such attention. For the majority of Bangladesh’s workers, May Day is not a celebration; it is a stark reminder of systemic exclusion.
The question, then, is urgent and unsettling: Can Bangladesh achieve genuine progress while marginalising its workers? The answer is clear. True development cannot coexist with deep, systemic injustice. An economy that neglects the dignity, welfare, and rights of its workers breeds resentment, instability, and unrealised potential. Without comprehensive inclusion, economic prosperity will remain hollow and precarious.
What is needed is a radical rethinking of labour rights and protections in Bangladesh. First, labour laws must be broadened and strictly enforced across all sectors, including the vast informal economy. Every worker, regardless of industry or social status, must be guaranteed fair wages, safe working conditions, and access to healthcare and education. Social safety nets must be expanded to protect workers from the vulnerabilities of market fluctuations and personal misfortune. Specific attention must be given to historically marginalised groups — sweepers, domestic workers, rural farmers, and seasonal labourers — who face compounded disadvantages based on class, caste, gender, and location.
Second, unionisation efforts must be encouraged, not suppressed. Collective bargaining is essential to empower workers and balance the overwhelming power of employers. Workers must have the freedom to organise and advocate for their rights without fear of retaliation.
Third, civil society, the government, and the private sector must move beyond ceremonialism. They must collaborate to create genuine platforms for dialogue and reform. Policies must be formulated based on the actual needs and voices of workers, not merely to satisfy international image-building or corporate public relations.
Fourth, education and public awareness campaigns must redefine societal perceptions of labour. The dignity of work must be emphasised at every level, breaking down the social hierarchies that devalue certain forms of labour. Respect for every worker, from the rickshaw puller to the garment worker to the domestic maid, must be ingrained in the national consciousness.
Finally, May Day itself must reclaim its original spirit. It must serve as an annual reckoning — a day not only of remembrance but of renewed commitment to action. Banners and slogans are meaningless unless they translate into policies that uplift the hands that build the nation.
Until these transformations occur, May Day in Bangladesh will remain a paradox: a day meant to honour labourers but observed in ways that continue to exclude and marginalise them. The memory of the Haymarket martyrs, the aspirations of the July Uprising, and the silent sacrifices of millions of unnamed workers deserve more than ceremonial parades. They deserve justice, recognition, and a nation that values every hand that contributes to its progress.
In truth, only by acknowledging, protecting and empowering the forgotten workers Bangladesh can move towards a future of genuine prosperity dignity, and solidarity.
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Mohammad Jashim Uddin is an associate professor of English at Northern University Bangladesh.
