WINTER in Bangladesh arrives not with the harshness of snow or biting wind, but with a quiet enchantment. Mist settles gently over fields, sunlight dances on dew-covered grass and nature awakens with a soft, golden glow. Yet it is not the chill in the air that truly marks the season鈥檚 arrival, it is the return of guest birds from distant northern lands. They arrive like a quiet festival of nature, crossing continents without passports or borders, seeking only warmth, water and a safe sky. These migratory birds, travellers from Siberia, Mongolia, the Himalayas, Russia and beyond, transform Bangladesh鈥檚 haors, wetlands, riverine islands and floodplains into living canvases. Their presence is poetry: wings slicing through morning fog, gentle calls echoing across still waters, flocks rising like waves of freedom against the winter sky.
In truth, these birds are citizens of the Earth. Unbound by human walls or politics, they follow ancient routes written not on paper but in instinct. They arrive in Bangladesh between late October and February, when their frozen homelands can no longer nourish them. Here, they find refuge 鈥� open water, food-laden wetlands and safe places to rest after journeys spanning thousands of miles. Pintails, mallards, teals, ruddy shelducks, white-fronted geese, spot-billed ducks and purple herons gather across Tanguar Haor, Hakaluki Haor, Hail Haor, the Sundarbans and coastal estuaries. Children watch in awe, the elderly recall winters past, and nature lovers stand motionless, as wings beat softly against the stillness of dawn. Their arrival is more than a seasonal occurrence, it is a return of life, a reminder that Earth is shared.
But the value of guest birds goes far beyond beauty. They are indispensable to ecological balance. They feed on insects and control pests, contributing to agricultural health without chemicals. They disperse seeds, helping regenerate wetlands and forests. They purify water bodies by feeding on algae and aquatic organisms. They are silent custodians of the environment, labouring without recognition, without reward. To lose them is not only to lose splendour; it is to dismantle a fragile ecological web upon which humans themselves depend.
And yet, despite their grace and contribution, guest birds are hunted, trapped and traded in many regions of Bangladesh. The arrival of winter, once a time of wonder, has become for some the start of hunting season. Nets are strung over lakes, traps hidden in reeds and firearms raised against wings that have travelled across continents. Their meat is sold in local markets or offered as 鈥榚xotic delicacies鈥� in restaurants. This is not merely a crime against wildlife, it is a moral failure. To kill migratory birds is to betray hospitality, to wound nature when it arrives at our doorstep in trust. It is to sever an ancient bond between human and sky.
Once, Bangladesh鈥檚 wetlands offered sanctuary to tens of thousands of birds each winter. Vast flocks would rise over haors, casting shadows like drifting clouds. Today, such scenes are becoming scarce. Wetlands have shrunk under the pressure of urban expansion, land grabbing and unplanned development. Rivers are choked by pollution, pesticides poison aquatic life, and unregulated tourism disrupts nesting grounds. Fish and other food sources for the birds are vanishing. Climate change has altered rainfall, dried wetlands and shifted migratory routes. The silence creeping across the skies is not accidental, it is human-made.
The law recognises the gravity of this crisis. The Wildlife (Conservation and Security) Act 2012 prohibits the hunting, capturing or trading of guest birds. Yet laws are only as strong as their enforcement. In many haor regions, illegal hunting continues openly, sometimes under the protection of influential individuals or local authorities. Fines are rare, arrests rarer. The absence of accountability emboldens poachers, turning wetlands into killing fields rather than sanctuaries. Bangladesh does not lack legislation, it lacks will.
The extinction of guest birds would not merely erase a species from memory. It would unravel ecosystems. Without migratory birds, pest populations would surge, damaging crops and fisheries. Wetland biodiversity would decline, affecting fish, amphibians and plants. Rural livelihoods dependent on fishing, farming and eco-tourism would suffer. When birds disappear, the silence is not just in the sky, it is in the economy, in culture, in identity.
Protecting guest birds demands more than sympathy; it calls for coordinated action. First, their habitats must be preserved. Wetlands should not be treated as wastelands to be drained or filled for real estate. Pollution from industry, pesticides and untreated sewage must be curbed. River restoration and haor conservation should be national priorities, not seasonal concerns. The government must enforce existing laws strictly, no poacher, restaurant or wildlife trader should operate with impunity.
Second, local communities must be partners in conservation. The people living near migratory bird habitats are the first line of defence. If they understand the ecological and economic value of these birds, they become protectors rather than participants in their decline. Eco-tourism, when managed responsibly, can provide alternative income, hire local youth as bird guides, train them in wildlife photography, create community fund programmes for conservation. In Tanguar Haor, such initiatives are already working: hunting has dropped, local youths now serve as guardians of the skies instead of hunters. This is the model to follow.
Third, protection of guest birds must be integrated into national culture and education. These birds are woven into the literature, songs and poems of Bengal. Rabindranath Tagore, Jibanananda Das, Sukanta Bhattacharya and many others wrote of their freedom, flight and symbolism. They are part of our memory as a nation. To allow them to vanish is to erase a living page of cultural heritage. Children must learn early to value biodiversity, not as abstract lessons, but through visits to wetlands, school projects, storytelling and nature clubs. A generation taught to protect life will not turn to violence against it.
The media, environmental organisations and civil society also bear responsibility. Awareness campaigns, investigative journalism, documentaries and community activism can raise public consciousness and pressure authorities to act. Silence protects poachers; voices protect birds. Bangladesh has shown it can mobilise citizens for social change, why not for the protection of the skies?
Guest birds are more than seasonal visitors, they are a test of our character as a nation. Their arrival is a gesture of trust; their decline is a reflection of negligence. On a winter dawn, when wings carve soft paths through mist, we are reminded that nature still believes in us. But if we continue with indifference, the skies will one day grow silent. No wingbeats, no calls, no poetry in the air, just absence.
To protect these birds is to defend the idea that the Earth belongs to all forms of life, not just humans. It is to affirm that compassion, not cruelty, defines civilisation. It is not solely the duty of government; it is the moral responsibility of every citizen. Let us choose to be guardians, not predators. Let us ensure that wetlands echo with the sound of wings, not gunshots. For one day, humans may no longer walk this Earth, but the sky will still remember those who chose to protect its travellers.
Guest birds are not merely heralds of winter, they are mirrors of our humanity. And how we treat them will determine what remains of that humanity in the generations to come.
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Md Shamim Mia is a student of Fulchhari Government College.
