IN BANGLADESH, one of the least examined yet most consequential inequalities lies in the realm of land. The country鈥檚 legal and constitutional commitments speak clearly: women are entitled to the same rights as men, including rights to property and inheritance. Yet this promise rarely translates into reality. The gap between what the law states and what women actually experience remains wide, leaving half the population effectively excluded from the very asset that shapes economic security, social standing and long-term resilience. Land in Bangladesh is not merely a commodity; it is an anchor of identity, a measure of stability, and a pathway to power. And despite the constitutional guarantee of equal rights, women are largely shut out of ownership and control.
To understand this contradiction, one must begin with the legal landscape. Article 28(2) of the Constitution affirms that women shall enjoy equal rights with men in all spheres of the state and public life. Core legislation that governs ownership, such as the State Acquisition and Tenancy Act of 1950 and the Registration Act of 1908, does not differentiate between male and female claimants. Bangladesh is also a signatory to Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women, obliging it to ensure equality in property and inheritance. The problem, however, lies in the personal laws that govern inheritance for different religious communities. Under Muslim inheritance law, daughters inherit half the share given to sons; under Hindu law, the situation is even more restrictive, often leaving women, especially widows and unmarried daughters, with limited or no claim. Successive governments have hesitated to reform these discriminatory provisions, fearing backlash from religious groups. As a result, constitutional guarantees remain aspirational rather than actionable.
But even for women who do have a legitimate claim, asserting that right becomes an entirely different battle. Land administration in Bangladesh reflects entrenched gender biases that are woven into routine bureaucratic processes. Women鈥檚 names often vanish during mutation or registration, not because the law excludes them, but because the officials handling these tasks, almost always men, prefer to uphold familiar norms rather than legal entitlements. Families, too, exert pressure. In rural areas, women are routinely persuaded, or coerced, to relinquish their share of ancestral land in the name of family harmony. A 2022 survey by the Bangladesh Bureau of Statistics shows the consequence: in climate-vulnerable regions, women own only 6.89 per cent of agricultural land, compared with men who hold over 93 per cent. National estimates suggest that women represent barely four per cent of registered landowners. Even women who cultivate land, contribute to agricultural production, or sustain household economies do so without formal ownership, leaving them economically active yet legally invisible.
Civil society organisations have attempted to narrow this gap. Ain o Salish Kendra, BRAC, BLAST and other groups have worked to expand legal literacy, provide support during registration, and assist women seeking to reclaim inherited land. Their work has made a difference, but it cannot override the social resistance embedded in rural communities or the bureaucratic barriers entrenched within land offices. Corruption, procedural ambiguities and administrative indifference continue to discourage women from pursuing their rights. When land officers treat male inheritance as the unspoken default, laws lose their meaning long before they reach implementation.
Yet the deepest obstacle remains cultural. Land in patriarchal societies like ours is more than a source of income, it is a symbol of lineage and authority. The idea that land should pass from father to son is so deeply embedded that many women themselves internalise it, believing that claiming their share would disrupt family ties or betray cultural norms. Those who do assert their rights often face hostility from male relatives, exclusion from family functions, and community-level pressure to withdraw their claims. Informal justice mechanisms such as shalish often reinforce these biases, framing women鈥檚 demands as either unnecessary or destabilising. The outcome is predictable: a lifetime of labour in fields that women neither own nor control, and a cycle of dependence that reaffirms their marginalisation.
Changing this dynamic requires reforms that go beyond drafting new policies. The state must confront the inequities embedded within personal laws and work towards a uniform inheritance framework that reflects the constitutional promise of equality. Administrative reforms are also essential: land offices need simplified procedures, stronger oversight, and the inclusion of more female officers at the local levels where these decisions take shape. Most importantly, women鈥檚 names must be included by default in land records, inheritance documents and registration forms. Without administrative recognition, legal rights remain hollow.
But legal and bureaucratic reforms alone will not shift the ground beneath people鈥檚 feet. There must be sustained social awareness campaigns that challenge the stigma around women鈥檚 land ownership. Communities need to understand that a woman inheriting land is not a threat to family unity but a step towards economic stability and justice. Land ownership strengthens women鈥檚 ability to access credit, build livelihoods and contribute to long-term resilience, especially in a climate-vulnerable country where land security is intertwined with survival. A gender-disaggregated national land database would also help to track progress and hold authorities accountable. Annual reporting on women鈥檚 land ownership should become standard practice, reinforcing that this is not a private family matter but a national development priority.
The broader implications are undeniable. When women own land, households are more stable, children have better educational outcomes and communities benefit from improved productivity. Women with control over land are less vulnerable to violence, more capable of negotiating within the household and less dependent on male relatives for shelter and survival. Without land, however, women remain at the margins of economic life, active yet unrecognised, essential yet excluded.
Bangladesh has made undeniable strides in women鈥檚 health, education, labour force participation and political representation. But land rights remain a frontier where change has been painfully slow. Equal rights on paper mean little if they are not enforced in practice. For millions of women, land is not merely a legal asset; it is a claim to dignity, security and autonomy. Until women can inherit, own and control land on equal terms, the story of gender equality in Bangladesh will remain incomplete.
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Md Nahid Hasan Chowdhury Rifat is a law student at Bangladesh University of Professionals.
