I’ve been in the cattle business since 2021, and never in the past five years have I witnessed such brazen obstruction and harassment as I did this Eid-ul-Adha season.

What should have been a peak time for ethical business turned instead into a lesson in how state neglect and street-level extortion can choke legitimate livelihoods.

Our farm, one of several in the Bosila area of Dhaka, is licensed by the City Corporation and registered with the Department of Livestock Services. Like many others in this city, we don’t just sell cattle–we pay rent year-round, employ local workers, and contribute taxes and VAT to the government.

Our mission has been straightforward: to meet Dhaka’s rising demand for animal protein through transparent and regulated farming practices.

But this Eid, everything changed.

Despite a clear circular from the Department of Livestock Services stating that the hasil–a market levy traditionally charged at temporary cattle markets–would not apply to animals sold directly from farms or online platforms, we were met with coordinated defiance.

Market operatives and enforcers acted as if the rule didn’t exist. They not only stopped our vehicles mid-route, but in a particularly humiliating incident, they tore up our delivery receipts in public view.

Let me be clear: the temporary cattle market in Bosila, erected just before Eid, is not affiliated with us. In fact, it damages private plots and has no permanent infrastructure. Yet, the operators of this makeshift setup felt entitled to demand fees from us–farms that operate year-round, independently and legally.

When our buyers couldn’t come to us, we sent the cattle to them. Still, we were stopped. In Bosila. In Mirpur. Even in Bashundhara at 2 a.m.

And it wasn’t just obstruction. It was intimidation. Market operatives insisted that unless we paid hasil, our cattle wouldn’t move an inch. This was extortion, plain and simple. Call it what you want, but to us on the ground, it felt like Bangla goondaism dressed up in local market vests.

Desperate, we turned to the army. Only after appeals from various levels of authority did they intervene. A late-night meeting was hastily arranged between the market committee and farm owners.

The solution? A ticking clock: we were given a narrow window of time to complete all our deliveries. If we missed it, we’d be subject to the same illegal levy as everyone else.

And so we scrambled. We pleaded with customers. We loaded cattle onto trucks in the dead of night. Some deliveries were made at 3 a.m.-- anything to avoid further confrontation.

Before the army camp meeting that finally broke the deadlock, I couldn’t help but think: cattle smugglers along the border likely move their animals with more ease than we did, operating legally in the capital.

The irony stings–a nation that prides itself on its entrepreneurial youth humiliates them when they try to build something within the law.

A frustrating mess

Around us, other farmers echoed the same frustration. “This is why educated, energetic young people give up on doing business in this country,” someone muttered. “If they start, they don’t last.”

And how could they, when even legitimate efforts are met not with support but with obstruction– from both the old guard and the so-called new?

That said, the deeper failure lies not only with the muscle-flexing “incoming powerful”-- whose behavior needs no further introduction to the public but with the silent institutions meant to uphold order.

Chief among them: the City Corporation. If they had enforced their own rules, none of this chaos around hasil would have unfolded.

The political powerbrokers may be circling, but they haven’t fully descended yet. Their appetite for petty extortion is still in its infancy. The outgoing regime, for all its flaws, had long since moved on to grander schemes–megaprojects, inflated tenders, billions siphoned quietly.

Compared to that scale, shaking down a few small-scale farmers was beneath them.

Still, if peace in small business means tossing a few infrastructure projects to the next batch of predators-in-waiting, perhaps it’s a price worth paying–if only to keep them distracted enough to let people like us breathe.

But let’s step away from the cynicism for a moment and examine the mechanics of this mess.

The hasil system wasn’t always so predatory. At its core, it was designed as a toll collected by leaseholders who manage temporary cattle markets–a necessary structure, given that these markets are financial ecosystems of their own.

Traders arrive from across the country with cash-filled bags. There are security concerns, logistical needs, and organizational costs. In theory, the government should manage all this.

In practice, it leases out the markets to local powerbrokers, who, in exchange for large sums paid to the city, are permitted to charge hasil on each sale.

Outside Dhaka, this system functions with a rough sort of balance. The toll is modest–400 to 600 taka per cow–and in return, traders often receive some level of service. Leaseholders, acting as informal regulators, protect distant traders, mediate disputes, and maintain order. Local sellers know not to overstep.

There is an equilibrium, however imperfect.

But Dhaka is a different beast. Here, the lines blur. Permanent farms like ours, which operate year-round and outside the infrastructure of these pop-up markets, are suddenly treated like tenants of a space we never used–simply because we exist in the same zip code.

That’s where the logic crumbles. And where the City Corporation’s silence becomes not just incompetence, but complicity.

But the heart of the problem lies with Dhaka’s temporary cattle markets during Eid-ul-Adha. Here, the hasil–set at a staggering 5% of each sale–becomes not just a toll but a form of sanctioned exploitation.

For a cow worth 100,000 taka, that’s 5,000 taka siphoned off without justification. It’s an open secret, inflicted year after year on ordinary residents and small traders alike, right under the noses of media outlets and civil society actors.

Curiously, the agencies tasked with protecting consumers leap into action when a 5-taka item is sold for seven. Yet they remain conspicuously silent when a billion-taka shadow economy grows unchecked around these seasonal markets.

The underlying reasons

In reality, these markets have long ceased to function as public infrastructure. They’ve become political turf–high-value leases doled out to ruling party affiliates not just for revenue, but for something more important: control.

These contracts serve as a show of force, a way to mobilize cadres and reinforce political hierarchy during a festival that commands national attention.

During the years when Awami League-backed contractors dominated, market leases fetched astronomical prices–5, even 10 crore taka. That scale of spending made sense only to those flush with funds from inflated infrastructure projects and unchecked public procurement.

The goal was never profit from cattle sales. It was about keeping the party machine oiled.

Now, even as the political winds shift, the City Corporation clings to those absurdly high lease expectations–as if we’re still living in the era of limitless liquidity. But the new players aren’t operating from the same balance sheets.

Seventeen years of exclusion have left them hungry, not rich. They can’t afford to lose 4 or 5 crores on a lease. So they try to squeeze every possible taka from every possible cow–or vendor, or hotel, or restaurant–in and around the market.

That desperation is what fueled the anarchy this year.

In Bosila, we weren't the only victims. Even small grocers and restaurant owners in the vicinity were strong-armed into paying extortion money. The rule of law was absent. The City Corporation stood by, indifferent, as chaos spread in its name.

And yet, as the country debates reform–of governance, of politics, of economics–one institution remains out of frame: the City Corporation. Despite its enormous influence over the day-to-day lives of millions, no one is talking about structural reform there. It’s long overdue.

This annual Eid-ul-Adha anarchy is not inevitable. It is the result of poor planning, unchecked political influence, and an absence of rational policy. Permanent farms and temporary markets are not enemies. They can–and must–coexist under a clear, enforceable framework.

We don’t want another year of midnight cattle deliveries under threat of extortion. We want clarity. We want fairness. We want a policy. So here are a few proposals.

First, we must scale back the mushrooming of unnecessary temporary markets. Bosila offers a perfect example. Sandwiched between two large, established markets–Madhu City and Gabtoli–it never needed another one crammed into its narrow lanes and residential plots.

Yet one pops up every year, causing gridlock, economic loss, and tension. Multiply that by dozens across Dhaka, and the picture becomes clear: two-thirds of these markets serve no purpose beyond rent-seeking.

Everyone loses–except the City Corporation, which gains from lease payments while washing its hands of what happens afterward.

If we truly want a smarter, more just Dhaka, we must start by reforming the institutions closest to our streets. And this time, let’s not wait until another Eid to have the same fight all over again.

If the authorities were serious about reform, they’d stop throwing up temporary cattle markets in the middle of housing areas and instead expand and modernize the permanent ones.

Take Gabtoli, Dhaka’s largest and most established cattle market. Rather than strengthening its infrastructure to accommodate rising demand, the market’s area has been reduced–shrinking to a third of its original size in the name of road expansion.

It’s a symbol of how poor planning undercuts potential solutions.

A fresh planning

What Dhaka needs isn’t more makeshift markets wedged between residential walls, but a rethinking of how these events are hosted.

The city already has examples of purpose-built spaces for large gatherings–why not designate a few of them, like the old or new trade fair grounds or even Suhrawardy Udyan, as seasonal cattle markets?

Temporary structures can be erected without disrupting neighborhoods. What we must stop, immediately, is the reckless leasing of public spaces and roadways to the highest bidder.

More importantly, permanent markets must be placed under competent, professional management–and the hasil must be slashed. If the goal is to reduce the price of beef for the average consumer, it makes no sense to impose hasil at every transaction point.

Many of us unknowingly consume meat that has been taxed multiple times on its journey from farm to table. How can prices fall when every step in the supply chain is burdened by unofficial tolls?

The City Corporation and government must begin to treat cattle markets not as short-term revenue generators but as essential public services–no different from schools, hospitals, or the railways.

During Eid-ul-Adha, these markets become central to one of the country’s most sacred traditions. Yet instead of supporting this process, authorities impose punitive levies and prioritize short-term gain over long-term stability.

The hypocrisy is hard to ignore. If the state can allocate thousands of crores of taka to build mosques in police stations or fund other religious projects, why can’t it resist the urge to extract a few crores in lease revenue from an event like Eid-ul-Adha?

This is not just a question of economics, but of values. Are we here to facilitate a religious practice or to exploit it?

The consequences are not theoretical. The cattle that populate these markets don’t come from warehouses–they come from marginal farmers and small farm owners across the country, people who raise livestock year-round, often with limited resources and little institutional support.

Without them, there are no cows to sell. No goats to sacrifice. No market to lease.

And yet, these very farmers and traders are the ones harassed, blocked, and extorted when they arrive in Dhaka.

This year, it wasn’t just our farms in Bosila that suffered. Vehicles bringing cattle from distant districts were detained outside the Bosila market, forced to pay bribes just to proceed. Some were delayed for hours. Others had to pay simply to avoid confrontation.

The message was clear: legal business meant nothing without someone to “authorize” your movement.

If this system continues unchecked, the consequences will be unavoidable. City authorities and market leaseholders may still be able to set up a patchwork of roadside bazaars every Eid. But soon, there may be no cattle left to fill them.

Pinpointing the faultline

To avoid that future, we must protect the backbone of our supply chain: the marginal farmer and the ethical producer. Provide them security, infrastructure, and access—and they will provide the nation with livestock.

But if we continue treating them as obstacles instead of contributors, we will all pay the price. Quite literally.

Ultimately, we need more than scattered circulars and last-minute interventions. What this sector demands–and deserves–is a clear, unified policy.

One created not in isolation by bureaucrats or party loyalists, but through dialogue among all stakeholders: leaseholders, the City Corporation, the Department of Livestock Services, farm owners, and the farmers themselves.

Once established, that policy must be enforced consistently–not rewritten every Eid depending on who holds the megaphone.

It’s unacceptable for one government agency to promise us exemption from hasil for farm-based cattle sales, while another authority turns around and bans all transactions within an eight-kilometer radius of a temporary market. That is not governance; it’s dysfunction.

If the government truly wants to develop this sector, its departments must first align on whether their priority is long-term growth or short-term gain. At the very least, we deserve clarity. We deserve consistency.

Let me reiterate what should be obvious: farms, markets, and farmers are not adversaries. They are parts of the same ecosystem. Farm owners raise and sell cattle, sometimes directly, sometimes through markets.

Markets, in turn, depend on these farmers to supply their very existence. Neither can survive without the other. During Eid-ul-Adha, we don’t need tension–we need cooperation, coexistence, and mutual respect.

Yet this sector doesn’t exist in a vacuum. In South Asia, livestock is more than economics–it’s often been caught in the crossfire of political agendas. For decades, cattle policy in our region has been shaped not by local needs, but by pressure from across the border.

Instead of supporting local development, authorities here have too often echoed the politics of Delhi, enforcing restrictions that suppress rather than nurture this essential sector.

The result? Repressive policies disguised as regulation. Bureaucratic harassment dressed up as management. A critical source of protein, livelihood, and rural income treated as a liability instead of a national asset.

That must end.

To the current government, I say this not just as a plea, but as a warning: this sector has reached a turning point. Bangladesh is no longer dependent on its neighbor for livestock.

We have achieved self-sufficiency through the hard work of farmers and entrepreneurs across the country. But without reform–without protection–this fragile progress could collapse.

The cattle industry stands as a symbol of what grassroots entrepreneurship can achieve in Bangladesh. It deserves not to be strangled by political interference, but safeguarded through thoughtful, people-centered policy.

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Sagor Hasnath is a former government employee turned-entrepreneur. He is the CEO of Ahlan Agro.