For six years, I have lived inside the realities of Bangladesh’s cattle trade.

In that time, I have done business through four Eid seasons under the Hasina government, one under the Yunus administration, and one under the BNP era now taking shape.

A disclaimer. I am not writing this as a political theorist or television commentator, but as someone who has stood knee-deep in mud at cattle markets, negotiated with transporters at midnight, calmed furious customers before Eid, and watched truckloads of livestock become bargaining chips in the hands of petty extortionists.

From that lived experience, I say with genuine disappointment that the last two years have been more painful for ordinary businessmen than the years we spent under Hasina’s rule.

Under Hasina, corruption existed on a colossal scale. Nobody can deny that.

Powerful figures amassed unimaginable wealth, and stories of money laundering became routine conversation. Local political operatives grew rich beyond comprehension.

Student leaders tied to ruling power acquired fortunes that ordinary citizens could not dream of earning in several lifetimes. Yet, despite all of that institutional corruption, there remained one strange reality for small and medium traders like us: we could conduct our day-to-day business without constantly being hunted by roadside extortionists.

We did not have to stop at every checkpoint to feed a chain of hungry hands. We were not repeatedly harassed over the transport of cattle from our own farms.

The corruption at the top was monstrous, but those at the bottom were at least restrained by the abundance enjoyed by the people above them.

The present situation feels different. The people now dominating the field level resemble starving mosquitoes left outside a mosquito net all night.

The mosquitoes inside the net drink until they become heavy and sluggish; by dawn they no longer crave more blood. But the mosquitoes left outside remain desperate, thin, restless, and aggressive.

Their hunger never ends.

That is exactly how today’s local operators behave. Every truck is an opportunity. Every animal is a source of extraction. Every businessman is prey.

Bitter experiences

Right beside our cattle farm in Bosila sits an official cattle market.

The road we use for transporting cattle passes directly through their hasil collection point. For years, farms transporting their own cattle were exempt from market tax. This was backed by official government circulars clearly stating that cattle sold directly from private farms are not subject to hasil.

Previously, once the market authorities saw a farm vehicle or recognized a registered farm operation, they would let us pass without interference.

That arrangement collapsed last year. The people controlling the market no longer cared about rules, circulars, or legal exemptions. Even when official documents were shown to them, they displayed open contempt.

In one instance, they reportedly tore up the circular in front of us, as if government directives themselves were meaningless pieces of paper beneath their authority. The message was unmistakable: on paper the state may exist, but on the ground they are the law.

Last Eid, the situation became so unbearable that we were forced to contact the nearby army camp for intervention. Only after repeated appeals were we granted conditional permission to move cattle out of the area.

Even then, on the final day before Eid—the most critical delivery period for cattle businesses—we suddenly faced restrictions that prevented us from transporting animals.

We were told deliveries had to be completed beforehand, regardless of practical realities. Imagine the absurdity of running a seasonal business where the peak trading period is effectively blocked by arbitrary local dominance.

We spent those final days in complete chaos. Customers were begged to cooperate. Deliveries continued until three in the morning. Workers remained awake through exhaustion, mud, rain, and panic just to ensure buyers received their cattle before roads became inaccessible.

Smaller farms suffered heavily, but the large agro-farms carrying hundreds or even thousands of cattle faced catastrophic losses.

Businesses that invested crores into livestock found themselves trapped by local syndicates more powerful than official regulations.

No respite despite preparations

After enduring such humiliation, many of us tried to prepare early this year.

We ran from office to office, meeting officials at the Department of Livestock Services and the City Corporation. Once again, the authorities issued circulars reaffirming that hasil could not legally be imposed on cattle sold directly from farms.

On paper, everything looked orderly and reassuring. Inside government meeting rooms, sensible decisions were made. But outside those rooms, in places like Ghatarchar and Bosila, none of those decisions mattered.

The state disappears the moment its directives encounter local muscle power.

Recently, while transporting cattle purchased from another farm, our truck was stopped and detained for hours. The animals remained stranded while negotiations dragged on endlessly.

Finally, after pleading and humiliation, we paid two thousand taka simply to secure release of the truck. People may say, “It’s only two thousand taka.” But businessmen understand the deeper issue. It is not the amount that burns—it is the insult.

When hard-earned money is extorted through intimidation despite legal compliance, every taka feels poisonous.

Yesterday brought an even uglier experience. Our butchers travel from Panchagarh every Eid season. Like many working-class men trying to maximize a difficult journey, they brought a few goats with them in their pickup truck to earn some extra profit.

Unfortunately, the vehicle mistakenly entered Chandrima Housing instead of Bosila and became trapped near an unauthorized cattle market that had sprung up there this year without City Corporation approval.

The operators forcibly redirected the pickup into the market and demanded that the goats be sold there under their control.

These men had traveled overnight. They spent the entire day stranded in rain, mud, and floodwater with drenched clothes and exhausted bodies. The goats themselves were repeatedly soaked under Dhaka’s relentless downpour.

They could neither leave nor sell freely. They were effectively hostages inside an illegal market. Out of desperation, I finally called 999 and was connected to Mohammadpur Police Station.

Instead of assistance, we were met with irritation, as though we ourselves had committed the offense. Eventually, a Sub-Inspector arrived and “resolved” the matter by extracting seven thousand taka before allowing the goats and workers to leave.

Institutionalized extortion

This is the condition businessmen now face: extortion institutionalized beneath the language of settlement, mediation, and management.

I am not someone who enjoys public complaining. In business, I have always preferred operating quietly like any ordinary trader. I rarely invoke social status, titles, or influence to seek advantages.

Nor do I believe in emotional victimhood politics. But silence also becomes cowardice when deterioration becomes impossible to ignore.

I speak because I once believed deeply that the BNP represented a business-friendly political culture. For years, businessmen commonly repeated the idea that commerce flourishes under BNP governments, that investment grows, and that traders can operate with confidence.

Yet since this new transition began, I have seen little evidence supporting that reputation. Instead, local extortion networks appear increasingly emboldened.

After surviving Covid, political instability, repeated elections, inflation, and social unrest, businessmen were finally hoping to rebuild with long-term confidence.

Instead, they now encounter endless obstruction from field-level actors who function like predators feeding on exhausted enterprises.

I had opportunities to leave Bangladesh and settle abroad. Many people in my position did exactly that. But I stayed because I genuinely believed Bangladesh was one of the best countries in the world for business if stability and fairness could be ensured.

I believed that anyone unable to build a business here would struggle anywhere else. Through eleven years of entrepreneurship, that optimism survived every challenge. Today, for the first time, I felt shaken.

My appeal to the BNP leadership is simple: do not destroy this remaining trust.

Do not create a reality where businessmen begin saying, “We were better off before (during Hasina’s time).”

For those of us who supported political change and believed in the promise of a better Bangladesh after the July Movement, no sentence could feel more painful, humiliating, or tragic than that.

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