While the government enforces a 22-day seasonal ban to protect spawning mother Hilsa, a keystone species of Bangladesh's aquatic heritage, the rivers Padma and Meghna in Munshiganj have become epicentres of brazen defiance.
Under the cloak of night, illegal nets sweep the waters with impunity; by sunrise, the contraband is proudly displayed in bustling floating markets along the riverbanks.
The ban, designed to ensure the species' survival and future abundance, is being systematically undermined not by isolated offenders, but by an entrenched, open-air trade operating in plain sight.
A seasonal sanctuary turned free-for-all
The ban, typically imposed during the monsoon breeding season, prohibits the catching, transporting, and selling of Hilsa, especially gravid females, to allow them to spawn undisturbed.
In return, registered fishermen receive modest food support, usually 40 kg of rice per family, as compensation for lost income.
But in Munshiganj, this conservation measure has collapsed into a theatre of contradictions.
As nightfall transforms the Padma and Meghna into lawless zones, local administration halts patrols after dark, citing security risks in the riverine chars shifting sand islands prone to erosion and crime.
This vacuum is instantly filled by an estimated 200 or more unlicensed fishermen who deploy fine-mesh nets, gillnets, and even illegal electric fishing gear to trap Hilsa indiscriminately.
Hundreds of maunds (one maund ≈ 37 kg) of mother Hilsa are reportedly hauled from the rivers each night across key hotspots: Char Abdullah, Bakchar, and Kalichar in Sadar; Korhati, Shahinhati, and Paikara in Louhajang; Bhagyakul and Baghra in Srinagar; and Char Beherpara in Tongibari.
By dawn, the spoils are ferried to temporary markets set up on char lands and riverbanks. Makeshift stalls, strung with tarpaulins and bamboo poles, spring up like seasonal festivals.
On a recent visit to Baghra Bazar in Srinagar, this reporter witnessed over 50 engine-powered boats shuttling between chars and markets, while more than a hundred buyers -- men and women alike -- crowded the muddy pathways, haggling over glistening silver fish. Eight to nine larger boats remained anchored offshore, acting as floating depots. Middlemen, some linked to established fish markets in nearby towns, rushed to the ghats to buy bulk catches, often reselling at a markup within hours.
A market thriving on illegality
The pricing reveals the scale and demand. Early-morning buyers pay up to Tk 2,000 per kg for premium 1kg Hilsa -- more than double the usual market rate -- while afternoon prices dip to Tk 800 as supply floods in. This volatility underscores a thriving black-market economy that bypasses official channels entirely.
Local residents confirm this is unprecedented. "We've had informal sales before," said one longtime Baghra resident, "but never like this -- so open, so massive. It feels like a festival, not a ban."
Fishermen, caught between survival and sanction, express resignation. A fisherman from Bakchar, who refused to be named, explained: "The government gives rice, yes -- but how far does that go for a family of five? We risk everything because we have no alternative. We fish quietly, listen for police boats... but if we don't catch Hilsa, we starve." His words echo a systemic failure: conservation policy without adequate livelihood support breeds non-compliance.
Institutional silence and public outcry
Critics accuse authorities of willful neglect. "The Fisheries Department has completely failed this year," said Gazi Kausar, a community member from Bhagyakul. "It's not just about a few rogue fishermen -- it's an organised operation. And yet, where are the night patrols? Where is the coordination with the police or coast guard?"
District Fisheries Officer Golam Mehedi Hasan maintains that enforcement continues. "We've filed cases, imposed fines, and sent violators to jail," he said. "But some so-called 'saintly' fishermen" -- a local idiom implying outward piety masking wrongdoing -- "are deliberately flouting the law."
Yet on the ground, evidence of enforcement is scant. No joint night operations have been reported in weeks. Meanwhile, the ecological cost mounts. Scientists warn that removing breeding females during peak spawning season could collapse local Hilsa populations within a few years, threatening not just biodiversity but the livelihoods of over 500,000 people in the Hilsa value chain.
A conservation crisis in plain sight
The situation in Munshiganj is more than a regulatory lapse -- it's a stark illustration of the gap between policy and practice. Without 24-hour surveillance, community engagement, and viable economic alternatives for fishers, seasonal bans risk becoming performative gestures.
As the sun rises over the Padma, the floating markets buzz with commerce, not contrition. The government's well-intentioned ban drifts downstream -- ignored, evaded, and erased by the daily rhythm of survival and profit. Until enforcement matches ambition, the fate of the mother Hilsa -- and the future of one of Bangladesh's most cherished natural resources -- hangs in the balance.