M A Hossain,
There's a peculiar ritual that plays out each year in Bangladesh as the holy month of Ramadan approaches—a ritual that has little to do with spiritual preparation and everything to do with economic anxiety. The middle class tightens its belt. The poor calculate impossible budgets. And somewhere in the shadows, a syndicate of merchants sharpens its pencils, ready to exploit faith itself for profit.
This year, government officials promised us that it will be different. They point to import figures: 40 percent more essential commodities than last year. They cite stockpiles: sugar, cooking oil, chickpeas, onions, dates—all supposedly abundant. The Trading Corporation of Bangladesh assures us. The Ministry of Commerce backs them up. On paper, there is no crisis.
But here's the uncomfortable truth that history teaches us, again and again: in Bangladesh, having goods in warehouses and having them reach ordinary citizens at fair prices are two entirely different propositions.
Consider the logic of it. If scarcity were truly the problem, then abundance would be the solution. Yet we've witnessed this farce before—ample stocks sitting in godowns while markets spiral into chaos, prices climbing not because supplies have vanished but because a few well-connected operators have decided they should. The invisible hand of the market, it turns out, sometimes wears brass knuckles.
The pattern is numbingly familiar. A merchant here whispers about "shortages." A trader there holds back stock for a few strategic days. Suddenly, panic purchasing begins. Prices jump. Government officials scramble to respond, often too late, always reactive rather than proactive. By the time mobile courts raid a few warehouses for cameras, the damage is done—the syndicates have made their money, and ordinary families have paid the price.
What makes this year's governmental assurances particularly interesting is the context. Dr. Muhammad Yunus's administration earned considerable goodwill during last year's Ramadan by achieving something that sounds almost mundane but felt revolutionary: they kept the lights on. During iftar and sehri—the times when families gather to break their fast and eat before dawn—electricity flowed uninterrupted. In the suffocating heat of a Bangladeshi summer, this wasn't a luxury; it was a lifeline. The market remained relatively stable, too, which only amplified the sense that competent governance was possible after all.
This created expectations. Dangerous expectations, perhaps, because they suggested that the dysfunction we'd normalized for years wasn't inevitable but chosen—or at least tolerated.
Here we must draw on historical parallels, because Bangladesh's predicament during Ramadan isn't unique. Consider Weimar Germany's experience with hyperinflation in the early 1920s. The fundamental issue wasn't merely monetary policy gone haywire; it was the complete collapse of public trust in institutions meant to safeguard economic stability. When people lose faith that their government can or will protect them from predatory economic behavior, markets don't just become unstable—they become theaters of anxiety where every transaction carries existential weight.
Bangladesh isn't experiencing hyperinflation, thankfully. But the psychological mechanism is similar: when families approach Ramadan uncertain whether they'll afford basic items for religious observance, they're not just worried about budgets. They're confronting a fundamental question about whether their government functions for them or for the connected few who manipulate scarcity like marionette strings.
The current administration faces what we might call the "last mile problem" of governance. Import statistics and warehouse inventories represent the easy part—the quantifiable, trackable aspect of policy. Ensuring those goods actually reach neighborhood markets at reasonable prices? That requires something far more difficult: the political will to confront powerful business interests, the administrative capacity to enforce regulations, and the sustained attention to make monitoring meaningful rather than performative.
And here's where things get genuinely challenging. Post-election political environments anywhere tend toward distraction. New governments, or governments fresh from electoral contests, naturally focus on consolidating power, managing coalitions, and distributing patronage. Market supervision seems tedious by comparison—until it isn't, until the crisis hits and suddenly everyone wonders why nobody was paying attention.
The reduction of import duties on dates offers an illustrative case study. It's the kind of technocratic adjustment that sounds impressive in press releases: "Government Cuts Tariffs to Ensure Affordable Ramadan." But the crucial question remains: will those tariff reductions translate into lower retail prices, or will middlemen simply pocket the difference? Without robust monitoring mechanisms and genuine consequences for price manipulation, good policy becomes merely good intentions.
This brings us to the uncomfortable reality that markets in developing economies often function less like the idealized competitive systems of economics textbooks and more like extractive political arrangements. The Bangladeshi market for essential commodities isn't characterized by perfect competition; it's characterized by oligopolistic control, with a handful of players able to coordinate behavior precisely because enforcement is weak and political connections run deep.
Breaking that pattern requires more than assurances. It requires visible, consistent action. Mobile courts that don't just raid warehouses during crises but maintain continuous pressure. Pricing transparency that makes manipulation immediately obvious. Most importantly, it requires a demonstrated willingness to prosecute and penalize those who treat public necessity as private opportunity.
The parallel to electricity provision is instructive. Last year's success in maintaining uninterrupted power during Ramadan didn't happen by accident. It required planning, resource allocation, and prioritization. The same principle applies to market management: it's entirely achievable, but only if treated as the political priority it deserves to be.
What makes Ramadan particularly significant in this context is its temporal compression. Unlike general inflation that builds gradually, giving families time to adjust, Ramadan creates a concentrated demand shock. Households need specific items—dates, chickpeas for frying, cooking oil, sugar—all at once. This makes the month simultaneously a test of supply chain competence and a potential bonanza for those inclined toward exploitation.
The government's test, then, isn't really about whether warehouses are full. It's about whether the state possesses sufficient institutional strength to ensure that abundance translates into accessibility—that having enough means people can actually get enough.
Public trust is a fragile commodity, harder to stockpile than sugar or oil. Last Ramadan bought the current administration considerable goodwill. This Ramadan will reveal whether that was a sustainable achievement or a fortunate anomaly.
Citizens aren't asking for miracles. They're asking for competence: markets that function, prices that remain within reach, electricity that flows when families gather. These are modest expectations, which makes it all the more damning when they're not met.
The real question facing Bangladesh this Ramadan isn't whether there's enough food in the country. It's whether there's enough political will to ensure that food reaches those who need it at prices they can afford. Past experience suggests skepticism. Present assurances invite hope. The coming weeks will reveal which instinct was wiser.
For now, we wait—and watch—as the oldest test of governance unfolds once more: can the state protect its citizens from those who would profit from their piety?
M A Hossain, political and defense analyst based in Bangladesh. He can be reached at: writetomahossain@gmail.com
This article published at :
1. The Asian Age, BD : 03 February, 26
