M A Hossain,
There is a peculiar pattern in modern crises: the line between real scarcity and perceived scarcity blurs faster than policymakers can respond. Bangladesh’s current energy predicament sits precisely on that fault line. It is, at once, a crisis born of geopolitics and one manufactured—quietly, incrementally—by human behavior.
To understand where we stand, one must begin not in Dhaka, but in the narrow waters of the Strait of Hormuz. History has taught us that chokepoints define outcomes. When Egypt nationalized the Suez Canal in 1956, global trade trembled. When oil embargoes followed the Arab-Israeli war in 1973, Western economies learned the hard way that energy is not merely a commodity—it is leverage. Today, with tensions in the Middle East threatening Hormuz, we are watching a familiar script unfold, albeit with new actors and higher stakes.
For Bangladesh, the vulnerability is structural. A nation that once relied entirely on domestic gas has, since 2018, tethered its economic engine to imported liquefied natural gas. Roughly one-third of its gas now arrives from Qatar and Oman, a dependency that seemed pragmatic in times of stability. It looks precarious in times of war.
The numbers tell a sobering story. Domestic gas costs a fraction of imported LNG—Tk 3 per cubic meter versus nearly Tk 55. Yet necessity has overridden prudence. When global prices spike, Bangladesh pays. When supply routes falter, Bangladesh waits. And when both happen simultaneously, Bangladesh strains—financially, industrially, socially.
But geopolitics alone does not explain the queues at petrol pumps or the “no fuel” signs appearing across cities. If anything, those are symptoms of a deeper, more uncomfortable truth: scarcity is being amplified from within.
Consider the psychology of panic. During the COVID-19 pandemic, shelves emptied not because supply chains had collapsed overnight, but because consumers acted as if they had. Hoarding became rational behavior in an irrational moment. The same dynamic is now visible in fuel markets. Motorcyclists visiting multiple stations, households storing petrol in containers, opportunistic traders diverting supply into black markets—these are not responses to absolute shortage. They are accelerants of perceived shortage.
In economic terms, this is the anatomy of an “artificial crisis.” Supply may be strained, but it is not absent. Yet demand surges irrationally, distribution falters, and the system buckles under pressure it was never designed to withstand.
Government responses, to be fair, have not been idle. Rationing measures, fuel cards, the deployment of monitoring officers at stations—these are necessary interventions. Price stability, maintained through subsidies, reflects a political commitment to shield citizens from immediate pain. But here lies the uncomfortable question: are these measures treating the disease, or merely its symptoms?
History offers a cautionary note. In the 1970s, many governments attempted to control oil crises through price caps and administrative controls. The result, more often than not, was distortion—shortages worsened, black markets flourished, and inefficiencies multiplied. Bangladesh risks treading a similar path if structural weaknesses remain unaddressed.
Take storage capacity. At present, the country holds fuel reserves sufficient for barely 8 to 12 days. In a volatile world, that is not a buffer; it is a gamble. Advanced economies maintain strategic reserves covering months, not days. The difference is not merely technical—it is strategic. Without adequate storage, every disruption becomes a crisis. With it, disruptions become manageable.
Then there is the question of distribution. Reports of fuel shortages amid claims of adequate national reserves point to coordination failures. In an era defined by data, the absence of real-time monitoring systems is more than an administrative gap; it is a vulnerability. Transparency in supply chains is no longer optional—it is essential.
Yet even if these immediate issues are resolved, a larger challenge looms: the structure of Bangladesh’s energy economy itself.
The reliance on LNG is not merely expensive; it is inherently unstable. Global markets are volatile, subject to geopolitical shocks far beyond Dhaka’s control. The Russia-Ukraine war should have been a warning. When LNG prices soared to unprecedented levels, Bangladesh was forced to retreat from the spot market, leading to widespread load shedding. That lesson, it appears, has not been fully absorbed.
Meanwhile, the economic consequences are already visible. Gas supply shortfalls—demand exceeding 4,000 mmcf against supply below 2,700—are constraining industrial output. The ready-made garment sector, which accounts for over 80 percent of exports, is operating under severe stress. Production has dropped in some cases to 30 or 40 percent of capacity. Exports are declining. Costs are rising. This is not merely an energy issue; it is an economic one with far-reaching implications.
And yet, within this crisis lies an opportunity—one that Bangladesh has been slow to seize.
Renewable energy is often discussed in abstract terms, as a distant aspiration. It should not be. The economics have shifted decisively. Solar power, once prohibitively expensive, is now among the cheapest sources of energy globally. With advances in battery storage, its intermittency is no longer an insurmountable obstacle.
The potential is staggering. Experts suggest that Bangladesh could generate up to 50,000 megawatts of solar power using just 1 percent of its agricultural land. This is not a utopian vision; it is a practical pathway. Countries far less endowed with sunlight have made the transition. The question is not feasibility, but will.
Diversification, too, must become more than a policy slogan. Reliance on a single region or route—be it Hormuz or any other—invites vulnerability. A resilient energy strategy requires multiple sources, multiple routes, and multiple technologies. It requires, above all, a shift in mindset: from short-term crisis management to long-term risk mitigation.
None of this, however, absolves society of responsibility. Crises reveal character, not just capability. Hoarding fuel in times of uncertainty may seem prudent at the individual level, but collectively it is destructive. Black marketeers exploiting scarcity are not merely breaking laws; they are undermining social trust. Enforcement matters, but so does civic behavior.
In the end, Bangladesh’s energy crisis is not a single problem with a single solution. It is a convergence of external shocks and internal weaknesses, of policy gaps and behavioral excesses. Addressing it requires more than administrative action; it requires strategic clarity.
The lesson from history is clear: energy security is not achieved in moments of crisis. It is built in the years before them. Bangladesh now finds itself at a crossroads—reacting to events it cannot control, while still possessing the agency to shape what comes next.
The choice is stark. Continue managing crises as they arise, or begin constructing a system resilient enough to withstand them. In that choice lies the difference between vulnerability and stability—and, ultimately, between stagnation and progress.
This article published at :
1. New Age, BD : 31 March, 26
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