Under the Shadows of Power: How Land Grabbing Devours Moulvibazar’s Hills, Forests, Wetlands and Home

Once the serene heart of Bangladesh’s tea country, Moulvibazar now hides a darker truth — of forged deeds, political impunity, and a quiet war over land.

Sangram Datta: Under the green undulation of the Patharia Hills, where the wind carries the scent of tea and rain, another kind of story has taken root — one whispered in fear, written in forgery, and protected by power.

Moulvibazar district, once known as the Tea Capital of Bangladesh, was a district of gentle hospitality — its tea estates stretching into the mist, its forested hills sheltering ethnic minorities and wildlife alike. But as land prices soared and power became a commodity, its soil turned into something far more dangerous: a prize.
From the Patharia Hills and Lawachara Reserve Forest to the wetlands of Hail Haor and the slopes of Sreemangal, an intricate syndicate of land brokers, political patrons, and local enforcers has seized vast tracts of forest, khas, and ancestral land.

It is a system so entrenched that it spans parties and governments — an unholy alliance of greed and silence.

The Shrinking Green: From Forest to Fortune

According to data collected from various local and national sources, the Patharia Hill Forest of Moulvibazar once covered 1,152 square kilometers in 1967. Today, only 135 square kilometers remain — an 88.3 percent loss in less than six decades.

Of the remnants, around 88 square kilometers lie in Bangladesh and 47 in India, meaning roughly 65 percent of the remaining forest survives on the Bangladeshi side.
Even the Lawachara Wildlife Sanctuary — a declared protected area — has not been spared. There, land grabbers have cleared trees for betel leaf plantations, agricultural fields, and even new homesteads.

Entire settlements like Bagmara village have emerged inside the sanctuary, transforming once-pristine forest into private holdings. In these areas, wealthy and politically connected individuals have built resorts, motels, and tea gardens, using bureaucratic complicity to legalize encroachment.
A few years ago, Barrister Syed Sayedul Haque Suman went live on Facebook from inside Lawachara, exposing how local elites had carved out lemon orchards, pineapple fields, and small tea estates inside protected forest. His revelations briefly sparked outrage — before the story, like the forest, faded under the weight of silence.

In September 2024, after a change in government, the Forest Department led by Sylhet Divisional Forest Officer Jahangir Alam launched a rare operation inside Lawachara National Park. They reclaimed five acres of land illegally occupied by former Agriculture Minister Abdur Shahid. But officials privately admit that this was only a fraction of what remains encroached. “The real power is higher than us,” said one official on condition of anonymity. “We can clear a few acres, not the system.”

The New Lords of the Land
Across Moulvibazar, the pattern repeats: local strongmen backed by political patrons occupy land — sometimes public, sometimes private — and then launder ownership through falsified documents, fake surveys, or compliant registrars.

According to locals, the syndicate operates in a clear hierarchy:

At the bottom, brokers and musclemen carry out the physical occupation, threatening families and altering boundaries overnight.
In the middle, businessmen and union parishad leaders provide money and cover.
At the top, the “godfathers” — politically powerful figures — protect the network through influence and intimidation.
“They can make your land disappear,” said a land rights activist in Sreemangal. “First from the map, then from your life.”

Ancestral Land, Lost in Silence
In the quiet village of Bhunobir, once home to the aristocratic Mahadev Datta Choudhary family, hundreds of acres of ancestral land have vanished.

During the 1965 Indo-Pak war, the family fled briefly to India. When they returned, much of their land was gone — seized by local power brokers who still control it today.
“They saw the war as their opportunity,” recalled one villager. “When the family crossed the border, the grabbers crossed the fence.”
A similar fate befell the Indra Home Estate along Moulvibazar Road in Rupsapur. Residents allege that the estate was quietly taken over by an influential figure who then regularized the encroachment through “commissions” and forged paperwork — a process so well-practiced that even land officials sometimes appear helpless.

The Educator’s Daughter Who Dared to Protest
The late Khirad Dev Choudhury, a respected educationist, built the Radhanath Cinema Hall in Sreemangal upazila town decades ago. After his death, one of the adjacent plots was seized by a shopkeeper.

When his daughter, Uttara Dev Choudhury, tried to reclaim it, she was publicly assaulted by local thugs allegedly hired by the encroacher. The humiliation broke her spirit. She withdrew from public life and died a few years later.
Her story is still told in whispers — “Uttara’s warning” — a reminder that resistance can be fatal, even in a town once known for civility.

Noagaon: A Village Under Siege
In Noagaon, just a few kilometers from Sreemangal, land grabbing has evolved into an institutional craft. Entire clusters of minority families mostly Hindus live under constant fear of eviction or fraud.
Among them is Sangram Datta, son of former Union Parishad chairman Rasendra Datta Choudhary, who has been fighting for years to reclaim 15 decimals of family land occupied by Amanullah’s sons — Ankar Miah and Md. Abdul Hannan.
“They have no legal documents, no khatian, nothing,” Datta said. “But they walk on my land as if they were born there.”

Even with valid documents and tax receipts, Sangram has failed to recover possession. Appeals to authorities have brought nothing but threats. “Here,” he said, “justice comes with a price tag I can’t afford.”

Affluent and Powerless
What began as the dispossession of poor minorities has now extended to affluent Muslim families as well — those with prime real estate or successful businesses.

“It no longer matters who you are,” said one resident. “If your property is valuable, someone powerful is watching it.”
Land, once a mark of heritage, has become a weapon of leverage. Those who resist are silenced. Those who comply are forced to sell at a fraction of value.

A Power Couple and the Politics of Fear

Locals accuse Md. Nanu Miah, husband of Union Parishad member Maleka Begum, of forcibly removing soil from a plot belonging to Sangram Datta. This time, Datta stayed silent.
“I thought deeply,” he said. “If I go to the police, their godfathers will get them released. Then my life will be over.”
Residents echo his fear. “Here, the police will take your complaint,” one said, “but they won’t take your side.”

Legal Victories, Real Defeats

Even Rasendra Datta Choudhary, the former chairman, faced the same humiliation. After a years-long legal battle over 30 decimals of land along the Jagcherra Tea Estate road, the Moulvibazar District Court declared him the rightful owner.
The defendants appealed — and during the litigation, sold the land to a politically influential buyer. The Supreme Court’s Appellate Division later reaffirmed his ownership, but the land remains in other hands.
“In Sreemangal,” said a neighbor, “the paper shows victory, but the soil shows defeat.”


Forests to Fortunes: The Business of Encroachment
Over the last decade, the boundaries of land grabbing have expanded from villages to forests and wetlands.
In Patharia Hills, Lawachara, Rajkandi, Bagmara Beat, and around Hail Haor, powerful groups have turned public land into private estates. They cultivate lemon, pineapple, and jackfruit, develop resorts and tea gardens, and even build hatcheries.
Despite political transitions, the players remain the same — only their party colors change. “When one party leaves power,” said an activist, “the other gives them protection. It’s a syndicate, not a party.”

The Media Mirage

Locals allege that certain media outlets and online pages receive money to distort the truth — presenting land grabbers as “developers” and critics as “troublemakers.” Some so-called “citizen journalists” post propaganda on Facebook to shield the powerful.
Meanwhile, those trying to report the truth face subtle censorship — calls from officials, pressure from advertisers, or worse, quiet threats.

The Syndicate’s Web
Experts and residents describe three main revenue streams for these syndicates:
Sand extraction and smuggling from rivers and streams across Sreemangal and Hail Haor.
Forest land encroachment for tea gardens, orchards, and resorts.

Fraudulent land dealings — using brokers to deceive and dispossess citizens.
“The same faces appear in every case,” said a Kamalganj based journalist . “They’ve turned land grabbing into a profession.”

Governance on Paper, Fear on the Ground
From courtrooms to forest offices, the pattern is the same — selective action, followed by silence. Those in power rarely face consequences; those without it rarely find justice.

Even after the 2024 operation in Lawachara, insiders claim most forest officers hesitate to act further. “We all know the names,” one official admitted, “but we also know the risks.”

The Human Cost
For victims like Sangram Datta, the fight is no longer about land but dignity.
“My father was a chairman,” he said quietly. “We served the community. But today, we can’t even walk freely on our own property.”

In Noagaon, elderly residents sit on porches at dusk, their gaze fixed on fields that no longer belong to them. “We don’t want conflict,” one said. “We only want to live without fear.”

The Way Forward

Experts and rights groups suggest urgent reforms:
A comprehensive land survey with public verification to expose forged documents.

Independent oversight to remove political influence from land administration.
Legal and physical protection for vulnerable families.
Prosecution of syndicate leaders, not just their field-level brokers.

Without such steps, observers warn, Bangladesh risks normalizing dispossession as a routine part of rural politics.

Justice on Paper, Defeat on the Ground
Across Bhunobir, Rupsapur, and Noagaon, the refrain is the same: the law exists, but the land does not.

Court orders gather dust. Police actions fade. And behind every piece of reclaimed land lies another story of fear, silence, and loss.
“The law is with us,” said a villager, “but the ground isn’t.”

Unless the administration acts decisively — with transparency, courage, and political neutrality — Moulvibazar’s tea-scented hills will continue to hide a bitter truth:

For too many, the soil beneath their feet no longer belongs to them.