In the vibrant, disorderly expanse of Dhaka’s Haddi Potti in Ahmednagar, Riaz spends his days sifting through the city’s discarded remains—not merely as work, but as a way of life. At 36, Riaz is a husband, a father to three children, and a worker at a waste sorting center whose journey began in his childhood in Vola District. It was there, at just 12 years old, that he first entered the world of waste picking, scouring the streets for scraps to make ends meet. Now, his hands move through society’s leftovers with quiet determination, yet his voice rises with a compelling message: the world must stop underestimating and undervaluing people like him.
Riaz’s journey hasn’t been linear. Early in his career, he briefly traded waste picking for a stint as a labourer under a building contractor. The promise of steady work quickly soured under the weight of low wages and unrelenting pressure. “It was suffocating,” he recalls. “The pay wasn’t enough, and there was no freedom.” Waste picking, by contrast, offered something rare: autonomy. He could set his own pace, take breaks when exhaustion crept in, and rest without a supervisor looming over him. Yet, for all its independence, the job came with a steep price—societal scorn.
In Bangladesh, waste pickers like Riaz are often branded with derogatory labels like tokai—a term meaning “ragpicker” that drips with disdain. They’re dismissed as “lower-class,” accused of theft without proof, and shunned as outcasts. The prejudice runs deep, seeping into every corner of their lives. Riaz speaks candidly about the sting of exclusion: the way neighbours avoid eye contact, the cruel remarks hurled by passersby, the empty spaces where invitations to Eid celebrations should be. “We’re pushed to the edges,” he says, his voice heavy with the weight of years spent on society’s fringes. “They treat us like the garbage we pick up.”
The isolation is more than social—it’s spatial. Waste pickers are often relegated to segregated pockets of slums, their presence a quiet inconvenience to those who benefit from their labour. For Riaz, this rejection cuts deeper than the physical toll of his work. “It makes you feel like you’re nothing,” he admits. “Like your worth is tied to what others throw away.”
But a flicker of change arrived recently, igniting hope in Riaz’s weary heart. He attended a Waste Workers Training session hosted by RedOrange Limited, an initiative designed to uplift and honour those in his profession. For Riaz, it was a revelation. “It was the first time I felt proud of what I do,” he says, a faint smile breaking through. The training didn’t just teach skills—it reframed his identity. Out went the humiliating tokai label, replaced by the dignified title of Poricchonnota Kormi—Sanitation Worker. For the first time, Riaz saw his work through a new lens: not as a shameful burden, but as an essential service that keeps communities clean and healthy.
The recognition from RedOrange was a balm for wounds Riaz didn’t even know he carried. “They made us feel human again,” he says. The term “Sanitation Worker” isn’t just a rebrand—it’s a reclamation of dignity, a counterweight to decades of derision. It acknowledges the unseen labour that underpins public health, from the piles of trash cleared to the diseases prevented. For Riaz and his colleagues, it’s a small but seismic shift, a step toward rewriting their place in the world.
Yet Riaz knows this is only the beginning. Dignity within his professional circle is a victory, but it’s not enough. “The real change has to come from society,” he insists. He envisions a future where waste workers aren’t just tolerated but respected—where children don’t grow up hearing tokai spat like a curse, where families like his aren’t erased from the social fabric. To get there, he argues, education and awareness must lead the charge. “People need to understand what we do and why it matters,” he says. “Only then will they stop seeing us as less.”
Riaz’s story is more than a personal triumph—it’s a call to action. As Dhaka churns through its daily waste, men and women like him toil in the shadows, keeping the city afloat while battling a stigma that threatens to bury them. RedOrange’s efforts have lit a spark, but Riaz believes it’s up to all of us to fan the flames. “We’re not asking for pity,” he says firmly. “We’re asking for respect.”
For now, Riaz returns to his sorting centre, hands steady and spirit bolstered. His work may be humble, but his message is loud: waste workers deserve a seat at the table—not in the margins, but at the heart of a society that can’t survive without them.
