Displaced and Excluded, Bangladeshi Migrants Turn to Community Networks for Survival

“Who doesn’t love their homeland the most? But we’ve made this land our home, too,” said Sapana, a Bangladeshi woman who has lived in Lebanon for 18 years. She and her two daughters now live in one of the few known shelters in Beirut dedicated to migrant workers.

She fled her home in Dahieh on March 3, when the Israeli aggression on Lebanon intensified. By late morning, she went directly to a shelter run by the Jesuit Refugee Service in Achrafieh.

“I knew to come here because in 2024, this was a place that accepted probashis,” Sapana told The Public Source. She learned about it from another Bangladeshi woman who had previously taken shelter there. 

Probashi roughly translates to a Bengali living outside their home country. In Lebanon, probashis are estimated to be the second largest non-Arab migrant group, constituting roughly 21 percent of migrants identified by the International Organization for Migration (IOM) with a population of over 37,000. Unofficial estimates suggest the number may be significantly higher, with some reports placing the Bangladeshi population at up to 100,000.

In Lebanon, many migrant workers face systemic discrimination and experience racism on a daily basis. This translates into exclusion in times of crisis. During the war in 2024, migrants were turned away from state-run shelters, and aid groups say similar patterns are emerging during the current escalation — with Bangladeshi migrants among the hardest hit.

In Lebanon, many migrant workers face systemic discrimination and experience racism on a daily basis. This translates into exclusion in times of crisis. 

At Saint Joseph Church in Monot, what began as a spontaneous response in 2024 has become a place of refuge for migrants today. Michael Petro, director of the Migrant Worker Project at the Jesuit Refugee Service, said the church has long served migrant communities.

“This space has been a trusted community center for migrant workers and refugees from various nationalities for over 40 years,” he said. “Now, during the war, we are hosting around 120 people, just slightly over capacity.”

The shelter is currently accommodating Bangladeshi families, Sudanese refugees, and members of other communities. Within the first week of the war, it was already at capacity. Incoming migrants were subsequently turned away or referred elsewhere.

More than 1.2 million people have been displaced since the war resumed nationwide, putting severe pressure on shelters across the country.

In a shift from its 2024 response, the Lebanese government now requires shelters to accept all displaced people regardless of nationality. This policy, however, has yet to be implemented and migrant workers are reportedly still being turned away. Sometimes it is due to overcrowding or preferential treatment granted to nationals, said Dara Foi’Elle, policy and communications manager at Migrant Workers’ Action, an NGO working towards abolishing state-sponsored labor exploitation and trafficking of migrant domestic workers.

“During a crisis, many don't even want to go to these shelters because they are scared of racist experiences or of not being treated equally,” she added. For many, the most reliable solution is to stay with community members, which has led to overcrowding in small apartments and increasingly high rents.

Space is scarce, particularly in Beirut. A UNHCR report found that 87 percent of the 1,049,328 self-registered displaced individuals are staying outside of collective shelters with relatives, in rented housing, or sheltering in cars and on the street.

The most impacted Bangladeshi migrant workers are those who live in Beirut's southern suburbs. Ratik Islam, a community organizer and founder of Golden Star Foundation said that “many who have been displaced from our community are sheltering together in informal spaces that we’re renting and have set up, often with other Bangladeshis.”

Islam estimates that from a community of around 5,000 who lived in Dahieh, many are now displaced and living in informal shelters around Nabaa, Bourj Hammoud, and Dawra.

In a shift from its 2024 response, the Lebanese government now requires shelters to accept all displaced people regardless of nationality. This policy, however, has yet to be implemented and migrant workers are reportedly still being turned away.

Data collected by the IOM suggests that besides Beirut, many Bangladeshi migrants are concentrated around Baabda, Metn, Aley, and Mount Lebanon. From the smaller group living in southern Lebanon, many have moved to Saida and nearby areas, renting spaces with other Bangladeshis. An estimated 1,200 workers remain in Sour and further south, according to members of the community. 

In addition to those staying at the Jesuit Refugee Service shelter, some are camping in Biel along Beirut’s waterfront and around Tayouneh.

Among them is Souma, a Bangladeshi woman now living in a tent in Biel with her infant, who said she fled southern Lebanon in 2024 and settled in Dahieh. She was displaced yet again in 2026.

While she was sharing her story, a man distributing toys nearby stopped his car and asked, “Is everyone here Lebanese?” When she proudly responded, “Not us, I am Bangladeshi,” he cut her short, rolled his window up, and drove away.

Precarious Livelihoods

For migrant workers in Lebanon, discrimination is part of daily life. Under Kafala, or the sponsorship system, workers are dependent on their sponsor’s goodwill for decent working conditions. Domestic workers, as well as those in construction and agriculture, many of whom are from Bangladesh, fall under this system, which offers limited, if any, labor rights.

During war, this has meant that beyond displacement, Bangladeshi workers — with no access to social services — are struggling to pay rent, buy groceries, and survive the soaring cost of living. For workers like Sapana, the sudden loss of income has been the hardest part.

“There’s no news from my employer about when I can resume work or about my pending salary,” she said. “We just live day to day now.”

Foi’Elle highlighted the crucial role community leaders have played during the ongoing war that escalated in 2024, despite facing the same hardships.

“Community leaders have been working non-stop since the first day of war. Some have been housing displaced people in their own homes. They haven't had weekends. They work tirelessly, without fixed salaries,” she said. “They support the community with emergency response and humanitarian assistance, coordinating rent payments, medical care, and even preventing evictions, but don’t even get credit for their work.”

Migrant Workers’ Action is supporting Reclaim Our Rights, a community-led humanitarian response while continuing to raise funds for those in need.

“Community leaders have been working non-stop since the first day of war. They support the community with emergency response and humanitarian assistance, coordinating rent payments, medical care, and even preventing evictions, but don’t even get credit for their work.”Dara Foi'Elle, Migrant Workers’ Action

Like other migrant groups, Bangladeshis are largely excluded from formal support systems, so they have organized their own support initiatives. Members of the Golden Star Foundation contribute monthly donations to assist the  community. The International Organization for Migration and Doctors Without Borders have also supported these efforts.

In wartime, fundraising efforts have included asking for donations directly from the Bangladeshi workers. “I sometimes ask at shops and restaurants in Dawra, and during community gatherings such as during Eid recently and cricket meet-ups,” Islam told us.

Working in the Shadows

Even before the war, migrants in Lebanon faced extreme challenges. With little to no recourse when sponsor-employers violate contracts, some are forced to escape from their workplace and turn to freelance work, where conditions are not much better.

A report by the International Labor Organization notes that “while some [workers] may hold legal work permits, many work informally or under temporary arrangements, often with limited job security, poor working conditions and little access to social protection.”

Abdul, a restaurant owner in Dawra, came to Lebanon in 2024 on a contract for a cleaning job, just before the previous Israeli aggression on Lebanon intensified.

He said economic pressures in Bangladesh push many to migrate, turning the country’s citizens into one of the world’s largest migrant groups.

“Sponsorship requirements can be high and cumbersome for employers, so some prefer to hire us without contracts,” he said. “That creates a parallel system of workers.”

Reports indicate a high number of undocumented migrant workers in Lebanon, who face even more marginalization. Community leaders estimate that as many as 30 percent of Bangladeshi workers are undocumented.

Islam, highlighting that the struggles facing even documented migrant workers extend beyond the war, said that “there are many cases, even in relatively peaceful times, when probashis have fled abusive employers for their safety.”

Over the past year, the Bangladeshi embassy, in coordination with Lebanese authorities, has attempted to regularize migrants, but there has been little change in the number of people who remain undocumented.

The embassy of Bangladesh in Lebanon did not respond to a request for comment.

Work and No Pay

When war disrupts employment, migrant workers often experience sudden termination at work and a loss of income. Many earn between $200 and $300 a month, sending home what they can in order to support their families.

“I used to live close to my employers, sharing a house with another family. But now we have no work, as our employers are also displaced,” Sapana said, adding that her biggest concern is generating an income again. “Going back to Bangladesh without any prospects for work isn’t an option.”

Many workers come to Lebanon after paying between $2,000 and 6,000 to a recruitment agency — debt that takes years to repay.

While this was not the case for Souma, she said she was still unable to save much during her decade of work, as she regularly sent money home.

“If I had a stable job now, I could rent a house to live in with my child. But my employer doesn’t need me anymore,” she said. “I am homeless, and I cannot predict when the situation will change.”

Abdul, whose first employer was killed during the previous war, later started his own business. He said the war is worsening existing economic pressures.

“Our costs of operations keep going up, now compounded by the war,” he said. “There are far fewer customers, so that impacts my business.”

He also fears harassment and demands for bribes by local authorities, whom he believes target foreigners more than locals. “Just the other day, they tried to shut down a migrant-run restaurant close to here on flimsy charges,” he shared. “This adds to the sense of dread.” 

Survival Through Community

Because of the precarity and insecurity they face, Bangladeshis have grown their own networks of support. Islam, who is in several community WhatsApp groups and is active on social media, shares updates about the situation and the needs of probashi individuals and families.

“There are at least 15 initiatives like my foundation that I am aware of. We are one of the largest in terms of reach in our community, focusing mostly on health care and other medical services,” Islam said.

In 2020, Bangladeshi migrant workers drew attention for organizing a strike during Lebanon’s economic crisis. Today, however, their presence is less visible in organizing work.

In informal gatherings, weekly meetups for Asian cricket players and collective home-cooking, probashis tend to meet separately.

Most probashis do not speak English or French, limiting their ability to participate in broader organizing spaces. Language barriers can also create distance among migrant groups, which can sometimes lead to a sense of distrust.

With many Bangladeshis working in cleaning, agricultural and waste management, their engagement with domestic worker groups — the most visible migrant rights movement in Lebanon — remains limited.

Many migrant workers also fear repression when demanding their rights. Some, already from marginalized backgrounds in their own countries, do not believe organizing will improve their situation.

“With our fellow probashis, we try to stay as one big family, taking care of each other. Who chooses to live like this, in such danger?” —Abdul, Dawra restaurant owner

“I think as Bangladeshis, we do find a sense of comfort in our own community,” Islam said. “We do coordinate with others, particularly Asian groups, providing information and helping with things when we can.”

Islam, who coordinates a group of over 30 Bangladeshi volunteers, said there is a strong sense of unity within the community.

In Abdul’s view, “Lebanon is a country with many divisions,” and said he often feels left out. “But we are here to work, and with our fellow probashis, we try to stay as one big family, taking care of each other.” He added that living in a country that has been through so much gives him courage. “But it is not a choice we make, per se. Who chooses to live like this, in such danger?”

Asked about the coming weeks, Islam reflected that the scale of displacement has been overwhelming. “We remain in contact with others across the country, including in the South,” he said. “We hope everyone stays safe.”

Sapana reflected on the bigger issue of making a living amid war, however small, taking away the prospect of going back to her country. She noted, “For me, Bangladesh is not really a place to return to. So I am here, and so is my life.”