Emran Emon

In the long chronicle of natural disasters that have tested Bangladesh’s resilience, the August 2024 catastrophic flood in Feni stands as a harrowing chapter. Swelling rivers like Muhuri, Kohua, and Selonia broke through fragile embankments. Hundreds of homes were lost. Agricultural lands turned into water graves. And amidst this chaos, came a wave of promises—promises of reconstruction, rehabilitation, and above all, accountability.

In the immediate aftermath, the interim government moved swiftly, at least on paper. With the support of international NGOs, a substantial fund of BDT 10 billion (1,000 crore) was reportedly set up for disaster response and recovery in Feni and surrounding regions. Simultaneously, a grassroots fundraising initiative launched from Dhaka’s TSC area galvanized public support, collecting another BDT 120 million (12 crore) in citizen contributions. The emotion was raw, the momentum genuine, and the intent—or so it seemed—purely humanitarian.

Yet here we are, a year later, and the haunting images from 2024 are resurfacing, quite literally. The monsoon rains have returned. The rivers have risen. And once again, Feni is under water.

What is most tragic is not merely the recurrence of the flood—nature has its own rhythm—but the predictability of the devastation. Experts had warned about the vulnerability of the region’s embankments and river management systems. Local residents, many of whom witnessed the catastrophic breaches last year, demanded urgent repairs and reinforcement. Environmentalists called for sustainable flood control infrastructure. But nothing happened.

The embankments, weakened by years of neglect and further eroded by last year’s flooding, remained untouched. There was no comprehensive audit, no visible construction or preventive initiatives. The cries of the affected people turned into whispers, drowned under bureaucratic apathy and political transience. And now, the same communities that were promised shelter and safety are once again clutching their children and climbing rooftops for survival.

Naturally, the question on every Feni resident’s mind is simple: “Where did the money go?” Ten billion taka from international aid is not a small sum. When combined with the public’s twelve-crore contribution—voluntarily offered by ordinary citizens—the pool of available resources could have drastically transformed the region’s resilience infrastructure. Roads could have been raised. Embankments could have been rebuilt. Emergency shelters, water pumps, and rapid response systems could have been deployed. But none of that materialized.

There is no transparent audit available to show how the funds were allocated. The names of implementing agencies remain vague. The interim government, now gradually exiting its caretaker role, has offered no explanation beyond generic references to “procedural delays” and “coordinative challenges.” Meanwhile, some foreign NGOs have either gone silent or distanced themselves from the accountability debate, citing lack of oversight from the host administration.

Even more painful is the fate of the public contributions raised through the TSC initiative. Students, artists, activists, and ordinary people came together in a rare show of solidarity, trusting that their modest offerings would make a difference. Many skipped meals, some emptied savings jars. But their empathy appears to have been betrayed.

No public financial report has been issued. No relief distribution linked directly to that fund has been confirmed. It is as if the money vanished into the very floodwaters it was meant to fight. This is not just about financial mismanagement. It is about the erosion of public trust. 

Disaster response in Bangladesh has historically depended on a delicate balance between state intervention, civil society mobilization, and international cooperation. When that balance breaks—when governments fail to ensure transparency, when NGOs operate without scrutiny, and when the people feel their compassion is exploited—the long-term cost is greater than the disaster itself.

In a democratic framework, even under an interim administration, transparency is non-negotiable. Funds raised in the name of a humanitarian emergency cannot be treated as slush money for opportunists. If the money was used, where is the report? If it was not, where is it now?

It is not enough for a few officials to shrug responsibility or pass the buck. The people of Feni deserve answers. The citizens of this country deserve answers.

What should be done now?

First, an independent, time-bound audit must be commissioned to trace the full trajectory of the BDT 1,000 crore NGO fund and the BDT 12 crore public donation. This should involve the Anti-Corruption Commission (ACC), third-party financial experts, and representatives from local civil society.

Second, the findings must be made public. A comprehensive white paper detailing the collection, disbursement, or withholding of funds should be published and debated openly.

Third, if evidence of corruption or gross negligence is found, legal action must be taken regardless of the status or identity of those involved. It is high time that disaster profiteering be treated as a criminal offense of the highest order.

Fourth, a National Flood Resilience Plan should be drafted, with Feni as a case study. This plan must include embankment reconstruction, modern drainage systems, and early warning technologies — backed by actual budgeting and not just empty words.

Lastly, we need a new culture of accountability in disaster governance. Transparency portals, citizen oversight committees, and localized monitoring mechanisms must become the norm. Aid should not merely be a transaction; it should be a process embedded with dignity, participation, and justice.

It is said that history repeats itself—first as tragedy, then as farce. But in the case of Feni, it is repeating as both. The tragedy of last year is being replayed almost identically, only this time with the bitter realization that those in power did little to prevent it, despite having the means to do so.

I owe it to the people of Feni, and to every disaster-struck community in Bangladesh, not to let these questions fade away with the floodwaters. Every missing taka is a stolen opportunity for survival. Every unanswered question is an insult to the dignity of those still standing knee-deep in water, waiting for justice.

The rain may be beyond our control. But the response to it—in governance, in ethics, and in accountability—is entirely within our reach. And so, the question still echoes: Where did all the money go? Who will answer? Who will pay the price for this silence?

The writer is a journalist, columnist and global affairs analyst. He can be reached at emoncolumnist@gmail.com