The promise is alluring: a foot in the door, a chance to learn, a line on a CV that might open up a future career. For thousands of students, graduates, and even post-graduates across Bangladesh, this promise comes in the form of an internship. The reality, however, is often a starkly different picture, one painted with the colours of exploitation, where 'learning opportunities' are a thin veil for what is essentially free or drastically underpaid labour.
This is not a problem that hides in the shadows. It thrives in plain sight, amplified across the digital town squares of our time. A quick scroll through Facebook groups like 'Internship Bangladesh' or 'Jobs, Internships & Career opportunity In Bangladesh' reveals a bustling, informal marketplace for young talents. Unlike traditional job markets, where positions are posted on official company websites, the internship world lives on social media. Here, posts advertising full-time, demanding roles for a monthly stipend of Tk 3,000 to 10,000 are commonplace. Some of them aren't even paid at all. In a city like Dhaka, where the basic cost of living demands far more, such figures are not just low; they are insulting. These internships don't even cover transport costs.
Consider the story of a recent marketing graduate, who, after months of searching, accepted an internship at a small digital agency for Tk 5,000 a month. Her role was not one of shadowing or learning; she was managing client accounts, developing content strategies, and working weekends. Her manager, only a few years her senior, had been in the same position just two years earlier. This is a disturbingly common parallel: a cycle of youths exploiting youths. Young entrepreneurs and junior managers, often under pressure themselves, perpetuate the very system that once exploited them, normalising the practice of hiring eager, desperate young people as a source of cheap labour to fuel their own growth.
This system creates a deep and damaging paradox. While one set of young people gains a precarious foothold on the career ladder, they do so by pulling the rungs out from under the next cohort. The logic is simple and brutal: the company saves on salary, the intern gains 'experience', and the cycle continues. But what is the real cost of this experience? For many, it is a period of financial hardship and disillusionment. As one student aptly put it, "I am a first-generation college student paying for my degree. Taking on an additional job that wasn't paid wasn't something that was doable for me, or for anyone in my position." This sentiment echoes universally in the conversations of students in Dhaka, Chattogram, and beyond.
The problem is compounded by a legal and ethical vacuum. In Bangladesh, there is no specific minimum wage for interns. The Bangladesh Labour Act of 2006 is largely silent on the matter, leaving interns in a grey area, often not classified as 'employees' and thus stripped of the rights and protections afforded to the regular workforce. This ambiguity allows companies to operate with impunity. Unpaid internships are particularly common in sectors like media, non-profits, and education, where the appeal of a 'passion-driven' career is used to justify the lack of remuneration. Researchers have found that globally, this practice disproportionately affects women and students from minority backgrounds, creating significant barriers to entry and reinforcing social inequality.
Many argue that an internship is a trade-off, an exchange of labour for experience and networking. The evidence suggests this trade is often a lopsided one. Studies show that paid interns are significantly more likely to receive a job offer than their unpaid counterparts. The 'experience' gained in a poorly structured, exploitative internship is often of questionable value, consisting of menial tasks rather than meaningful skill development. It begs the question: who is the primary beneficiary of this arrangement? The answer, overwhelmingly, is the employer.
The culture of unpaid and scandalously low-paid internships does more than just exploit individuals; it devalues entire professions. It creates a system where only the privileged, those who can afford to work for free, are able to get a start, or someone who is well connected will get a good job directly. This is not just a moral failing; it is an economic one. It shrinks the talent pool, stifles diversity, and creates a workforce built not on merit, but on financial advantage. While governments in other parts of the world are beginning to act-the White House, for instance, started paying its interns for the first time in history in 2022-Bangladesh has to have a serious public or legislative conversation on the issue.
The path forward requires a cultural shift, underpinned by legal reform. Companies must recognise that interns are not a disposable resource but an investment in the future of their industry. Young managers must break the cycle of exploitation they themselves endured. And as a society, we must stop romanticising the idea of 'paying your dues' when it translates to working for less than a living wage. The promise of an internship should be one of opportunity, not of exploitation. It is time to ensure that a foot in the door does not come at the cost of one's dignity and financial stability.
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