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CBC
27-07-2025
- Business
- CBC
I've seen first-hand the true price of fast fashion — people suffering, lives lost
Social Sharing This First Person article is the experience of Itrat Anwar, a newcomer from Bangladesh who now calls Steinbach, Man., his home. For more info rmation about CBC's First Person stories, please see this FAQ. You can read more First Person articles here. The true cost of your $100 piece of clothing isn't one you can see. Sometimes, it's measured in blood. Sometimes, the cost is human lives. And I saw it first-hand. I walked through roaring sewing lines, sat in crowded factory canteens and watched workers endure unbearable conditions for wages so low they could barely survive. In their suffering, I realized something crucial — most of us have no idea where our clothes come from or the price others pay for them. Bangladesh's garment industry is one of the largest in the world. It contributes more than 80 per cent of the country's exports (according to Economics Observatory), employs more than three million people, mostly women, in more than 4,000 factories in the Dhaka and Chittagong divisions, and brings in, on average, $46 billion US annually. For Bangladesh, this industry is the backbone of the economy. But it comes at a staggering human cost. After completing my MBA, I joined a company that sold machinery to garment factories. From 2012 onward, I spent three to five days a week visiting factories across Dhaka, Narayanganj, Ashulia, Savar and Gazipur. I worked closely with production managers and machine layout engineers. I had access to both the boardrooms and the boiler rooms — and what I saw there shook me. I visited hundreds of factories, and each day revealed more about the brutal realities behind the clothes we wear. I could no longer be part of a system I no longer believed in. - Itrat Anwar I watched thousands of workers pour into factory gates every morning – some walking miles just to earn a wage barely enough to feed their families. Inside, the air was thick with dust, the noise from the machines deafening, and the pressure to meet impossible production quotas relentless. These workers often toiled 14 to 16 hours a day, seven days a week. During peak seasons, they would work until 2 or 3 a.m. just to meet the deadlines set by global fashion brands. Refusing overtime wasn't an option. Many were terrified of losing their jobs if they did. In some cases, overtime wasn't even compensated. In the most hazardous corners of the factories, I had to pass through dyeing sections where massive machines churned with toxic chemicals, releasing fumes that stung my eyes and burned my throat. Boiler rooms felt like industrial furnaces — metal chambers radiating unbearable heat, with pipes hissing and valves rattling under pressure. The air was thick with steam and chemical vapours, making every breath a struggle. The noise was deafening, the floors often slippery, and overhead wiring dangerously exposed. What shocked me most was the lack of basic safety: no proper ventilation that I could see, no protective gear, and often, no functional emergency exits. In many buildings, a single blocked stairwell could trap hundreds. For me, enduring this environment for a few hours was unbearable. For the workers, it was their everyday reality, one misstep away from injury or worse. The Western world often talks about "ethical" fashion. Brands promise safer workplaces, fair wages and dignity for workers. These brands are well-known — their advertisements powerful, their reputations impeccable. But the reality I witnessed was different. While these companies publicly called for higher standards, it appeared to me that the priorities were cheap labour, fast delivery and massive profit margins. Worker safety and fair pay were often pushed to the bottom of the priority list. In conversations with workers, I learned that some went months without wages, while the companies ignored their plight. A local media outlet back home in Bangladesh reported that some workers went 14 months without pay. I still remember the horror of the Rana Plaza collapse on Wednesday, April 24, 2013, around 9 a.m. local time. I was on my way to work that morning when I heard the news. (In fact, I could have visited that factory on the very same day. It was part of my regular duty.) More than 1,100 workers died in that collapse. Many of them were young women, mothers of the very children I had also seen in the factories. The collapse shocked the world, but for those of us in the industry, it wasn't a surprise. Cracks in the walls, faulty wiring, safety risks that were ignored — all the signs had been there. But production had to continue. After Rana Plaza, there was global outrage. Brands made high-profile promises to do better. Some factories improved, and some brands stepped up. But to me, it seemed like most simply moved on, shifting production to countries with even cheaper labour, constantly chasing lower costs. And the workers? They stayed, still earning barely enough to survive, still afraid to speak up, still hoping for change that rarely came. They deserve more than mere survival. They deserve dignity, safety and a voice. One day during that period still haunts me. I had my DSLR camera with me (something I often carried to capture interesting scenes). When I arrived at one factory, the gates were shut, and workers were rioting outside over months of unpaid wages. I waited near a tea stall, hoping to meet the manager. Soon, a few men approached, questioning my presence. When they noticed my camera, their tone shifted and the questions came fast. "Which media are you from?" one asked. I replied that I wasn't from the media and was there for a scheduled meeting. But the tension in the air was palpable and the man asked again, "Are you from a newspaper or TV?" I realized this wasn't just casual curiosity. They were watching me. They wanted to know what I had photographed. If I had captured images of the strike, I could have been in danger. I quickly hailed a taxi and left, my heart racing. These weren't concerned workers. They were local labour leaders, meant to protect workers, but now part of a system that silences the truth, instead of defending it. WATCH | Itrat Anwar talks about what he saw in garment factories in Bangladesh: Manitoban recalls horrors of Bangladesh garment factories 1 hour ago Eventually, I left the garment industry. I could no longer be part of a system I no longer believed in. I had seen too much: people suffering in silence, lives lost needlessly and promises repeatedly broken. Yet even now, I can't forget the faces in those factories — the strength of the women at the sewing machines, the young men dragging heavy bundles of fabric, the children waiting patiently outside for their mothers. They deserve more than mere survival. They deserve dignity, safety and a voice. The next time you buy a T-shirt, a pair of jeans or a dress, check the label. It might say "Made in Bangladesh," "Made in Cambodia" or "Made in Vietnam." Behind each of those labels is a story, maybe one of silent suffering. Some reflect resilience; others, exploitation. And too often, they speak of lives lost in the shadows of the global fashion industry. As a consumer, I now ask myself, "Who made this and at what cost?" Because I've seen first-hand that the true price of fast fashion isn't just counted in dollars, but in human lives, in blood and in the silence of those who were never heard.
CBC
27-07-2025
- Business
- CBC
Manitoban recalls horrors of Bangladesh garment factories
Itrat Anwar recalls the "unbearable conditions" behind the fast fashion industry. He witnessed workers' suffering at Bangladeshi factories before he decided he could no longer be part of the system.
CBC
11-05-2025
- Health
- CBC
My wife, my children and I were all born in different countries. But Canada is the best place on Earth
This First Person article is the experience of Itrat Anwar, a newcomer to Canada who now calls Steinbach, Man., his home. For more info rmation about CBC's First Person stories, please see this FAQ. You can read more First Person articles here. As I reflect on our journey, I am reminded not only of how far we've come, but also of the many others in this country — each with their own unique paths — who, like us, are building new lives in Canada. My name is Itrat and I live in Steinbach, Man., with my family. Originally from Bangladesh, I am proud to share my life with my wife, Halyna, who hails from Ukraine. Together, we have two wonderful children: our older daughter was born in Slovakia and our younger one was born right here in Canada. Our family spans four countries, and we often joke that we're a little "United Nations" under one roof. With a Canadian-born child in our family, we feel even more deeply connected to this land we now call home. Our journey to Canada began when the Russian invasion of Ukraine started in February 2022. My wife Halyna, who was pregnant at the time, was visiting her mother in Ukraine just a few days before the war began. Tragically, her mother passed away from a heart attack two days before the invasion. The combination of her pregnancy, the overwhelming loss of her mother, and the daily threat of war — including having to run to a basement during air raid alarms — left her in a deeply traumatic situation. Given the situation, we decided to move from Dubai, where we were living, to Bangladesh, so that my wife could recover. Her health was our top priority. While in Bangladesh, she had the opportunity to meet my parents, my brother and other relatives, and feel the warmth of their love and kindness. Her days were filled with meeting new people, learning new things, tasting traditional foods and experiencing rural life in Bangladesh. We had everything we needed in Bangladesh — except a safer and better future for our kids. We then decided to move to Slovakia, because my wife had residency there, and we needed access to reliable health care and insurance during her pregnancy. During this time, our first child was born in Bratislava — one of the most challenging yet precious moments of our lives. It wasn't easy. We had no steady income and, as first-time parents, we were navigating everything on our own, without a support network. Life as a new immigrant in Europe was very different from what we would later experience in Canada. The systems were harder to access, the support less visible, and at times, we felt completely alone. Then we learned about the Canada-Ukraine authorization for emergency travel program and decided to apply. (Moving to Canada wasn't our first plan. Before the war broke out, we had always discussed settling in Ukraine and raising our family there.) Shortly after, we received our Canadian visas, and we began applying for our daughter's passport and Canadian visa. Warm welcomes and challenges At this point, we had all the necessary documents, but after five months of living in Europe without work permits, we were running out of money. We were down to our last few hundred euros when we bought our tickets to Canada. When we finally arrived in Canada, we had only $500 left to our name. Travelling with a four-month-old baby, with so little money and so many uncertainties about our future, was incredibly difficult. The cold Canadian winter greeted us immediately upon our arrival at Toronto Pearson International Airport, and we found ourselves wondering what to do next. We found a place to live in Mississauga, Ont., and focused on finding my first job. We were blessed to meet kind, supportive people … who helped us settle in Steinbach. The first thing we noticed here in Canada was the people — their kindness, their willingness to help, and how they respond to your "hi" with a friendly smile. But there were also challenges. We found it difficult to adjust to the public transportation system. You need your own vehicle here. I remember how we walked with our baby in a stroller on pedestrian paths covered in icy snow. Sometimes, my wife and I had to lift the stroller to cross those areas. I dreamed of securing a job that would align with my background and skill set. But finding work was a struggle. With no Canadian work experience and no driver's licence, I began applying for at least 10 jobs a day. Over the course of two months, I sent out hundreds of job applications. I found my first job in Steinbach. While it didn't align with my background, I took the opportunity because we had reached the end of our patience. Within two days, we made the move to Steinbach from Mississauga. Though we didn't know anyone in this small city and had little more than our baby and a dream, we felt that despite all the uncertainty, we had come this far and could manage — and we did. We were blessed to meet kind, supportive people (like Nick Mazerolle, the Brand family and many others) who helped us settle in Steinbach. They are all truly wonderful people. Life as a new immigrant is never easy. Being far from home, separated from relatives, and facing constant uncertainty — these challenges can feel overwhelming. I've faced racism, discrimination and inequality. There are moments when we find ourselves longing for the vibrant life in Dubai, the stunning architecture of Europe, and our home countries, where our parents have yet to meet their grandchildren. But we are incredibly grateful to be here. We recognize that life here is much better than in some European countries. I'm committed to supporting marginalized communities and helping create a more inclusive future for our children. I have a better job now. We own a vehicle, live in a nice house and are excited to raise our family in this beautiful country. From its breathtaking landscapes to its welcoming communities, Canada has already captured our hearts. As we continue to learn about and explore the beauty of this land, I have a strong desire to visit different regions and deepen our understanding of its rich history — especially the stories of Indigenous peoples and their profound connection to this land. Our experiences across different continents have shown us that Canada is, without a doubt, the best place on Earth.
