SPECIAL REPORT In rural Bangladesh, there is a village built by Malaysian ringgit.

Unlike frenetic, crowded Dhaka some 40km away, the scenic, quiet village in the district of Araihazar is hugged by traditional agriculture, tranquil waterways, and lush greenery.

Ever so often, trucks laden with colourful textiles trundle down the poorly-paved roads, kicking up a cloud of dust along the way to the many garment factories in the area.

Many youths are employed in these factories or work on the land of their families. Outreach worker Masuda Aktar says every family has at least one person who has been, is in or will head to Malaysia with dreams of coming back a rich person.

These days Masuda, whose smiling eyes and chubby cheeks make her seem younger than 44, works with migrant rights NGO Ovibashi Karmi Annayan Program (Okup) to campaign for safe migration. But once, she too chased the Malaysian dream.

Her dreams were short-lived. Unlike many who sent money home to build colourful brick houses in the village, when Masuda ( photo ) made the journey as a college girl 20 years ago and she only made it up to Subang Airport.

While studying for her bachelor’s degree, a cousin told her that his friend in Kuala Lumpur had an “office job” for her. The friend would sort out the travel documents and send it over through some friends who were returning to Bangladesh.

What came was a work permit and a passport - in someone else’s name but with her face - a “picture change (PC)” passport. With it also came a marriage proposal.

Unbeknownst to Masuda’s cousin, his friend had arranged for the documents via a middleman and for Masuda’s hand in marriage, the middleman would waive his fees.

“I refused,” she says, frowning. Out of debt for the visa, her family raised 120,000 taka (RM6,000) within two days and she started her journey to Kuala Lumpur on the fraudulent papers.

Many managed to slip through with the PC documents in the 1990s to early 2000s, but the ones handed to Masuda were out of date.

At the Dhaka International Airport, the immigration officer would not let her pass until the middleman handed the officer 12,000 taka (RM600).

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‘Swim back’

However, in Malaysia there was no middleman waiting to grease palms, and she was told she would be sent back to Bangladesh.

“I started crying. An Immigration officer told me I had to swim back to Dhaka. But then a woman Immigration officer sat next to me and told me, ‘You have been cheated but we will help you to return home’.”

Her story is an exception in this village. More common are the successful migrations, which funded brick homes and feed youthful dreams.

“All three sons from that family are now in Malaysia,” Masuda says as she points to one such brick house overlooking an emerald green field.

Opposite the house is a tiny sundry shop, and in front of the shop are some stools where the village men gather to chat.

One of them is Nazmun, 40, a wiry man with a bushy beard and an easy smile.

Nazmun ( photo ) spent more than 10 years in Malaysia and came home to start a family. With the money he raised, he built a brick house that he painted bright purple. He also started a small factory.

Today, he is enjoying early retirement after the sale of his factory, and is concentrating on raising his two young boys.

In 1990, Nazmun paid recruitment agents 30,000 taka (RM1,500) to reach Malaysia and was paid RM40 a day for working in a furniture factory. He soon had enough to send home, pay the rent in Sungai Chua, Kajang, and go on holidays.

“I went to Thailand, Singapore, Hong Kong. And your country is very beautiful, no? I went to Genting Highlands, everywhere,” he said, speaking in conversational Bahasa Malaysia while reminiscing fondly.

Nazmun’s narrative is what drives youths in the area who, according to Okup programme officer Nasim Ahmed, mostly only have Primary 5 education.

‘I’ll make your dreams come true’

There is work here, says Seron, a soft-spoken young man Seron, barely out of his teens. But the money - 5,000 taka (RM250) a month - is “too little”.

When Seron was 17, a man asked him if he wanted to make his dreams come true.

The man told him he could arrange his passage from the coast of Cox’s Bazaar in Bangladesh to Malaysia with no upfront costs. All Seron had to do was to make sure he had a friend in Malaysia who could help him get settled

“I didn’t even know the man’s name,” he says.

While many Malaysian boys his age were busy courting girls, playing football and half-heartedly mugging for the SPM, Seron (photo ) boarded a fishing boat with 300 others and started the 10-day journey by sea to Thailand.

He is hesitant to describe his time at sea. He says he did not get sick and the smugglers did feed them twice a day, but “the rice couldn’t even cover half the plate”.

“When we arrived, they took us to a house in a jungle. There were two men and they locked the door after they went in.

“We went into a room and they locked another door. Then they made us call our families.”

He was lucky - his family managed to raise 220,000 taka (RM11,000) within three days to wire to the smuggler and he was set free. Those who did not meet the deadline were beaten, he says.

“They took us out one by one and we crossed through the jungle.”

Those who successfully slipped through the border into Malaysia were placed in a house, and made to call their friends.

“You must always have a friend. I called my friend in Kuala Lumpur, and he came to get me in Butterworth.”

Like a fugitive

Migration by sea was a growing trend Okup woke up to in 2013 - a year after Seron left - when its hotlines rung off the hook with complaints from panicked families who could not reach their loved ones.

Of the 158 complaints it received, only 13 percent said their loved ones left because they could not find work at home. Most were employed at home but left to find better ones abroad.

“I saw many people fall sick. They were taken away by the brokers and I didn’t see them later. I don’t know what happened to them in the middle of the sea,” one survivor is quoted as saying by the NGO in its report.

Some died on the journey, others were detained by Malaysian authorities after botched border crossings. Of those who succeeded in entering Malaysia, 60 percent could not find jobs.

Seron did find work but for three years, he lived the life of a near-fugitive.

During the day, at work on a construction site in the heart of Kuala Lumpur, he was safe.

“Bos sudah kira (The boss had paid),” he says, referring to a deal his employer made with the authorities to avoid raids.

But at night, as he laid down, the sleep is always fitful. Will there be a raid? Will he be caught? Will he be deported?

For this, Seron’s family paid brokers 10 times more than what Nazmun spent to fly to Malaysia 20 years ago.

If Nazmun could recoup his migration costs in a couple of months, Seron could barely do so in a year, even if he starved and slept on the streets.

In Cox’s Bazaar, Faruq, the agent, gave Seron a Malaysian phone number to call. Faruq said he should call this man once he had some money in his hands, so he could get himself a permit.

After more than a year of restless nights, Seron paid the man about RM2,000 to be legalised through the 6P programme. He never heard back from the man.

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

He made his way to the Bangladeshi High Commission, got assistance for travel documents and travelled back to Araihazar, broke and broken.

Part 1: Debt bondage - chasing the M’sian dream from Bangladesh to KL

Part 2: Land lost, debt-ridden, yet more flow from Bangladesh

Part 3: Why does a construction worker hold a ‘professional visa’?

AIDILA RAZAK is a member of the Malaysiakini team. This four-part series was written as part of the Asia Journalism Fellowship, supported by the Temasek Foundation.