Written by Ahona Hassan, with inputs from Jubdatul Jabed*

A picnic for justice may seem like a strange concept—what does sharing a meal have to do with legal rights? But at iProbono, listening to the people we work with has taught us something crucial: the biggest barriers to justice aren’t always legal. They’re social. They include factors like stigma and isolation, as well as lack of information about rights, or simply a lack of trust in systems that fail vulnerable people.

Take, for example, Taslima and Rozy. Both women live in Mirpur-13 neighbourhood in Dhaka, an area densely populated by working-class families. They are 20 years apart in age, and had never met. Yet their lives trace strikingly similar paths—both were married young and endured violence and abandonment by their spouses. Eventually, both found iProbono’s Legal Aid Clinics, run in collaboration with Karmojibi Nari, that provide women access to legal support.

Most women who came to these clinics, like Taslima and Rozy, faced their challenges alone.

This was why we invited them, along with Mira, Salma, Ayesha, and other women from the LAC program, to gather for a Picnic for Justice. It was a deliberate interlude of leisure of joy, as well as connection, in their lives.

The day began quietly. The women divided up tasks together. Rozy and Mira shopped for groceries, bargaining with vendors. Salma and Ayesha chopped vegetables. Rozy cooked in the Karmojibi Nari office kitchen.

But as the hours went by, something remarkable happened. The women spoke to each other freely, sharing stories in ways they had never done before. And by the end of the day, the gathering was bound into something stronger–a community of women who could turn to each other for support, and a space for solidarity. Their voices were now a way to offer inspiration to other women, and a path to empowerment and change.

Taslima

 “The first time I went to court, I cried. Now I can even go alone.” 

Married to her cousin at 14, Taslima found the relationship to be marked by demands and neglect. Her in-laws demanded expensive gifts, furniture, and gold from her family, and her meagre income from sewing masks and hairbands was taken by her mother-in-law. At 17, her first pregnancy nearly cost her her life. Her mother managed to raise the funds to get her the medical attention she needed. “It was my mother who saved me,” Taslima said. “She has always been the one to protect me.”

The COVID-19 lockdown in Dhaka led to hunger and further hardships. Her husband grew distant; her mother-in-law dictated every move. The final blow came in 2023: on their anniversary, her husband called to say he had married again.

But Taslima avoided pursuing legal action against him. “Breaking a family is like breaking a mosque,” she said. Besides, she had always feared having to deal with the police and courts. Gradually, however, she realised she needed to act for the sake of her son. A neighbour told her about iProbono’s Legal Aid Clinic in Mirpur 13. Here, she met a lawyer who explained the legal redress she could seek to get maintenance from her husband, and how long the process might take. For the first time, Taslima felt she could use the law to secure her rights. “They told me it would be a long road, but in the end it could bring justice.” 

With the LAC’s support, she filed a case claiming her unpaid dower as well as a maintenance allowance for her son. Soon after this, she faced threats from her in-laws. Even the police tried to extract bribes from her. Her husband was initially dismissive of her demands. But when he was issued with a court summon, he called her family, pressing for an “amicable” settlement. Supported by iProbono’s Legal Officer Tarek Rahman, Taslima agreed to meet him. That was when she realised that his fear of the law was even greater than hers.

In 2025, the couple agreed to a mutual divorce. Taslima was to receive her full dower, along with a monthly maintenance for her son. She was also given the jewellery and the furniture she had received as gifts during her marriage. This outcome secured Taslima support for her son, as well as access to her own rights. She has now agreed to withdraw her suit. The legal process has transformed her in many ways, she says.

 “The first time I went to court, I cried. Now I can even go alone.” 

Rozy

“I never imagined I could confront him.” 

Like Taslima, Rozy was married as a teenager and faced violence and abandonment from her husband and his family. Like Taslima, she too resisted initiating legal proceedings, because she was afraid of being turned out of her husband’s home, along with her young children. One day, her fears came true. She returned from visiting her sister to find herself locked out of her home. With no support from her relatives or the police, she turned to our LAC and filed a criminal case for dowry demand and simple hurt. 

Rozy’s struggles began long before she faced that locked door. Her marriage was troubled from the start and her husband had brought a second wife to their shared home. Rozy tried to seek justice through a shalish—a local arbitration. But her complaint was dismissed by the elders. At 16, Rozy walked out of the marriage, but was forced to leave behind her daughter. For the next few years, Rozy lived with her parents and found a degree of freedom and relief. But her husband manipulated her into returning for the sake of her child. The years that followed were filled with abuse, neglect, and financial strain. Each time she sought support, Rozy says, she was told, “Men are like this. Just adjust. When I went to the police they told me that extramarital affairs don’t even matter anymore. ‘Go home and make your marriage work,’they said.”

Being turned out of her home pushed her into finally taking action. Filing a case was a difficult process, filled with bureaucratic hurdles. “When I left, I was exhausted,” she admitted, “but I felt lighter too. At least I had spoken up.”

The case has yet to yield any tangible gains for her. But Rozy knows there is no going back. What sustains her determination are her three daughters, raised in the face of neglect and abuse. “They’ve stood by me. They say, ‘whatever decision you make, we’ll stand with you’.” Rozy now lives with them and her grandson in a small apartment. She has already achieved something she once thought was impossible. “I’m proud of the fact that I’ve stood up to my husband. I never imagined I could confront him. I fought so hard to raise my children. Now it is for them that I fight this battle.”

Humayra

“I thought it would be impossible. But it wasn’t.”

One of Rozy’s daughters is Humayra, who also found her way to the LAC, inspired by her mother. Humayra dropped out of school when she was in grade three. She got married for love at the age of 16, in a desperate bid to escape her family’s troubles. When her relatives tried to end her relationship, she eloped. “I was stubborn,” she admitted. “When my mother said I couldn’t get married, I wanted to prove I could.”

Things were happy in the early days. Her husband tended to her when she fell sick, looked after her during her pregnancy, and cared for their son as a newborn. But with time, his drug habit and eventual infidelity dismantled the life she had envisioned. Overwhelmed, Humayra attempted suicide twice. But like her mother, she found strength in the realisation that she had to fight for her child. She knew she could not repeat her mother’s mistake of enduring decades of silence under abuse. “I told myself, I am only 20. I can move forward. I will not waste my life the way she had to.” 

Following in Rozy’s footsteps, she approached the same Legal Aid Clinic (LAC). At first, Humayra didn’t expect much. Only when the lawyer shared his number with her and took her to court,  did she begin to believe the outcome could be in her favour. But when she went to the registrar’s office to finalise her divorce, Humayra discovered–to her complete shock–that her marriage had never been properly registered under Bangladeshi law to begin with. She first had to sign a declaration before a Notary Public confirming the marriage she was seeking to dissolve. 

The divorce was filed with the help of the LAC through a Kazi (marriage registrar). Her husband’s family tried to refuse the notice, thinking that would stop the process. But Humayra had been told by the lawyer that the law was on her side–and that the divorce would take effect after 90 days even without their response. That knowledge alone lifted a burden she had carried for years. “I thought it would be impossible. But it wasn’t.”

Today, her husband still calls her, but Humayra remains steadfast. “I will never go back,” she said firmly. Watching her son in the house she shares with Rozy, Humayra is planning a future for herself and her family. “I thought my life was over,” she said. “But I’m still here. And I chose this.” Watching her mother take the first step towards justice became her most precious inheritance. 

Salma and Ayesha

“At least we have spoken up.”

Salma and Ayesha are neighbours, and had spent years working for low wages in garment factories and later as domestic labourers. Both saved diligently over the years, only to face financial fraud. They were targeted by Karnaphuli Multipurpose (KM), a fraudulent scheme that gained the trust of the community by presenting itself as a legitimate cooperative. It promised to use deposits made by women like Salma and Ayesha for buying land, sending people abroad, and opening ventures such as a diagnostic centre and a market. They even organised a picnic on a plot they claimed was their farmland. Both Ayesha and Salma invested. “Everything looked official,” Ayesha said. “We believed it.”

But by 2021, cheques began bouncing, and some staff members were arrested. Most investors never recovered their money. When victims protested or sought justice, they were given false assurances. They went to government officials and  private lawyers, but were turned away or told to wait. In September 2024, Salma and Ayesha found their way to our LAC.

At the clinic, the lawyer advised them to file a case together.  They agreed, supporting each other in the process. The fear of retaliation kept many other victims of the scam silent, but Ayesha encouraged Salma to step forward as the lead complainant. “She is more educated ,” Ayesha explained. “She can handle the police and the court better.” Progress so far has been slow. When they visited the police station last month, they were told that the case was still under investigation. Still, Ayesha and Salma say filing through the LAC has changed how they see themselves. They are no longer silent victims.  

“We don’t know if we will get our money back,” Ayesha said. “But at least we have spoken up.” 

Ahona Hassan is former Program Consultant at iProbono in Bangladesh. Jubdatul Jabed is Program Manager at iProbono in Bangladesh.