Mirpur-13 is one of Dhaka’s densest neighbourhoods, home to thousands of women who work in the garment factories that drive Bangladesh’s economy. It is also where, over the past two years, iProbono and Karmojibi Nari (KN), meaning Working Women, have been running Legal Aid Clinics in collaboration,  inside KN’s network of women’s cafés. These are spaces women already trust and frequent. We wanted to understand whether legal support could take root there too.

The experience of these LAC’s reshaped what I thought I knew about legal aid. 

When I first began working on this initiative, I had no idea that the most meaningful part of the journey would unfold in conversations inside women’s homes, in women’s cafés, and in ordinary corners of Dhaka. It led me to understand the vital nature of listening as a tool for justice. 

The collaboration 

The program took over two years of planning and work. In 2024, I met Sanzida Sultana, one of the women leaders of Karmojibi Nari. The organisation had already built a strong network of women’s cafés, where visitors received free health guidance and psychosocial support. Yet legal issues remained largely unaddressed. Women were clearly seeking help, but there was no structured system to respond to their legal needs.

We started with a three-month pilot of Legal Aid Clinics, hosting six clinics – one on one sessions between the women workers and our lawyers. I expected labour rights to dominate the cases that came up, but the reality that emerged was far more complex. Domestic violence, abandonment, financial fraud, inheritance disputes, housing issues, and family conflicts surfaced repeatedly. Labour-related concerns existed, but they were rarely at the centre of women’s struggles.

Some days the room was full, with women speaking over one another, eager to be heard. On other days, only two or three women arrived. I stopped viewing the pilot through the lens of success or failure. Instead, I began to see it as a map of trust. Before this, I had not seen trust-building as a big part of measuring success or impact. My conversations with the women workers changed that.  

Many of them were critical of lawyers, and there was even a degree of hostility towards them. At the same time, we were also finding our footing, and the communities we engaged with were unsure whether we would truly respond to their needs.

By the end of the pilot, it became clear that while legal aid could function within these spaces, our way of listening needed to change. Intake forms and questionnaires provided information, but not understanding. To truly grasp women’s legal journeys, we needed a more human approach.

Legal aid clinics themselves are not new, and I have long experienced organising them. When designing this programme for iProbono, I ensured that beneficiaries would be properly heard by lawyers with empathy, rather than being treated as a procedural obligation. Being involved in these interviews helped me understand that we could do even better. I discussed this with Supriya Roychoudhury, iProbono’s Impact and Research Director, and Dr Efadul Huq, co-founder of the Queer Archive of the Bengal Delta and part of iProbono’s Accelerate programme. Together, we created a plan to conduct personal interviews, allowing them to speak at their own pace. I called each beneficiary and asked where they would feel most comfortable meeting me. Everyone suggested the same place: at home.

That insight profoundly changed the direction of our work.

Storytelling

I visited with two colleagues — Ahona Hasan and Rahat Hossain. We brought sweets. We sat on the floor. I introduced myself simply as someone from iProbono, not as Program Manager, and I did not begin with legal questions. I asked about childhood, about small memories. Ahona took notes while Rahat documented the process through photography.

Our beneficiaries are working women from grassroots backgrounds. Most of their homes are extremely small. For example, Taslima lives in a single room with her father, mother, younger brother, and child. This was not surprising to me; it is a common reality here. Although the Ready-Made Garments sector is one of the most prominent contributors to Bangladesh’s economy, many working women continue to live with very limited social and economic security.

Each woman had come to the Legal Aid Clinic carrying pain, wounds, and trauma. Many of them cried during our conversations. I did not try to hide my own emotions; I cried with them. In one interview, a beneficiary’s child sat on my lap throughout the entire conversation.

These one-to-one interviews helped us receive neutral and honest reflections. Each interview ended with the same question: “What are you proud of?”

Picnic for Justice 

After completing all the individual interviews, we wanted to follow up the process through a day-long storytelling workshop, or perhaps more accurately, a hangout. The purpose was to bring the beneficiaries together for the first time. Although they live in the same area and share similar struggles and trauma, many of them did not know one another. I began to think: why not guide, nurture, and empower them so they can become voices for other working women and advocate for women’s and children’s rights?

So we brought the women together for a gathering — a picnic where they could relax, enjoy an interlude of leisure, and speak to each other without any structure. The women bought ingredients together, cooked together, and shared a meal.

In this relaxed setting, women spoke freely about their experiences with the Legal Aid Clinics. They shared what helped them, what frightened them, what they wished had been different, and what they hoped for in the future. The workshop did not replace the one-on-one interviews; rather, it complemented them. Together, these processes demonstrated how women’s voices transform when moving from individual reflection to collective space and solidarity.

What we learned 

For me, the interviews and picnic revealed important gaps in the process of providing access to justice for vulnerable communities. 

The most significant issue that came up for our group, for example, was the lack of communication between lawyers and clients. Women often did not understand why court dates were postponed or what progress had been made in their cases. They travelled long distances, waited for hours, and returned home feeling defeated because no one explained the process clearly.

We also learned that some KN staff, unintentionally, reinforced distance. The dynamic felt formal and intimidating, affecting mobilisation and follow up. Women hesitated to approach staff, even when they needed help.

Privacy was another concern. Many clinics took place in open rooms where group activities continued. Confidential conversations need privacy, especially for sensitive issues. We worked with KN to identify more suitable spaces for future clinics.

Finally, we made space in our documentation process to capture the contextual details that shaped each woman’s experience. 

Building on this momentum and the trust these exercises generated in the community, we are now working towards initiating a Restorative Justice Program.  This would see women providing a network of legal support to each other, by training as Restorative Justice Facilitator. With knowledge of legal processes and restorative justice, they can offer peer support and help resolve conflicts before they escalate into legal crises. 

To me, this feels like a natural next step, maybe even like progress. Justice, after all, begins when people are heard and continues when they are empowered to support one another.

As we continue this journey, I hope more legal practitioners and organisations will centre community voices in designing systems that are humane, accessible, and built on trust.