Is Bangladesh’s private tutoring economy built on labour exploitation?

Every afternoon, university students, often fresh from lectures of their own, step into homes to teach children algebra, grammar, chemistry, and sometimes far more than what is written in the syllabus. 

They are home tutors: an invisible workforce that keeps the country's parallel education system running, while surviving on wages that barely reflect their labour, time, or emotional cost.

For many students, private tutoring is not a choice made lightly or enthusiastically. It is a financial necessity. Tuition fees, rent, transport, books, and food add up quickly, particularly for those who have moved away from home to study in Dhaka or other major cities. With very few opportunities of part-time work available, tutoring becomes the default path.

The pay, tutors say, is the first blow. Monthly fees of Tk3,500 to Tk6,000 are routinely offered for teaching five days a week, often across multiple subjects, for sessions of minimum two hours that quietly stretch longer. In a city where the cost of living rises every year, such amounts barely cover transport and meals, let alone rent or savings. Many tutors point out, bitterly but truthfully, that domestic workers are now often paid more.

Yet low pay does not come with low expectations. Guardians frequently demand highly credentialed tutors; graduates or current students from institutions such as BUET, IBA, or science departments of University of Dhaka, to teach middle-school mathematics or English. Experience is expected, results are non-negotiable, and improvement must be visible almost immediately. If the child does not turn into a high-achieving "superstudent", the tutor is deemed incompetent.

Between tutors and guardians sit the tuition media; agencies that promise to connect teachers with students but often take 40-50% of the first month's payment. In return, tutors describe receiving little more than a phone number and a list of rigid rules: attendance policies that favour guardians, sudden cancellations without compensation, and zero protection if payments are delayed or withheld. The risk, as always, falls on the tutor.

Respect is another casualty. Many tutors speak of being treated as expendable, easily replaceable and endlessly adjustable. Classes are rescheduled at short notice, sometimes forcing tutors to skip their own university lectures. When students miss sessions, the financial loss is quietly absorbed by the tutor. When tutors miss one, even for legitimate reasons, it becomes a mark against their "professionalism".

The classroom itself can be another source of strain. Teaching children is demanding work, especially when students are unmotivated, disrespectful, or struggling with basic discipline. After a full day of their own academic responsibilities, tutors are expected to summon patience, clarity, and enthusiasm on command. Mental exhaustion accumulates quickly. There is only so much emotional labour one person can give before the threshold breaks.

A painful contradiction runs through this system. Many tutors openly acknowledge that by accepting poorly paid offers, they contribute to the very exploitation they resent. But turning down work is a luxury few can afford. Financial distress is often private, isolating, and difficult to explain—even to friends. Leaving tutoring is not always an option when it is the difference between paying rent and falling behind.

This quiet crisis rarely enters public conversation. Parents worry about grades, agencies chase commissions, and policymakers focus on formal education. Meanwhile, thousands of university students remain trapped in a cycle of underpaid labour, delayed payments, and emotional burnout; teaching the next generation while struggling to survive themselves.

While exploitation is widespread, experiences within the tutoring economy vary, sometimes sharply, depending on subject, level, location, and negotiation power.

"I teach a Class 1 English-medium student for Tk5,000 per month—reasonable on paper, but laden with unspoken demands. They'd expect me to stay a little longer during exams, or come regularly on exam week. In some cases, I was even asked to teach the student's younger sibling without additional pay."

Sheikh Sidratul Muntaha, university student and private tutor

Sneha, who teaches IELTS preparation, describes a more complex relationship with fairness. Her work oscillates between strategic guidance and intensive remedial teaching. "In some cases, it feels like I am not doing enough work," she says, noting that she often adds extra practice sessions to justify her fees. "But in other cases, there are students who really lack the basics of English grammar. I need to put in tremendous effort to bring them from maybe a 5 to 7 or 7.5. In those cases, sometimes, it doesn't really feel fair."

Unlike many others, Sneha has not faced delayed payments or uncompensated cancellations. Tutoring, she says, does not threaten her financial stability, as it functions largely as a side hustle. Guardians' expectations are clearly defined and tied to results. "They want a band score," she explains, "because IELTS registration requires a lot of money." Still, she acknowledges that respect and fairness differ widely across households. "There are people who value your time and the rate you charge. But there are also people who simply do not care." Her advice to other students is firm: do not accept tuition unless it matches your rate.

For Sheikh Sidratul Muntaha, tutoring is not a side income but a "big pillar" of financial stability. She teaches a Class 1 English-medium student for Tk5,000 per month—reasonable on paper, but laden with unspoken demands. "They'd expect me to stay a little longer during exams," she says, "or come regularly on exam week." In some cases, she was even asked to teach the student's younger sibling without additional pay.

She also highlights a dimension rarely discussed: safety. "Do not go for the demo class all by yourself," she warns other tutors. "You are entering a stranger's house." Beyond academics, her work extends into emotional and social labour. 

"A home tutor does not just go, teach and leave. They motivate the students, play with them, give them life advice, influence them—and so much more." Muntaha believes such labour should be recognised formally. "This should count as genuine work experience," she says, "because students are learning, investing time, and gaining real skills."

Tahmid Zarif Prinon, who tutors across school, college, and admission levels, offers a contrasting picture shaped by experience, location, and negotiation power. Charging between Tk7,000 and Tk15,000 depending on level, he describes his compensation as fair when transport costs, materials, constant monitoring, and additional academic support are considered. "Teaching admission candidates means notes, exams, data collection, feedback to guardians, and availability on WhatsApp," he explains.

Yet even he has faced sudden cancellations without compensation—sometimes for reasons as arbitrary as guardians deciding they prefer a female tutor. "Such practices are mentally tiring," he says. For Tahmid, tutoring covers "need expenses, not want ones"; side costs rather than full financial security. He also points out a gendered imbalance in the system, noting that female tutors often face greater vulnerability in both pay and behaviour from guardians.

Despite its flaws, all three tutors acknowledge why the system persists. With few part-time job options for university students, tutoring remains the most accessible source of income. As Tahmid puts it, "Teaching is some sort of passion for me, but it is also a responsibility, not a 9-to-5 job."

Together, their accounts reinforce what the afternoon school day already reveals: a fragmented, informal system that sustains itself on individual negotiation rather than institutional protection—where fairness is inconsistent, respect is conditional, and survival often depends on how much a student can endure. 

Home tutors are not asking for sympathy alone. They are asking for fairness: realistic workloads, timely payments, transparent mediation, and basic respect for their time and expertise. Until then, the afternoon school day will continue—unseen, underpaid, and carried on the backs of students who can no longer afford to stop.