From time immemorial, Bangladesh’s working-class people have fueled their economic wheel and set their family’s condition in motion by sacrificing their happiness in foreign lands.

This book is my small effort to shine the torch on their plight on foreign soil.

I have been observing the doomed souls’ silent tears and hearing their heartbreaking stories for the last eight years.In 2014, I heard another inhuman story from several people. Their company rented a garage-like space for 49 people. There was no kitchen, and no decent bathroom. When they came home from work, they had to take turns cooking on a heating stove. They had to queue up if they wanted to use the bathroom. After spending twelve hours working and another two hours of traveling, they came to the room after fourteen hours, ate, and went to bed at about midnight. After sleeping only for three hours, those poor fellows again had to get up early and line up to go to the bathroom. The company bus arrived between four and five in the morning to take them to work. The bus did not have any air conditioning. A medium-sized bus packed with 50/51 people and an hour-long ride in the Middle East’s sweltering heat is not desirable for a healthy person. Keeping the windows open was not an available option because of desert sandstorms. It’s like roasting a living person on slow heat.