Why women’s financial literacy is a feminist issue

Bangladeshi women are very good with money. We stretch it, ration it, rescue households with it, and somehow still manage to make ends meet when the arithmetic refuses to cooperate. Yet the investment knowledge imparted to us remains largely limited to the purchase of gold jewellery. What we are far less encouraged to do is plan with money or grow it. Women in this country are taught to save—save because tomorrow might be a rainy day. We are praised for being careful, patient, and frugal. But when the conversation moves from saving to investing, the tone changes. Investing is treated as complicated and risky.

This is not a gap that can be fixed with a few tips. It is built into how women are taught to relate to money in the first place. Money is not just about income; it is about choices over time. Financial literacy is what turns income into choice. Without it, women earn, contribute, and survive, but rarely secure themselves. They remain financially responsible yet economically exposed.

For many women, this is where financial education begins and ends. Saving is encouraged. Take Paribarik Sanchayapatra, for instance. It is a women-only, government-backed savings certificate that allows women to invest up to Tk 45 lakh per individual, with a stable monthly income and strong capital protection. It is designed to provide financial stability, yet many women are never told how it works, what the ceiling actually is, or how it fits into a broader financial plan. Most encounter it as a vague suggestion at a bank counter, not as a financial tool explained with purpose or strategy.

Strategy, however, is rarely discussed. Very few Bangladeshi women are taught even the basics of how money behaves over time: how inflation quietly reduces the value of idle savings; why relying on a single instrument, however safe, creates its own risks; and how different tools serve different functions. Savings protect. Investments build. Pensions secure the future. Asset ownership creates leverage. All of these are parts of the same ecosystem, yet women are rarely shown the full picture.

Instead, women are nudged towards caution without being given context. This produces a generation that avoids risk but also avoids growth. Financial responsibility becomes synonymous with staying still. Social framing plays a role here. Financial ambition in women still unsettles people—not because it is abrasive, but because it disrupts expectations. A man who invests is assumed to be planning ahead. A woman who invests is often assumed to be experimenting. If a man loses money, it is treated as experience. If a woman loses money, it is treated as poor judgment. This difference is subtle but persistent, and women internalise it long before they open their first bank account.

Even when women earn independently, their income is rarely treated as capital. It is treated as supplementary—useful and appreciated, but secondary. As a result, women earn salaries but are not encouraged to think about asset ownership. They save diligently but do not diversify. They support households but do not build independent financial cushions. This is particularly dangerous in Bangladesh, where women live longer, experience career interruptions, marry later, divorce more frequently than ever before, and shoulder a disproportionate share of unpaid care work. In this context, not understanding how to invest becomes a long-term vulnerability.

What makes this more frustrating is that options do exist. Bangladesh has introduced a Universal Pension Scheme under the Universal Pension Management Act, 2023, administered by the National Pension Authority. It allows voluntary enrolment beyond the formal workforce and explicitly includes informal workers, the self-employed, and homemakers—particularly through the Surokkha scheme—recognising that millions of people, especially women, work without salaries or contracts. Yet awareness of this option remains extremely limited. Many women assume pensions are only for salaried jobs, when the law now provides a pathway for long-term income security even for those whose labour has never been formally recognised.

What does not exist is a culture of connecting these dots. Mutual funds that are professionally managed and designed for people who do not want to trade or speculate; preferential SME loans for women entrepreneurs under Bangladesh Bank refinancing schemes; legal inheritance rights that exist on paper but are often surrendered quietly in the name of family harmony—these are rarely discussed together. Financial literacy does not require women to become stock market experts. It requires understanding a few foundational principles: that money left idle loses value; that risk can be managed, not simply avoided; that diversification is protection, not recklessness; that income and wealth are not the same thing; and that long-term planning matters.

For many women, a sensible approach might look like this: keep an emergency fund in cash; use Paribarik Sanchayapatra or fixed deposits for income stability; allocate a portion of savings to low-risk mutual funds to protect against inflation; contribute regularly, even in small amounts, to a pension scheme; and discuss insurance. Ensure at least one asset is registered in your own name. None of this is radical. It is basic financial hygiene. Yet most women are never walked through these ideas in plain language. The silence around money only compounds the problem.

There is embarrassment around not knowing and judgement around knowing too much. As a result, mistakes remain private, lessons remain isolated, and everyone assumes they are navigating decisions alone—decisions that will shape decades of their lives. This is why women's financial literacy is a feminist issue. Without it, women remain dependent longer than necessary. They delay leaving unhealthy workplaces or relationships, not because they lack courage, but because they lack financial clarity. Financial uncertainty keeps people compliant; knowledge loosens that grip.

What Bangladesh needs is more conversation, more structure and more access to clear, practical education. We need regular financial literacy workshops for women, held in community centres, universities, workplaces, and professional spaces. Not jargon-heavy seminars, but practical sessions that explain savings, investments, pensions, taxes, and asset ownership in language women can actually use—sessions that answer real questions and treat women as economic adults.

Money education should not be something women stumble upon accidentally in their thirties. It should be part of how we prepare them for adulthood. A woman who understands money understands choice. She may still choose family, caregiving, or sacrifice, but she does so knowingly. That choice must be ensured.

In a country where women already carry families through crisis after crisis, equipping them with financial knowledge is a responsibility. If feminism in Bangladesh is about dignity, then it must include money—not just earning it, but understanding its mechanisms; not just saving it, but structuring it; not just surviving on it, but using it to create room to breathe. Anything less is not empowerment.

Barrister Noshin Nawal is a columnist for The Daily Star. She can be reached at [email protected].

Views expressed in this article are the author's own. 

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