Dhaka: a city of protests, paralysis and patience

For the roughly 20 million residents of Dhaka, it seems there are almost as many protest rallies as there are people. Every day, like clockwork, some group decides to occupy a stretch of the city's already overburdened roads to demand justice, compensation, reforms, or, in some cases, just attention. While their causes may vary from noble to niche, the one constant is the ripple effect their demonstrations have on the lives of the rest of us -- those who are simply trying to get through another day in a city that is, quite frankly, hanging by a thread.

Monday's chaos was a classic example. Four protests in different parts of the city left Dhaka paralysed, as if it wasn't already wheezing under the weight of its infamous traffic jams. Commuters stranded for hours could do nothing but stew in frustration, reroute their journeys, or, in some cases, give up altogether. After all, what's a missed meeting, a late delivery, or an emergency appointment in a city where disruption is practically the norm?

Star file photo

The irony here is hard to miss. Dhaka is a city that already struggles to function. Footpaths are gobbled up by street vendors; roads are narrowed by illegally parked vehicles; and the remaining space is claimed by a mix of rickshaws, buses, cars, and pedestrians all fighting for survival. Add a protest or two (or four) into this volatile mix, and you have a recipe for gridlock that can bring even the most patient soul to the brink of despair.

The protesters, of course, have their grievances. And while some causes -- like raising the age limit for government jobs or addressing unreasonable VAT hikes -- might elicit sympathy, the method of airing these grievances inevitably pits the demonstrators against their fellow citizens. For every job seeker or CNG driver demanding justice, there are hundreds of commuters stuck in a sweltering bus, missing work, exams, or critical appointments. Their suffering is often reduced to a footnote in the narrative of these protests, as if their lives and time are collateral damage in the fight for justice.

What's worse is the predictable response -- or lack thereof -- from the authorities. Rarely are proactive measures taken to prevent or manage these disruptions. Instead, barricades are hastily erected, police scuffles ensue, and the cycle repeats the following day with another protest in another corner of the city. It's a pattern that has become so routine, one wonders if Dhakaites have developed a Stockholm Syndrome-like relationship with their traffic woes.

Star file photo

The plight of Dhaka dwellers is compounded by their own personal struggles. For many, navigating the city's chaos is a daily battle of endurance. Parents scramble to get their children to school on time; workers brave hours-long commutes to earn their livelihoods; and emergency vehicles inch forward, their sirens drowned out by the cacophony of honking horns and yelling drivers. In such a setting, even a small disruption can tip the scales, turning an already bad day into an unbearable one.

And yet, we, Dhaka residents, endure. We adjust our routes, reschedule our appointments, and silently curse our luck as we sit in traffic, inching forward one painful metre at a time. We are resilient, yes, but one has to wonder: how much longer can this resilience hold? At what point does the collective frustration of a city reach its boiling point?

Perhaps the real question is this: can we imagine a Dhaka where protests don't cripple the city, where grievances are addressed through dialogue rather than disruption, and where commuters can navigate their lives without constant fear of being caught in yet another demonstration? For now, such a Dhaka remains a distant dream -- one as elusive as a traffic or rally free road in the heart of the capital.