Dhaka is not for old people, but it is their city too

My first memories of my grandfather date back to a time when he was already retired. Back then, my understanding of what it meant to be "old" was shaped entirely by my grandparents. My grandfather, however, was still fully active and self-reliant. He had his wife, my grandmother, by his side for companionship and conversation. He even took on another job after retirement, simply to keep himself busy.

He often walked me to and from school, and I remember vividly the bus rides we took together to visit my aunts and uncles. But now, more than two decades later, he rarely leaves the house and struggles with even the most basic of human activities. My idea of what it means to grow old has changed, and not for the better. And in a city like Dhaka, that reality feels particularly stark.

Because my grandfather lives with us, I have an intimate view of the challenges older people typically face every day. Even now, in his early 90s, he must visit the bank once a year in person to keep his retirement pension active. Once that annual deadline approaches, he calls me and asks if I can take him. For reasons only he knows, he prefers going to the bank with me. And in this simple ritual, there is a certain warmth, a reminder that our elders still seek purpose and belonging, even in the smallest of acts.

The first obstacle is mobility. We are fortunate to have a lift in our building without which it would be nearly impossible for him to walk down seven flights of stairs. But the absence of lifts elsewhere means he cannot visit some of his children and grandchildren. If their homes aren't accessible, there's simply no way for him to go to their houses, which means everyone must come to him. That, of course, isn't always possible.

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Then there is the ordeal of transportation. Getting him from the ground floor into a CNG-run auto-rickshaw or a car is a slow, careful process. The 30 or so steps from our gate to the street are risky. Rickshaws, motorbikes and cars rush past, indifferent to anyone around. There's no footpath near our house, which makes that small walk even more hazardous. And because it takes time for him to get into a vehicle, impatient drivers often honk and yell. The absence of a safe footpath also means he cannot take the slow afternoon walks he loves—something so small, yet vital, for physical and mental well-being.

Once we reach the bank, a new challenge begins. Often there is a lot of walking, waiting in queues, and going from one counter to another. Some people do try to be mindful of his age and limited mobility and help as much as possible, but the truth is most places in this city simply aren't designed with elderly people in mind. 

We are lucky that we can afford private transport like auto-rickshaws and ride-sharing services. I cannot help but think of those who must rely on public transport services—buses that rarely stop properly at designated bus stands, let alone offer any accessibility support. Even our much-celebrated metro rail, which does have accessibility features, has broken or non-functional lifts.

Ageing inevitably brings more frequent hospital visits, but most of our hospitals are poorly equipped to support the elderly. Public hospitals are overcrowded and chaotic, while private hospitals are prohibitively expensive. Even ambulances, sirens blaring, get trapped in Dhaka's unrelenting traffic. There is no guarantee an elderly person will reach a medical facility in time, even during an emergency.

Affordable home-based medical check-ups that are so vital for those with mobility issues remain out of reach for most families. As a result, many are forced to endure the exhausting and risky process of taking their elderly family members through congested streets and to crowded waiting rooms.

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Perhaps what's the most heartbreaking for people like my grandfather is loneliness. While he lives with us, his daughter and grandchildren, that is the full extent of his social life. He calls relatives occasionally, but in-person meetings are rare. We humans have an innate need for socialisation, yet due to a lack of parks, accessible public spaces, and inclusive infrastructure, elderly people in Dhaka are largely confined to their homes. And given the patriarchal structure of our society, one could easily guess how it must be for elderly women. The struggles of elderly women are a combination of the problems that come with age and those that come with being a woman. 

We have built a society where many elderly people are entirely dependent on others to go out. But not everyone has family members who can spare the time or resources to provide that support. Shouldn't we, as a society, create a safe system with accessible infrastructure, safe parks and public spaces, and well-designed public transport systems so that people of all ages, including the elderly, can move about, socialise, and enjoy the outdoors? In our rush to build roads, bridges, and high-rises, we seem to have forgotten those who came before us. And in doing so, we are forgetting ourselves—because we, too, will grow old one day.

This year's International Day of Older Persons calls for due recognition for the elderly people not as passive recipients of care but as agents of change—individuals whose wisdom, resilience, and lived experience continue to shape families, communities, and nations. My grandfather, even in his 90s, insists on managing his own pension because it gives him a sense of purpose. His stories, advice, and gentle humour are lessons for us young people.

To truly honour our elders, we must do more than care for them. We must uphold their rights, protect their dignity, and let their voices be heard in decision-making. From designing accessible buildings and transport systems to reforming bureaucratic processes and healthcare, we need policies that reflect the reality of ageing. We must end age discrimination and build communities where everyone, regardless of their age, can live with dignity, purpose, and opportunities. If we begin to see our elderly citizens as central to our shared future rather than "burden" from the past, we will not only make their lives better, but make our society more humane, more inclusive, and as a consequence be more prepared for our own future.

Monorom Polok is a member of the editorial team at The Daily Star.

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

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