Mír Abdul Alim

Recently, a national daily carried a rather ironic headline: “Travel is safe if you risk crossing the banned Demra–Rupganj Chanpara Bridge.” Anyone familiar with the reality could hardly read it without a bitter smile. The moment a vehicle sets foot on the bridge, it sways dangerously, as if the driver and passengers will lose balance altogether. Each pillar is almost loosened, railings broken, slabs caving in. Yet the administration remains silent, sitting idly with eyes closed. Every day, commuters cross this shaky bridge with whispered prayers. Students on their way to school, workers heading to factories, traders carrying goods—all rely on this fragile structure. Surely, the administration will act, won’t it? In their eyes, everything is “fine.” File submissions, reports, meetings—that is considered enough. Human life? That can wait.

This bridge is not merely steel and concrete; it is the living symbol of administrative negligence, corruption, and apathy. Newspaper reports may repeatedly call for urgent repair, but those appeals are trapped on the pages of print. On the ground, real people continue to risk their lives every single day.

If, one day, this bridge suddenly collapses, the consequences are not difficult to imagine. Countless lives will be lost, passenger-loaded vehicles and cargo will plunge into destruction, and within seconds the tragedy will unfold. Then we will see the familiar sequence: a high-powered inquiry committee will be formed, photographs will dominate the headlines for a few days, public discussions will follow briefly—and then the matter will quietly fade from memory. But for those who lose loved ones, the tragedy will never fade; it will become a permanent scar. That day, not just steel beams or concrete pillars will fall, but hundreds of families’ dreams, children’s futures, and people’s trust in the state will collapse too. Ultimately, ordinary citizens will be forced to pay the price of official negligence and corruption with their lives. Warnings before death are absent; investigations after death are routine. Our so-called “development” is exactly this—progress on paper, while in reality people live under the shadow of impending disaster.

For Rupganj and Demra residents, the Chanpara Bridge is the very lifeline of daily existence. Thousands cross it every day. Students go to school, workers head to their jobs, traders transport goods to Dhaka. The alternative routes are long, costly, and time-consuming. If this bridge is closed, daily travel will collapse. More than that, local industries, agriculture, and goods transportation will all come to a halt. Traffic movement in the entire area depends on this fragile bridge. The constant stop-and-go creates congestion as vehicles crawl across the weakened structure. And should the bridge collapse, the damage will not be limited to one horrific accident; the entire economic wheel of the region will grind to a halt. Business owners warn that even if the bridge remains closed for just a few hours daily, production losses run into crores of taka each month. Local people know that crossing this broken bridge is to risk both life and livelihood—but they continue, as if gambling with fate.

The condition of the bridge’s pillars resembles the rotting teeth of a centenarian—waiting for the final fall. Of the four major pillars, two were severely damaged after repeated hits from passing vessels. The remaining two have long been weakened; the riverbed soil beneath them has eroded. During the monsoon, the current grows fiercer, further destabilising the structure. Locals say, “Every day as we cross, it feels like the bridge could collapse at any moment.” This is not simply an infrastructural defect—it is a stark testimony to the state’s indifference to human life.

Reports reveal the bridge was built in the 1990s, using substandard rods and concrete. Oversight was absent. Within only 25–30 years, the bridge has reached the brink of collapse. From the very beginning, corruption in tendering and construction was evident. Today, ordinary people bear the price of that corruption—risking their lives every day. Structural flaws and corruption have together created a “death trap.” Engineers warn that design flaws now raise the risk of collapse by 50–60% daily. Yet the administration responds with endless reports, not real action. Workers, students, traders—all know the danger. A single wrong moment could trigger catastrophe. The psychological stress of living with such fear is itself damaging, creating a long-term health crisis. “One day it will fall, we know it,” locals say. “That thought never leaves us.” Still, the administration remains mute.

Eyewitness accounts, video footage, and expert reports all point to the same conclusion: the risk is rising daily. But authorities are frozen. This inertia is not only an infrastructural failure; it reflects a brutal disregard for human lives. Every day, boats in the river, trucks on the bridge, and vessels colliding with pillars deepen the cracks. The administration has failed to coordinate between road and river traffic. As a result, the bridge could collapse at any moment. Local teacher Motaleb Mia remarks bitterly: “The administration is only waiting for the day when a major accident takes place. Only then will they wake up—over our dead bodies.” Families, children, livelihoods—all hang in the balance. People cross daily knowing they are playing with death.

For any industrial hub, a bridge is not merely a passage—it is the artery of the economy. Every day, thousands of trucks, vans, and carriers depend on this bridge for supply and delivery. If it collapses, production and distribution will face an unprecedented shock. Raw materials will not reach factories in time; finished goods will remain stuck in warehouses. One by one, industries will slow down. Transportation costs will double, as alternative routes are longer and fuel-intensive. Daily losses will soon accumulate into crores of taka, striking directly at the heart of the national economy.

Political hypocrisy has only deepened this crisis. In Bangladesh’s political history, such false promises are nothing new. Before every election, people are assured—“There will be a bridge, a road, development.” But as soon as the polls end, the promises vanish into thin air. The pledge to rebuild or repair this bridge is no exception. Candidates showcase pictures of the bridge in their campaigns, vow loudly at rallies, “Work will begin soon.” Yet months and years pass, and nothing changes. For the people, the truth is now obvious: politics remains confined to photographs and slogans, while real lives and needs are always secondary. This betrayal does not just breed despair; it builds anger. Citizens feel used before elections, discarded afterward. The administration’s silence compounds the frustration. Every day, thousands cross a bridge that could collapse any moment, with no permanent solution in sight. Such negligence, if prolonged, will shatter public trust altogether—with catastrophic consequences.

In developed countries, even the smallest cracks in a bridge trigger urgent intervention. Experts rush in, traffic is suspended, repairs begin without delay. Because in their philosophy, no infrastructure can outweigh the value of a single human life. In Bangladesh, the scenario is reversed. A crack leads to a report, which leads to a meeting, which ends in silence. The pillars may be visibly broken, yet officials claim, “everything is fine.” Here, lives appear worthless; files and paperwork are more precious. With every passing day, the danger grows. This reveals our fatal lack of planning and administrative incompetence. Where thousands of lives and livelihoods depend on one bridge, there is no acceptable excuse for not providing an alternative route or a long-term plan. And yet, the administration limits itself to meetings and paperwork, while human lives remain on the line.

In the end, Chanpara Bridge is not merely an infrastructure crisis—it is a mirror reflecting the deeper reality of our governance. Here, lives matter less than files. Every day, thousands are forced to risk their lives on a broken bridge, while no permanent solution is offered. Warnings come only after death. Investigations begin only after tragedy. We hear glamorous tales of “development”—large budgets, mega projects, foreign loans. But these glossy stories fail to protect lives. The Chanpara Bridge is proof that our “development” is largely confined to documents and official statements, while on the ground, people live trapped in mortal danger. This is not just a bridge’s crisis—it is the naked exposure of a system’s failure.

The writer is a journalist, social researcher, and Secretary General of the Columnist Forum of Bangladesh.