Every year during Eid, Dhaka becomes almost unrecognizable. A city that is typically restless and relentlessly in motion suddenly seems to pause.
The chaotic echoes of passersby and city dwellers fade. Traffic eases, the blare of horns softens, and footpaths once crowded with hawkers fall silent.
The dominance of Bangla Teslas, the battery-run rickshaws that crowd the streets year-round, noticeably declines. Even the familiar presence of beggars becomes less visible.
For a brief period, Dhaka feels calm and breathable, a city closer to what many wish it could always be.
Yet this calm is misleading.
Behind the silence lies a vast seasonal migration. In the days leading up to Eid, hundreds of thousands leave the capital for their ancestral homes. Estimates suggest that between 1.5 and 2 million people depart. By the time Eid arrives, nearly half the city’s population may be temporarily outside Dhaka.
For those who remain, mobility becomes remarkably easier. Routes that usually demand hours shrink to minutes. From Motijheel to Agargaon, through Gulistan, Farmgate, and Kawran Bazar, major roads lose their familiar congestion.
Where gridlock is normally routine, open stretches of asphalt appear. The transformation changes not only the city’s pace but also its mood. It seems, for a moment, like the serene urban environment we long for throughout the year.
But the moment one leaves the neighbourhood streets and steps into Dhaka’s recreational spaces, the illusion of comfort quickly dissolves.
At Rabindra Sarobar, Ramna Park, or Zia Udyan, the supposedly empty city reveals a different reality. These limited open spaces overflow with families, children, and young people. The same rush can be seen at the National Parliament complex, where people gather in large numbers for recreation.
The pattern is unmistakable. During Eid, Dhaka’s residents are not short of time. They are short of places to spend it.
There is hardly any truly adequate space where children can enjoy themselves freely. While artificial entertainment centres such as Babuland offer controlled amusement, they are no substitute for open public playgrounds.
Many still wish for the reopening of Shishu Park, a place that once represented simple and accessible childhood joy. A city that cannot provide safe, open spaces for its children is a city failing to nurture its future.
The scarcity of public space is also evident in the city’s commercial venues. Restaurants such as Crowne Plaza Dhaka Gulshan, and coffee shops like Tabaq Coffee and North End Coffee Roasters, become crowded refuges during holidays.
Social media is filled with videos of well-decorated, aesthetically pleasing interiors where people seek moments of stress relief. Dhaka undoubtedly has a vast number of sophisticated restaurants and cafés. But is that truly enough? Are these places genuinely serving our collective purpose?
In reality, these spaces are limited and transactional. It is common to wait a long time for a chair. Even after securing a seat, one often senses others standing nearby, waiting for theirs. Leisure becomes constrained by consumption and turnover. Comfort is temporary and conditional.
The crisis is not merely anecdotal; it is structural. Across more than 120 wards in Dhaka North and South, there are only about 50 parks in total.
Many wards have no park or playground at all. Over the past two decades, the number of playgrounds has declined even as the population has grown rapidly.
According to international planning standards, a city of Dhaka’s size should have thousands of playgrounds and significantly more green space.
The World Health Organization recommends at least nine square metres of green space per person. Dhaka falls far below that threshold. For most residents, access to an open space within walking distance of home remains out of reach.
Eid exposes a deep urban paradox. People leave Dhaka in search of peace, while those who remain struggle to find it within the city itself.
The problem is not simply that the number of city dwellers is high. It is that although they have places to live, they have nowhere adequate to go.
This points to a deeply troubling reality: A city may expand vertically and commercially, yet fail horizontally in providing space for collective life.
Other cities have taken different approaches. Singapore has integrated green spaces into residential planning. Curitiba in Brazil converted flood-prone land into public parks. Seoul transformed highway infrastructure into recreational space. Delhi has expanded biodiversity parks and public gardens.
These examples demonstrate a simple truth: Public space is not a luxury. It is infrastructure.
If Dhaka is to become genuinely livable, open space must move to the centre of urban investment.
Existing parks and water bodies must be protected from encroachment. Every ward should have playgrounds proportionate to its population. Closed or neglected facilities such as Shishu Park should be rebuilt around principles of safety, inclusion, and affordability.
Future housing and infrastructure projects must include mandatory provisions for open space. Community libraries, cultural centres, and neighbourhood parks should be treated as essential components of urban life.
Eid offers Dhaka a fleeting glimpse of relief and normalcy. Reduced traffic and quieter streets suggest that a different urban rhythm is possible.
At the same time, overcrowded parks and packed commercial venues reveal what is missing for the rest of the year.
The silence of Eid is not merely peaceful; it is instructive. It reminds us that Dhaka does not lack vitality. It lacks space for that vitality to flourish with dignity.
Unless this imbalance is addressed, Dhaka will remain a city people feel compelled to escape from, even when they never truly leave it.
Nafew Sajed Joy is a writer, researcher, and environmentalist. He can be reached at [email protected].
