The paradox of disability in Bangladesh is stark: we are a country that legislates compassion on paper but constructs hostility in concrete. Bangladesh's disabled population stands at over 36 lakh. They are, at least nominally, protected under the constitution, the Rights and Protection of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2013, and the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (CRPD), which the country ratified in 2007. Yet, the lived reality for these citizens is one of structural abandonment. Accessibility is rare, dignity is conditional, and rights exist largely as bureaucratic artefacts. As we approach the International Day of Persons with Disabilities, we must confront an uncomfortable truth: the state has mastered the art of acknowledging disabled people while simultaneously excluding them.
The constitutional framework is unequivocal. Article 15(d) obliges the state to provide social protection; Article 19 ensures equality of opportunity; and Article 27 guarantees equality before the law. Parliament responded with the Rights and Protection of Persons with Disabilities Act, which, in theory, promises accessibility, education, and employment. However, the subsequentRights and Protection of Persons with Disabilities Rules, 2015,exposed the system's fatal weaknesses—the very instrument meant to operationalise this act—by prioritising form over function, focusing on committee compositions and certification timelines while remaining silent on technical accessibility standards. They prescribe 30-day windows for issuing certificates but fail to mandate ramp gradients, tactile paving specifications, or minimum door widths.
This regulatory hollowness is etched into Dhaka's urban landscape. The majority of public buildings, courts, and hospitals remain inaccessible. Sidewalks are not just difficult; they are death traps for wheelchair users and the visually impaired. Even modern triumphs like the Metro Rail become islands of exclusion when the footpaths leading to them are broken or blocked. These are not mere infrastructural oversights; they are daily violations of Section 34 of the act. Without mandatory technical standards tied to building approvals, "accessibility" remains a subjective favour rather than an enforceable right.
The administrative failure is equally stark. The national registry, resulting in the Suborno Nagorik Card (Golden Citizen Card), which is a unique identification card for persons with disabilities, has made millions visible on a ledger but invisible in life. An identification card should be a passport to services; in Bangladesh, it has become a paper talisman. Holders of the card still queue for inaccessible services and are turned away from recruitment drives. The card grants identity but not access. This stands in sharp contrast to functional systems abroad. India's Unique Disability ID (UDID) pairs identification with municipal one-stop centres; Brazil's Benefício de Prestação Continuada (Continuous Cash Benefit) under the Organic Law of Social Assistance (LOAS) ties identity to means-tested cash benefits; and the UK's Access to Work programme links registration directly to workplace adaptations. These countries succeed because they treat the ID card as a trigger for funded services, not merely a statistic.
The human cost of this failure is currently visible on Dhaka's streets. In recent weeks, educated, degree-holding disabled graduates have staged sit-ins and hunger strikes. These are citizens who did everything the state asked: they obtained education, registered for their cards, and applied for jobs. Their exclusion represents a tragic waste of human capital, potentially costing the national economy millions in lost GDP and productivity. Yet, they remain shut out because the quota systems and "reservations" mentioned in the act lack enforcement mechanisms. There is no statutory compulsion for public institutions to fill reserved posts, and no financial penalty for those who ignore them. The committees tasked with oversight are housed within the very ministries they are supposed to monitor, lacking both independence and the teeth to impose sanctions.
To shift from symbolic inclusion to operational reality, the government must move beyond vague directives. Legislative reform is required to mandate detailed technical accessibility standards, linking building occupancy certificates strictly to compliance. The Suvarna Nagorik Card must be transformed into a service-linked instrument, where issuance automatically triggers eligibility for assistive devices, transport concessions, and social safety net payments. Furthermore, the fragmented bureaucracy needs to be replaced by ward-level one-stop centres that bundle certification and benefits, sparing families the indignity of navigating a hostile administration.
Most urgently, the state must establish an independent enforcement authority with the power to audit ministries and impose penalties for non-compliance with employment quotas. The graduates on Dhaka's streets are not pleading for charity; they are demanding what the constitution and the CRPD already promise—equal opportunity. The right to be counted cannot substitute for the right to participate. As the interim government champions a comprehensive agenda of state reform, it faces a fundamental test of its sincerity: whether it will build a fair system for all citizens. Until enforceable standards, independent oversight, and remedial powers are established, Bangladesh will remain what it has always been for 36 lakh of its people: a nation built without us.
Mir Preom Mosharrof is an independent legal analyst, holding an LLB from the University of London and an LLM from North South University. The author is living with ankylosing spondylitis.
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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