I’ve been traveling across northern Bangladesh quite often these days. Long stretches of highway, fields stretching into the horizon, and small bazaars waking up at dawn. It should feel calm. Instead, there’s a growing unease that follows me on every trip.
It usually starts the same way.
A battery-run rickshaw suddenly appears on a national highway, wobbling slightly under the weight of passengers or goods. A local van follows behind it—slower, exposed, vulnerable. Then comes a bus or truck—fast, heavy, unforgiving. For a few seconds, everything shares the same narrow strip of road. And in those few seconds, you can almost feel how fragile the situation is.
Here’s the thing: these vehicles were never meant for highways.
Battery-run rickshaws and local vans are designed for short, local roads—quiet neighborhood lanes, village paths, bazaar connections. They move at a human pace. But now, they are operating in spaces where speed, pressure, and risk are several times higher.
What this really means is simple: we are using the wrong vehicles in the wrong place—and the consequences are now impossible to ignore.
When a Daily Commute Turns Into a Risk
Talk to anyone who regularly uses these highways—parents of school-going children, office commuters, or everyday rural passengers—and you’ll hear the same quiet concern.
Every day, they calculate risk.
A child crossing the road.
A family riding a slow-moving van.
A commuter stuck behind an underpowered vehicle while faster traffic builds pressure from behind.
It doesn’t take a major collision to create harm. A slight misjudgment, a sudden brake, a split-second mistake—and lives change instantly.
And we are already seeing the outcome:
- Road accidents are increasing
- Injuries are becoming more frequent
- Deaths, tragically, are no longer rare headlines
This is no longer just about transport efficiency. This is about human safety. About whether people can leave home and return safely.
Why Is This Happening?
The reality is layered.
For many drivers, battery-run rickshaws are a livelihood. They are affordable, accessible, and in many cases, the only available source of income. Asking them to simply “stay off highways” without alternatives ignores this economic truth.
At the same time, enforcement is weak or inconsistent. Highways that should be regulated spaces become mixed corridors where slow and fast vehicles compete.
And then there’s the planning gap.
We haven’t created enough dedicated local roads or safe transport networks that allow these vehicles to operate where they belong. So they spill over into highways—not out of choice, but necessity.
The Cost of Looking Away
It’s easy to normalize this. We see it every day. It becomes part of the background.
But normalizing risk is dangerous.
Because every accident is not just a statistic—it’s a family, a story interrupted, a future altered. A child who doesn’t make it to school. A parent who doesn’t return home.
When negligence becomes routine, loss becomes inevitable.
So, What Needs to Change?
There’s no single fix, but the direction is clear.
Highways must be treated as controlled spaces. Slow-moving vehicles like battery-run rickshaws and local vans should not be operating there. That requires consistent, visible enforcement—not occasional drives, but a sustained system.
At the same time, alternatives must exist. If we push these vehicles off highways, we must ensure there are designated local routes where they can operate safely and legally.
Coordination is key. Regulation without monitoring doesn’t work. Policies without ground-level implementation remain on paper.
And awareness matters more than we think. Drivers and passengers both need to understand the risks—not as abstract warnings, but as real, immediate dangers.
A Closing Thought We Cannot Ignore
We often say “every life matters.” But on our highways, our actions are telling a different story.
A road is not just asphalt—it is a shared space of trust. When that trust is broken, it is always the most vulnerable who pay the highest price.
If a slow-moving rickshaw must compete with a speeding truck, the outcome is already decided.
So the real question is not whether we know the problem—we do.
The real question is this: how many more lives will it take before we decide that enough is enough?
By: Shahriar Hossain, Ph.D.