It is often said that Bengalis unite in times of disaster and celebration. The Rana Plaza collapse thirteen years ago in Savar offered a stark illustration of this truth. As news spread that an eight-storey factory building had collapsed with thousands of workers trapped beneath it, people seemed to reach the site faster than the news itself.
A vast coalition of volunteers, rescue workers, fire service personnel and day labourers abandoned their livelihoods to save the injured. The response was total. Van drivers ferried casualties to Enam Medical College Hospital, where intern doctors waited at the entrance to provide urgent care. Housewives brought home-cooked khichuri for survivors. Engineers worked alongside ordinary citizens, risking their lives in the debris. One poignant memory remains of a mosque muezzin from Manikganj who arrived at NITOR with funds collected from his village. Seeing the overwhelming support already present, he quietly approached a BILS volunteer, embarrassed by the modest size of his contribution but determined to help.
We carry countless such memories, yet they are slowly fading. The nation is now paying the price for that erosion. The collective awakening and compassion that emerged in the aftermath were not transformed into lasting change. Those entrusted with that responsibility—the state and policymakers—failed to make permanent the resolve that such a tragedy should never happen again, that no one should have to stand beside rubble crying, “Where is my child? Where is my mother? Where is my brother? Where is my sister?”