Bhola slum: Meghna's gift for Dhaka

Highlights 

• In 1996-97, the Bhola slum became crowded, leaving no empty space
• Around 1,000 families lived on just three and a half bighas of land
• Since 80% of the residents were from Bhola, people started calling it the Bhola slum

In late 1990, while Ershad's grip on power was coming under increasing challenge, Mirpur's Pallabi Extension, once barren, was slowly transforming. The narrow, cobbled road to Caritas was lined with a few scattered homes.

To the west, a vast waterbody stretched towards Duari Para, its surface reflecting the muted sky. This government-owned land, uninhabited, would soon provide refuge for those displaced by the Meghna River's wrath.

Kamal Hawlader, Rob Munshi, and Jafar Dewan, victims of the Meghna's destructive floods, built modest homes on raised bamboo platforms in Pallabi Extension. Their shelters, simple one-room structures, required no permissions as the land had not yet drawn attention.

Kamal's brother, Barek, reminisces, "Back then, no one noticed this place. Maybe because it was just a waterbody. We built our homes and all five of us brothers eventually settled here."

This small settlement of eight to ten families was made up of those displaced from the Elisha Union of Bhola Sadar. Once fertile and lush, Elisha's land fell victim to the Meghna's frequent flooding, eroding it year by year.

Families like the Hawlader's had no choice but to seek shelter elsewhere, with Pallabi Extension offering a new, though uncertain, home.

Fate of families displaced by the Meghna 

Elisha, once a thriving community on the eastern bank of the Meghna River, was steadily eroded by frequent floods, until the river eventually swallowed the Hawlader family home. Despite holding on to hope each year, the erosion never ceased.

In desperation, Kamal Hawlader moved his brothers to Dhaka, where they worked as masons, helpers, and porters to survive.

Barek, the youngest brother, came to Dhaka at just twelve years old. His brothers were already settled in a tin-shed mess in Mirpur-12. Years later, they moved to what would become the Bhola slum.

Barek started a small business selling betel leaves and cigarettes, and with his middle brother's help, his stall moved around until it found a permanent spot near Pallabi Metro Station, where he serves hundreds daily. "I've been running this tea stall for thirty years," Barek says, reflecting on his struggles.

"I had to move my stall repeatedly. People forced me to relocate whenever they could. But I had no choice. After the slum was demolished before Covid-19, I lost my house."

In its later years, the overcrowded Bhola slum housed around 1,000 families, most of whom, like Barek, were from Elisha, earning the slum its nickname. The Bholaia Mosque was built, marking the slum's identity.

Though displaced, the residents of Elisha and Pallabi Extension adapted to their new lives.

Kallu Rarhi, now 65, moved to Dhaka in 1997 with his seven children, fleeing the Meghna's destruction. A cousin already in the city offered them refuge.

Initially, Kallu struggled to find work but eventually landed a job breaking bricks in Eastern Housing. The work was grueling, with thick dust in the air, but it was the only option.

"Breaking bricks wasn't easy," Kallu recalls. "But I had no choice. People were depending on me."

After some time, Kallu built a small bamboo-walled house on a raised platform, just like others in the slum. His two elder sons worked as day labourers, and together, they saved enough to make a home.

Today, Kallu still resides near the former slum. Though the slum is gone, his family lives by the narrow road that once led to Duari Para.

All his children are married, and while his sons have their own homes, his eldest daughter still lives with him. Though unable to rely on his sons for support, Kallu rents out two rooms in his small house to make ends meet.

Though Kallu never went to school, seeing his grandchildren in proper uniforms brings him joy. Despite breathing problems that prevent him from working and a lack of funds for medicine, Kallu feels grateful.

His eldest son, Jasim Uddin, now rents a room in Rupnagar for Tk8,000, while Shamsuddin regularly visits with his youngest child.

Elisha: the lost homeland 

The loss of Elisha is something that haunts its former residents.

The area is now divided into East and West Elisha. East Elisha has around 70,000 registered voters, but the area is no longer the fertile land it once was.

Behind the Hawlader family's former home stood the now-vanished Nadun Mia's market, once a famous spot in Bhola, but now lost to history.

Yunus Munshi, a former resident of Elisha, recalls his family's prosperous life there. His family owned four bighas of land, and they farmed paddy, sweet potatoes, eggplants, and pumpkins. Life was simple and abundant, and Yunus never had to worry about money.

His children were well-fed, and the nights were filled with the sounds of family, laughter, and stories. But the river didn't spare them.

Within a few years, the Meghna swallowed the Munshi family's land. The river has since eroded nearly 12 kilometres of land, displacing thousands of people. As a result, many families, like Yunus's, scattered across Dhaka, Chattogram, Noakhali, Rajshahi, and Sylhet.

"I often visit Elisha, but it's just a memory now," Yunus reflects. "I can't stay there long. The pain of losing everything is too much."

Younger generation's disconnect from Elisha  

When the Bhola slum was demolished in 2019, many of its residents found themselves on the streets. Yunus and his family were forced to live on the roads for several months, enduring hardships that were unimaginable. They lacked the most basic necessities—water, food, and shelter—and had no choice but to accept their fate.

Among the younger generation of Bhola families, there is a sense of disconnect from Elisha. Mohammad Roni, 22, runs a scrap shop near the former slum site, but he and his friends, Sumon, Almas, and Hridoy born and raised in Dhaka, don't feel a deep connection to the land their families once called home.

They, like many others, have learned to survive, but the dreams of returning to Elisha have long faded.

Once a month, the young men gather for a small but cherished treat—kacchi biryani. Each winter, they scrape together what little they can, saving for a much-anticipated barbecue party. The night comes alive with loud music, their shared laughter cutting through the chill of the season.

The women in the slum have their own ways of making ends meet. They sew and embroider, their nimble fingers working tirelessly to provide for their families. Often, they barter—trading old clothes for kitchen essentials or exchanging their craft for ribbons and bangles to adorn their daughters.

Despite their efforts, life in the slum remains relentlessly tough.

I asked Yunus Munshi, "Do you think you'll ever return to Elisha?"

"There's no chance of going back," Munshi replied.

"Though the river isn't eroding anymore, there's no hope of reclaiming our land. We can barely manage to cover our daily expenses. Starting over is just not possible. Life will go on like this—struggling, floating along. We've learned to live with the hardship."

His voice held a weight of acceptance, a surrender to fate known only to those who have faced ceaseless hardship.