A short video clip once made me stop in silence. It was not a dramatic spectacle, just five ordinary sanitation workers standing before a national leader. Yet what unfolded there was profoundly moving. The leader did not merely speak to them; he humbled himself before them. He washed their hands with his own, looked at them with warmth and respect and placed food gently into their palms. In that moment, the workers’ eyes revealed astonishment, while their voices carried a painful confession: “No one considers us human.”
That single sentence pierced my conscience. It was not a casual remark, it was the accumulated cry of neglect, exclusion and humiliation. It was a mirror held up to our society, asking whether we truly recognise the humanity of every person or merely the prestige of their position.
We live in a country that celebrates clean streets, gleaming cities and ambitious infrastructure.
We take pride in bridges, flyovers, and metro rail systems. Yet how often do we acknowledge the invisible hands that make this progress possible? Development is spoken of in numbers, budgets and projects, but rarely in the dignity of those who labour behind it.
The leader’s gesture in that video was not an act of charity, it was an act of moral affirmation. When power bends toward the powerless, it signals equality, not pity. His conduct carried no trace of political theatre, only ethical conviction. It reminded us that leadership is measured not by authority over people, but by respect for them.
This incident forces us to confront an uncomfortable question: have we advanced materially while retreating morally? Have we built a modern state but failed to cultivate a humane society? The sanitation workers’ lament exposes a deep structural problem our tendency to judge people by their wealth, profession, or status rather than their intrinsic worth as human beings.
In Bangladesh, we often honour doctors but overlook cleaners, admire engineers but ignore construction labourers and revere officials while dismissing gatekeepers. Yet our economy, our cities and our public health depend on the very people we marginalise. We treat them as indispensable but seldom as honourable.
Islam offers a powerful corrective to this hierarchy of contempt. The Qur’an states clearly:“Indeed, the most honourable of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous among you.” (Surah Al-Hujurat: 13)
Dignity is rooted in character, not class; in ethics, not economics.
The Prophet Muhammad ﷺembodied this principle in his daily life. He sat with the poor, comforted the vulnerable and shared meals with labourers. When a companion felt insignificant, the Prophet reassured him: “You are not insignificant in the sight of Allah.” This was not merely compassion, it was a declaration of human equality.
Yet our contemporary society often contradicts these values. We pursue technological and economic progress while neglecting moral progress. We want smart cities but not empathetic communities; digital governance but not compassionate citizenship.
If we truly aspire to a humane Bangladesh, the transformation must begin at home. The family is the first school of character. Children who witness kindness, honesty and humility grow into responsible citizens.
Our education system must also evolve. Academic excellence alone is insufficient if it produces brilliant minds but cold hearts. Moral education, empathy and social responsibility must stand alongside mathematics and science. Equally important is personal self-reflection. Each of us must regularly ask: Have I treated others with dignity? Have I dismissed someone because of their job? Have I allowed arrogance to eclipse compassion?
Above all, we need humility.
A society steeped in pride cannot nurture empathy. A nation driven by jealousy cannot sustain solidarity. A divided people cannot build a just future. A humane Bangladesh does not simply mean better infrastructure; it means better relationships. Not just economic strength, but ethical strength. Not merely technological advancement, but spiritual maturity.
Such change cannot be imposed from above. No government can create humanity by decree. It must emerge from the conscience of citizens.
Therefore, our collective pledge must be simple yet profound: “I will be humane in my own place; then Bangladesh will be humane.” Today, our cities may shine but the people who keep them clean remain unseen. True progress will arrive when a sanitation worker can proudly say, “I am a respected member of this society.” When a farmer can stand tall and declare, “My labour matters.” When a construction worker is valued as much as the buildings he erects.
Bangladesh needs not just political reform but a moral revolution – a shift in mindset, character and collective conscience. This revolution begins in our homes, classrooms, offices, streets and hearts.
A humane Bangladesh is not a slogan; it is a moral vision, a spiritual journey and a shared responsibility. Let us walk this path together, with humility, compassion and unwavering commitment to human dignity.
[The writer is a Dhaka-based senior journalist and researcher.]