A few years ago, a heatwave in Bangladesh felt like an aberration. Now? It is the rhythm of summer. Every year, thermometers shatter old records. Schools shutter. Hospital wards swell with heat-stricken patients. And thousands of people like rickshaw pullers, construction workers, street vendors, toil under a pitiless sun, not because they are oblivious to danger, but because hunger leaves them no choice.
We are quick to label heatwaves as ‘natural disasters’. But extreme heat, while meteorological, is not the real culprit. The carnage we see, the exhaustion, the dehydration, the preventable deaths, is man-made. It is the bitter fruit of delayed climate action, concrete-heavy cities, and policy paralysis. Climate change turns up the thermostat; our own neglect turns it lethal.
Bangladesh contributes less than one percent of global emissions, yet we are on the front line. We have won plaudits for cyclone preparedness, early warnings, shelters, swift evacuations. That is our strength. But when the mercury soars, our response is tepid at best. If floods and cyclones command national urgency, why does extreme heat get the silent treatment?
Walk through Dhaka on a scorching afternoon. You will see construction workers hauling bricks under a blazing sky. Rickshaw pullers pedal on, because a day off means an empty stomach. Vendors roast on treeless pavements. They are the unsung engines of our economy, yet they bear the brunt of a crisis they did not create. Irony, indeed.
Children and the elderly are no safer. Classrooms become ovens; students wilt while teachers soldier on. The aged and the infirm, already fragile, face the double jeopardy of heatstroke and dehydration. For slum dwellers without reliable electricity, relief is a mirage. The heat does not discriminate, but our preparation certainly does.
And our cities? They make a bad situation worse. We fell trees to erect buildings. We pour concrete like there is no tomorrow, trapping heat until our metropolises become urban furnaces. Shade is a luxury; drinking water, scarce. As we expand, resilience must move from afterthought to cornerstone.
Here is the rub: preparing for extreme heat need not break the bank. Planting trees, safeguarding wetlands, carving out green corridors, these are cheap but powerful. Cooling centres in crowded neighbourhoods can offer refuge. Schools and factories need heat-action plans like flexible hours, hydration breaks, early dismissals. Awareness campaigns must teach citizens to recognise the warning signs before they collapse. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
But let us be clear, the buck does not stop with Dhaka. This is a planetary crisis demanding planetary solidarity. High-emission nations, the architects of this warming world, must honour their climate finance pledges. Justice demands that those who profited from fossil fuels now pay their dues to those who are drowning in the consequences.
Young people, meanwhile, are not waiting for permission. From university campuses to coastal villages, students, researchers, and volunteers are sounding the alarm. They are not just the future, they are the present. And they deserve a seat at the table, not a token nod.
Heatwaves are not passing clouds. They are not seasonal inconveniences that vanish with the first rain. They are a defining public health emergency and a development bottleneck. Every record-breaking summer is a flashing red light, a reminder that climate change is not a tomorrow problem. It is here. It is now. It is upending our classrooms, our hospitals, our livelihoods.
We cannot tame the sun. But we can decide how we face it. If each summer grows hotter and we simply shrug, then the disaster is not the heat. The disaster, plain and simple, is our inaction.
The writer is a student, Department of Political Science, University of Dhaka
