A couple of weeks back, I embarked on a journey to explore some of the ancient dighis in Chattogram, which have been integral to shaping the city’s identity over generations. Beyond being a mere touristic endeavor, this expedition turned into a symbolic and investigative odyssey back to my childhood city. My first destination was Askar Dighi, nestled in the core of the urban landscape.
Having served as Chattogram’s primary drinking water reservoir for centuries, Askar Dighi was excavated during the Mughal era to cater to the city’s essential water needs. Following the Mughal conquest of Chattogram from the Arakanese in 1666, Nawab Askar Khan’s administration initiated the construction of civic infrastructure, with Askar Dighi standing out as a significant public works project. During the 17th century, when advanced water supply systems were nonexistent, this expansive water body played a crucial role in providing potable water to Mughal soldiers and the burgeoning urban populace of Chattogram.
Even today, the dighi holds immense importance, though administrative neglect and a collective failure to preserve the environment have relegated many of its functions to mere theoretical discussions. Askar Dighi acts as a reservoir for excess rainwater during the monsoon, aiding in mitigating urban flooding, besides serving as a critical groundwater recharge area and a haven for aquatic life. Unfortunately, much of its historical significance now seems like a distant dream.
As I wandered around Askar Dighi, disheartened by its deplorable state, I pondered on our national tendencies. Our self-destructive behavior, fueled by an unquenchable thirst to encroach on land and water resources, has altered our ecological fabric through a toxic mix of ignorance, greed, and apathy. We seem incapable of valuing and safeguarding the broader public welfare.
Presently, Askar Dighi paints a grim picture, besieged by informal settlements along its fringes, overrun by invasive water hyacinths, and buried under layers of garbage, with sporadic glimpses of dark, stagnant water. In my childhood, the dighi was a majestic water expanse, enveloped by verdant foliage, with meandering pathways inviting people for leisurely strolls. It fostered a vibrant community life, serving as an environmental asset, a social hub, and a source of local pride.
Sometime around the 1930s, the dighi began slipping into partial private ownership through a leasing arrangement. This marked the onset of its gradual privatization, carrying hefty public costs due to the whims of individual owners dictating its fate. Today, Askar Dighi lies in a critical state, with no city guardian willing to rescue it as a national asset. Its decline has been intentional rather than accidental.
The typical progression involves gradual concealment behind low-income housing, followed by becoming a dumping ground for waste, leading to calls for its conversion into commercial spaces under the guise of urban progress. However, the true essence of development lies in preserving such historic sites as public heritage assets. The state can reclaim Askar Dighi through eminent domain, reinstating its pivotal role as a water body catering to environmental, social, and urban needs, while fostering community engagement and civic pride.
Restoring Askar Dighi transcends mere water preservation; it safeguards the city’s ecological resilience, historical essence, and collective future. It symbolizes a moral rectification, underscoring the need for ecological integrity over flashy development projects. Sometimes, true progress lies in preserving the sanctity of nature rather than commercializing it.
Adnan Zillur Morshed, an architect, architectural historian, professor, and public intellectual, shares these views.
