The Empty Footpaths of Mirpur 10: An Eviction Ledger in the Shadow of Sher-e-Bangla Stadium

Standing at the Mirpur 10 roundabout, the first thing that registers is absence, not presence. No rows of pushcarts on the footpath, no polythene awnings, no steam rising from a tea kettle. In photographs taken the previous afternoon, after the Dhaka North City Corporation (DNCC) eviction drive, the pavement looks so bare that it seems a name has been struck from a ledger. I have walked this junction many times, on the way to the Sher-e-Bangla National Cricket Stadium. On match mornings the surge begins right here — vendors, rickshaws and spectators blending into one current. Today the footpath is clear. But the assumption that clear means solved is the fastest to form and the slowest to test.

The shape of the event is not simple. DNCC carried out a drive to free the footpaths of the Mirpur 10 area; illegal structures were demolished and hawkers were moved on. That removal was not peaceful — hawkers attacked police and city corporation staff. That single fact says the eviction was not completed on paper; it happened inside friction on the street. Mirpur 10 is more than a roundabout. It is the transport hub of northern Dhaka, and for that very reason it is the doorstep of Bangladesh's premier international cricket venue. Sher-e-Bangla Stadium, the BPL, the national team's home matches — all of it sits here. On match days thousands of spectators walk through this area to enter the ground. The condition of the footpath is therefore not only a civic-services question; it is also a match-day logistics question.

So where is the real picture? Mirpur 10 is clear, but Mirpur 1 and Tolarbagh are not yet free of occupation. In the same city, under the same corporation, one location's drive succeeds while another's problem persists. The largest signal hides inside that unevenness. When an eviction is area-based, it does not remove occupation — it relocates it. Hawkers do not vanish; they set up at the next corner, on the next footpath. The empty footpath at Mirpur 10 is therefore not a picture of victory but a warning. The day of the eviction ends, but the story of encroachment keeps its own clock.

A second question matters here: where is the resettlement ledger after the eviction? Reports of the drive mention clearing the land, but there is no mention of alternative income for these hawkers. The man who sold tea in the morning to run a household — where does he go in the afternoon? Without an answer, the cycle of eviction turns on itself. My notebook keeps count of the person who stood at the far end of the footpath, and records that no diary took his name.

Now I come to the point where my own profession is put in question. As this story spread, many places attached a cricket tag beside the word Mirpur. The reason is obvious — the stadium's shadow. Because Sher-e-Bangla Stadium is in Mirpur, any event in Mirpur drifts into the cricket file. But that shadow creates a problem: a civic, administrative event slips inside cricket coverage and loses its own weight. I keep the beat from the stands, where tactics meet the breath of fans. That habit taught me that the people of the footpath are not supporting characters in anyone's match — they have their own stories, their own arithmetic. If cricket's shadow covers their story, that is a loss for journalism. A clear footpath at Mirpur 10 is good; but the duty is to record the names, trades and fates of the people behind the clearing.

Proximity to the stadium adds a practical dimension too. Around major tournaments or home series, Mirpur 10 draws enormous crowds and vehicle pressure. A footpath free of occupation eases spectator movement, allows security cordons to form, and lets emergency services arrive faster. So this eviction is, in a small way, positive for the stadium. But here is the caution: what benefits the venue is not the same as what benefits the neighbourhood. On match day a clear footpath is a convenience for spectators; on every other day, for those whose livelihood is that footpath shop, it is not. The tension between the venue's convenience and the surrounding livelihoods is the real text of this event.

The conventional reading runs like this: the city corporation has changed the face of Mirpur 10. The photograph is true; the claim is exaggerated. One drive, one area, one day — that sample cannot support the statement that Mirpur has changed. Mirpur 1 and Tolarbagh are still occupied; those two names alone break the larger claim. A report that carries this inconsistency inside itself cannot yield a general conclusion. The second error is the overreach of the cricket connection. Mirpur means cricket — that equation is not real. No match, player, team or league is linked to this event. The stadium's proximity is a geographic fact, not a topical link. I follow the rhythm of the pitch, not the noise of the headline; and the field of this story is the footpath, not cricket. When the two worlds are confused, the real question — whose footpath is it, and who looks after the city's space — slides out of view.

One more dimension is easily skipped: the hawkers' attack is not merely crime; it is also a signal of resistance. A person losing the only place that earns him a living is a person whose reaction may turn violent. If eviction does not arrive with resettlement, pressure on police and corporation staff will keep returning. The accounting of calm cannot be measured by counting the days of the drive alone; it is tested over the months that follow.

Looking forward, one question matters most: will the Mirpur 10 model reach Mirpur 1 and Tolarbagh, or will the story stop after clearing a single corner? I am used to watching the game from the stadium galleries, but a city footpath is not a gallery. Here the crowd rises every day, and every day someone keeps count. In empty stadiums I learned that silence is also a responsibility — whose responsibility it is will decide how successful this eviction truly was.