Why we destroy the places we travel so far to love

Watching Tanguar Haor drown under plastic wrappers and diesel oil leaves a bitter aftertaste. We travel miles to escape city clutter, yet somehow leave proof of our presence behind. It raises an uncomfortable question about how we treat shared beauty.

Hundreds of boats now enter the wetland during the tourist season. The attraction is easy to understand. A houseboat offers comfort in the middle of open water, and Tanguar is still one of those places that can make city life feel very far away. Yet that comfort also brings food packets, bottles, loud music, engine oil, and human waste. Rules exist. Directives have been issued. Still, someone always seems ready to test how seriously they are meant.

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The question sounds like an accusation against Bangladeshis. It should not be. We are not born with a special urge to throw wrappers into lakes. Carelessness is neither in our blood nor exclusive to us. Littered beaches, vandalised parks and unruly tourists exist everywhere. But our repeated willingness to ignore a rule, then become offended when corrected, deserves a closer look.

Psychologists have a term for part of it: reactance. When people feel that a rule threatens their freedom, they sometimes do the opposite simply to recover a sense of control. Most of us have seen the smaller version of this. Tell someone not to ride their motorcycle on the footpath, and they will make it their personal crusade to do exactly the opposite of that. Ask a tourist to lower the music and the request becomes a question of personal honour.

Here, that instinct meets something learned much earlier. We take great care of the drawing room, then leave the rubbish outside the gate. Public space often feels like nobody’s property, which quietly means nobody feels responsible for it. At the same time, we grow up watching rules bend for money, status, connections, or persistence. The lesson is not necessarily that laws do not exist. It is that they apply unevenly.

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A widely shared video six months back showed a child scattering chips inside a coach of the Dhaka Metro. When another passenger objected, the mother reportedly became angry that a stranger had disciplined her child. I could not independently verify the original clip well enough to treat every detail as settled fact. Still, the reaction people recognised was familiar. The correction became the offence, while the littering slipped into the background.

Similar allegations appear online about Bangladeshis abroad, but credible reports establishing a wider national pattern are scarce. That distinction matters. A viral video is not a population study. Some people carry bad habits across borders. Many others become remarkably careful in places where bins are available, rules are clear, and penalties are predictable. The passport stays the same. The surroundings change.

Research on littering suggests that people read the environment before acting. A clean space tells us that cleanliness is normal. A rubbish-strewn bank tells us that one more packet will hardly matter. Consistent enforcement strengthens that message. Sporadic drives, warning signs, and occasional fines do not. They teach people to behave only while someone is watching.

There is another side to us, and it is visible too. Passengers do speak up. Volunteers collect waste other people leave behind. There are groups that join clean-up efforts around Tanguar Haor, while residents call for tourism to be regulated rather than stopped. These people are not outsiders to Bangladeshi culture. They are part of it.

So, what are we proving when we break the rule? Usually, nothing grand. Perhaps that nobody can tell us what to do, or that our convenience matters more to us even when there is no guard, fine or angry passenger nearby. Sometimes civic sense is as small as keeping a wrapper in your pocket until you find a bin, and having enough humility to pick it up when someone points it out.