From Boo Jia Cher

Walkability improvements in Taman Tun Dr Ismail (TTDI) versus the daily indignities faced by pedestrians in Pudu reveal how Kuala Lumpur’s car-first planning quietly decides which lives are valued and which are expected to endure risk.

Recently, I came across social media posts celebrating the positive changes in TTDI: widened pavements, safer crossings, quieter streets. Small, deliberate interventions meant to make walking more pleasant, more humane.

It was quietly heartening — proof that Kuala Lumpur City Hall can improve daily life for pedestrians, not just for people behind the wheel.

Later that same day, I took a bus through Pudu. The contrast could not have been more stark.

The bus slowed at a stop: a thin, weathered shelter, rusted and stained, barely offering shade from sun or rain. Elderly people waited alongside office workers and migrant labourers.

The stop was far too small for the number of people who depended on it. Cars were parked in front, illegally but conveniently blocking the bus and forcing passengers to step down into traffic.

A few shoplots away, luxury cars were parked on the sidewalk outside a new hotpot restaurant. Pedestrians were forced to weave around them while traffic brushed past their bodies. Inside, the car owners laughed over dinner, insulated from the danger and indignity their selfishness had displaced onto others.

Near LRT Pudu, people tried to cross Jalan Pudu. There was no pedestrian crossing in sight, only a metal fence dividing the road. A pedestrian bridge stood nearby, but many older people could not use it. Arthritic knees made the climb impossible.

The nearest at-grade crossings were too far away to matter. So people waited for a break in traffic and crossed at street level anyway, hobbling quickly but painfully as Hiluxes and lorries thundered past.

Pedestrian bridges are often framed as solutions for pedestrians. In reality, they are solutions for cars. Traffic remains fast and uninterrupted; the burden is shifted onto the human body: to climb, to detour, to be young enough, strong enough, able enough.

Access, safety, and dignity become secondary concerns, a bitter irony for an area in central KL.

What struck me most was how unevenly care is distributed across KL. TTDI receives attention, investment, and the language of “liveability” and “placemaking”. Pudu, in the heart of the city, is left to quietly decay. The needs of lower-income residents are too ordinary, too unglamorous, to register.

Not far from this spot, the Jalan Yew flyover cuts through Pudu like a parang and is now being widened further, almost brushing against shophouses, at a cost of RM96 million.

I can’t help but wonder what that same sum of money could have done for Pudu if it were given the TTDI treatment instead: repaired sidewalks, safe crossings, pocket parks, trees to cool the street — small investments that restore dignity.

Instead, dignity in public spaces is treated as something to be earned through income.

The people waiting at that bus stop or attempting to cross that road are not asking for much: a bigger roof, enforcement against illegal parking, a safe way to cross without fear or exhaustion.

Small things, almost invisible in planning documents, yet they shape daily life profoundly. These are not technical oversights; they are moral choices.

Our cities quietly signal whose lives are valued and whose are expected to absorb more risk.

This matters because it is precisely the poorest and most vulnerable who rely most on public infrastructure.

In Mexico, a country of similar economic standing as Malaysia, sustained public investment has been deliberately channelled into lower-income neighbourhoods through upgrades to streets, transport, and public spaces — not as charity, but as recognition that dignity and safety should be universal.

All this unfolds under a government that speaks proudly of Madani: social justice, uplifting the poor, and going after the corrupt. One might assume that ensuring elderly people don’t have to risk their lives crossing a road would be part of that vision.

Reading about TTDI gave me hope. Passing through Pudu reminded me how far we still are from a city that takes care of everyone, not just those in the “right” places.

Improvement arrives in pockets. Neglect remains widespread. And I keep returning to the same question: what kind of city are we building when convenience for cars so often comes at the expense of human dignity?

In Taman Tun Dr Ismail, widened pavements and safer crossings make walking a pleasant experience. (Wikipedia pic)

Boo Jia Cher is an FMT reader.

The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.