The stories arrive almost every morning now, scattered across the inside pages of newspapers like fragments of a dark puzzle. At first glance they appear to be unrelated incidents from distant districts. A young man beaten to death in Jhenaidah. A muezzin collapsing amid a quarrel over Eid prayer leadership in Rajshahi. A businessman stabbed in Cox’s Bazar after refusing to pay extortion money. Body parts found in crowded areas of the capital. A grandmother and her teenage granddaughter murdered in a quiet village field. A third-grade child discovered inside a sack. Individually, these tragedies seem like separate criminal episodes. Collectively, they paint a far more disturbing picture. They suggest that violence in our society is no longer merely a series of unfortunate events. It is gradually becoming a pattern.
The killing of Nirav Hossain in Jhenaidah is particularly symbolic. Nirav was not an anonymous victim. He was known as a frontline participant in the student movement against discrimination. Yet, his life ended in a quarrel over the under-pricing of motorcycle fuel at a filling station. A disagreement over a few hundred takas escalated into a fatal assault. Within hours, the aftermath spiralled further. A petrol pump was vandalised, vehicles were burned, and public anger spilled into the streets. What is striking here is not simply the brutality of the act but the speed with which ordinary disputes transform into violent confrontation. A disagreement no longer remains a disagreement. It quickly becomes a fight, then an assault, and sometimes a killing. This psychological shift deserves serious attention.
Consider another disturbing incident from Mohanpur in Rajshahi. A conflict over who would lead the upcoming Eid prayer resulted in the death of a 65 year old muezzin named Alauddin. What should have been a simple community decision turned into a clash between activists of two political groups. In the chaos, the elderly man was allegedly pushed down and someone sat on his chest. He died at the scene. Even now there is confusion about the exact cause of death. Some say it was physical assault. Police suggest it may have been a stroke triggered by the conflict. But the deeper truth remains unchanged. A sacred religious space became a battleground for political rivalry.
Equally disturbing is the killing of Ganesh Pal in Cox’s Bazar. His crime was refusal. He reportedly refused to pay extortion money demanded by local criminals. Soon afterward he was stabbed to death near his house. This is not merely a case of murder. It reflects the normalisation of extortion as an informal system of power. In many parts of the country, construction projects, business activities and even small shops operate under the shadow of such demands. What connects these incidents is not geography or politics. It is the gradual lowering of the threshold of violence. The distance between anger and brutality is shrinking.
The most frightening evidence of this transformation appears in the crimes involving children and women. In Pabna, the bodies of a grandmother and her teenage granddaughter were discovered in a field after a night of terror. The elderly woman was reportedly killed for resisting. The girl was strangled after suspected sexual violence. In Tangail, a third-grade child was found dead inside a sack in an abandoned house. The suspects are reportedly teenagers. This last detail should shake us the most. When adolescents become perpetrators of such brutality, the issue can no longer be explained merely by poverty or crime networks. It reflects a deeper erosion of moral formation.
A generation that repeatedly sees violent images circulating freely on social media gradually becomes desensitised. Graphic videos, revenge fantasies and public humiliation are shared online with disturbing enthusiasm. Anger becomes entertainment. Cruelty becomes spectacle. Over time the boundary between virtual aggression and real-world behaviour begins to blur. At the same time, everyday conversations are increasingly dominated by the language of retaliation. The idea of patience, restraint or mediation appears almost outdated. Many people now instinctively believe that force is the quickest way to settle disputes. When such attitudes spread widely, violence begins to feel normal.
Another dangerous factor is the growing perception that justice is uncertain or delayed. When citizens lose confidence in the certainty of punishment, two psychological reactions emerge. Some people become silent and withdrawn, believing resistance is useless. Others become emboldened to take matters into their own hands. Both reactions weaken society. Mob vandalism, revenge attacks and street violence often emerge from this vacuum of trust. The destruction of property in Jhenaidah following Nirav’s death illustrates how quickly anger can transform into collective aggression when institutions appear unable to immediately contain the situation. Yet it would be simplistic to blame the state alone for this crisis.
The moral architecture of a society is built by many institutions. Families, schools, religious leaders, community elders and cultural traditions all shape the ethical boundaries within which individuals operate. If children grow up without learning empathy, restraint and respect for human dignity, then legal punishment can only intervene after the damage is done. Law is a mechanism of correction. It cannot substitute for moral upbringing.
In earlier generations, social shame acted as a powerful informal control mechanism. Communities often intervened before conflicts escalated. Elders mediated disputes. Neighbours felt responsible for one another’s safety. Protecting the vulnerable was seen as a collective duty. Urbanisation has made communities more anonymous. Political polarisation has divided neighbourhoods into rival camps. Social media has amplified hostility while reducing face to face accountability. As a result, individuals often feel less constrained by collective judgement. The danger is not simply that crimes are increasing. The deeper danger is that our emotional response to them is gradually diminishing. Each new incident shocks us for a moment, then quickly fades into the background noise of daily life. The next headline arrives, and the cycle repeats. A society becomes truly endangered not when violence occurs but when people begin to accept it as routine.
A country cannot claim progress if a child can be murdered and left inside a sack. It cannot celebrate development if a businessman must pay extortion to build his own house. It cannot speak of social harmony if a mosque becomes a site of political confrontation. These incidents are not merely news reports. They are warnings. They remind us that the foundations of social order are fragile. Law enforcement agencies may promise swift investigation and arrests, and such actions are certainly necessary. But arrests alone cannot repair a broken moral culture. The deeper challenge lies in rebuilding trust, empathy and responsibility within society.
Parents must teach children that human dignity is sacred. Schools must emphasise emotional intelligence and ethical reasoning alongside academic success. Religious institutions must remind followers that faith without compassion is hollow. Political actors must understand that the language of hatred eventually escapes their control. Most importantly, ordinary citizens must rediscover the courage to stand beside victims rather than silently observing injustice.
The views expressed in the article is solely those of the author
The writer is an Academic, Journalist, and Political Analyst. E-mail: [email protected]
