The instinct is always to look away. A photo of a young woman appears on a Facebook page I never followed, or a screenshot lands in a men-only WhatsApp group filled with winking emojis and crude remarks. The comments turn sexual within minutes. I pause, feel the discomfort, then scroll past. It is a small decision made in seconds, yet repeated millions of times. This is where the bystander's burden begins, not with the offender, but with the witness who chooses to remain silent. Men like me.
Over the past year, I have seen dozens of pages that lift women's photos, strip them of context and turn them into content. A normal picture becomes material for "rating," innuendo and abuse. In recent months, I have also seen pages presenting themselves as "exposé" or "story-sharing" platforms, but their real purpose is far more troubling. They take a woman's photo without her consent, add a suggestive caption and feed it to an audience hungry for scandal. These pages post cropped screenshots of private conversations and ask followers to comment "5k for the full chat." Once the target is reached, they publish the entire set—sometimes even sharing drive links containing photos or personal messages. These pages operate by turning a woman's private life into material for mass consumption.
Another disturbing trend growing is several Facebook pages presenting themselves as "news" or "public interest" platforms, filming women in public spaces without consent. The camera angles are chosen to sexualise. Videos of women walking through a market or attending a festival are edited to attract male audiences. This is far from journalism. It is voyeurism passed off as content, reinforcing the idea that women's bodies are public property.
This is not an isolated problem. A 2024 UN Women briefing warned that AI has intensified digital abuse at an alarming rate. Studies cited by the agency show that technology-facilitated violence now affects between 16-58 percent of women worldwide. Bangladesh reflects the same pattern. The Bangladesh Bureau of Statistics' National Violence Against Women Survey 2024, conducted with UNFPA assistance, found that 8.3 percent of women experienced technology-facilitated violence, including unwanted sexual communication, blackmail and image-based manipulation.
A 2024 NETZ Bangladesh study suggested that nearly 78.4 percent of young, digitally active women have faced some form of online abuse. A 2025 report by VOICE documented 16 cases of technology-facilitated gender-based violence tracked between October 2024 and mid-2025, including deepfakes, manipulated images, threats and blackmail.
For me, these figures stopped being abstract on the morning of January 1, 2025. My partner, an education professional, woke up to several WhatsApp messages from an unknown number. Attached was an AI-generated image using her face on a semi-nude body. The sender threatened to upload it unless she agreed to "negotiate."
She called me in tears. Later that day, supported by colleagues, she filed a complaint at our local police station. The next morning, the same individual created a fake Facebook profile using her real photos. She felt watched and unsafe. We returned to the police, urging immediate action. Officers gave assurances, but no investigation began. Hours turned into days. For a woman living with the fear of a deepfake going viral, delay becomes another form of violence.
As her partner, I felt frightened and helpless. Eventually, we went to the Criminal Investigation Department (CID). With help from a colleague and detailed documentation, CID investigators identified the perpetrator. But the experience exposed a difficult truth. Even with the advantages we had—my access as a journalist, her support network, our combined awareness—the system did not protect us when we needed it most. If we struggled, what hope is there for a teenage girl in a small town?
Many women never reach even this stage. Some partners tend to distrust them. Some families discourage reporting. Some fear further exposure.
The failure is institutional and cultural. Bangladesh's digital laws—from Section 57 of the ICT Act to the Digital Security Act and the Cyber Security Act—were introduced with a promise of safety but rather became known primarily for restricting speech, failing to protect survivors. The Cyber Protection Ordinance, 2025, now criminalises harmful AI-generated content, but enforcement remains limited.
The wider gap lies in our behaviour. Men routinely witness online harassment in their social circles. We recognise the abuse, yet choose silence because confronting other men carries a social cost. A message in a group chat risks being labelled humourless. A comment challenging the behaviour is dismissed as overreacting. Scrolling past feels easier.
But silence is not neutral. Silence shields the abuser. Silence tells women that even when men see the harm, they will not intervene. Silence teaches young men that degrading women carries no consequence. Misogyny is not sustained by a handful of malicious individuals. It is sustained by many men doing nothing.
The consequences of that silence are visible. Women are retreating from online spaces. They restrict their profiles, upload fewer photos or deactivate their accounts entirely. Many avoid sharing their opinions because visibility has become a risk. This retreat limits not only individual expression but women's participation in public discourse, civic life and professional networks.
Not long before the incident involving my partner, I asked a colleague whether anything could be done to shut down the Facebook pages that profit from humiliation. These pages operate openly. Their content is public. Yet action often comes only after a survivor files a complaint, placing the burden on the person already harmed. Why must women suffer first before authorities respond?
The answer lies partly in weak enforcement, but also in a culture of reluctance. Many men see these posts, maybe nod their heads in disapproval but ultimately move on.
My partner's experience changed my threshold for silence. I no longer pretend not to see what is in front of me. I report abusive posts. I challenge men who circulate sexist content and call it humour. I extend support to colleagues targeted online. These are not acts of bravery. They are the minimum requirements for anyone participating in a digital space where women face disproportionate harm.
This year's theme—"UNiTE to End Digital Violence against All Women and Girls"—demands action, not sentiment. Institutions must strengthen systems. Men must give up the comfort of silence. That means confronting friends, refusing harmful content consumption and rejecting the culture that treats online abuse as entertainment.
The bystander's burden is not only the shame of silence. It is the responsibility of choice. Every comment reported, every degrading post challenged, and every harmful page rejected helps reshape the digital space. These actions tell women they deserve safety, and they remind men that silence does not make us neutral. Silence makes us part of the problem.
Arafat Rahaman is journalist at The Daily Star.
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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