A society does not wake up one morning and discover that it has become violent. It drifts into that state gradually, much like how dampness spreads inside walls. By the time the cracks become visible, the foundation has already weakened.
In recent weeks, we have witnessed a series of brutal crimes across the country that have shaken even those accustomed to reading crime reports over their morning tea: a severed hand and leg recovered from the busiest quarters of the capital; limbs scattered in areas which thousands frequent daily for work and prayer. In Ishwardi, Pabna, a grandmother and her granddaughter were found in the yard and mustard field, respectively, their screams swallowed by the night. In Narsingdi's Madhabadi, a teenage girl was abducted, tortured, and killed after her family dared to seek justice for her alleged rape. In Dhanbari, Tangail, the body of a third-grade child was discovered in a sack. In some of these cases, the accused themselves are teenagers.
These are not isolated incidents or random deviations in an otherwise healthy social body. The question is not only who committed these crimes, but what kind of soil nourishes such cruelty.
When a severed limb lies in a crowded commercial district, the shock is not limited to the act itself. It punctures our sense of civic security. The city is supposed to be impersonal but predictable. We accept congestion, noise, and dust. We do not accept dismemberment on the pavement. When violence intrudes into the most public spaces, it sends a message that no place is immune from it. The social contract then feels fragile.
In rural fields, the horror reflects a different texture. Villages once symbolised collective vigilance, the unspoken assurance that neighbours watch over one another. The erosion of that protective instinct reveals a deeper moral fatigue. When an elderly woman dies resisting, when a teenage girl is strangled after possible sexual assault, we are forced to confront a painful question: at what point did the defence of honour become a fatal burden borne alone?
The case of the murdered child in Dhanbari exposes another layer of anxiety. The alleged perpetrators are teenagers. Violence, it appears, is not only being committed against the young but by the young. This is perhaps the most alarming development. Crime has always existed. What changes over time is the moral age at which it begins to take root. If adolescents are now participating in acts of calculated brutality, then the failure is generational.
One common thread in these incidents is the normalisation of violence. Bloody images circulate freely on social media. Videos of assault are shared, commented upon, and “memeified.” The line between documentation and entertainment blurs. Repeated exposure dulls the senses. A society that consumes violence as content eventually begins to process it as routine. The extraordinary becomes ordinary. The abnormal becomes tolerable.
At the same time, everyday language has grown harsher. Conversations are peppered with threats, with casual references to revenge. Anger is worn as a badge of authenticity. Patience is mocked as weakness. The psychological climate grows hostile. People lose the capacity to pause, and immediate reaction overrides reflection. In such an environment, the step from verbal aggression towards physical violence becomes smaller.
There is also the question of justice. When ordinary citizens perceive that justice is uncertain, delayed, or influenced, two dangerous reactions emerge. One group withdraws into frustration and silence. They stop believing in institutional remedies. The other group grows impatient and seeks to deliver justice themselves. Both responses corrode the rule of law. A silent majority loses faith, while a reckless minority gains confidence.
Law enforcement agencies have promised speedy investigation and arrest in several of the aforementioned cases. Swift action is essential and certainty of punishment is one of the strongest deterrents against crime. Yet, prevention is not dependent on policing alone. Law is a remedy applied after harm has occurred. Moral formation is the only vaccine.
The family is the first classroom. If children do not learn empathy, restraint, and respect for bodily autonomy at home, no penal code can fully compensate for this lack of education. Schools can teach formulas and grammar, but do they consistently teach emotional regulation and ethical reasoning? Religious institutions speak of compassion and dignity, but are these values translated into daily practice or merely confined to ritual?
For generations, our culture portrayed protective values. Responsibility for one’s neighbour was not an abstract slogan. Social shame functioned as a powerful deterrent. Protecting the weak was a shared expectation. Those values have lost power. Urban anonymity, economic pressures, and digital distractions have thinned the threads of communal accountability. We know more people virtually, yet feel less responsible for those physically around us.
Spectacular violence often overshadows the quieter, everyday humiliations that precede it. Harassment dismissed as harmless teasing. Domestic aggression justified as discipline. Online bullying excused as humour. Each tolerated act chips away at collective empathy. By the time a murder occurs, the moral descent has long been underway.
We must also examine the cultural narratives that shape young minds. The hero in a film or game often achieves justice through force. Dialogues celebrate dominance. Without critical guidance, impressionable viewers internalise the idea that power equals violence. None of this absolves an individual criminal of responsibility. Moral decay is not destiny as many young people grow up in the same environment and choose restraint. But when brutality becomes more frequent and more extreme, it indicates that structural and psychological factors are converging.
The measure of civilisation is not technological sophistication or the heights of buildings. It is measured by the sense of safety felt by the weakest person in a community. If we do not act now, the tide will continue to rise. One day, we may find that news of murder no longer unsettles us. That numbness would be the true collapse. For when a society loses its capacity for moral shock, it loses the last defence against its own disintegration.
H.M. Nazmul Alam teaches at the International University of Business Agriculture and Technology (IUBAT). He can be reached at [email protected]
