The neighbourhood of my childhood was interesting, to say the least. As the child of a tenant family, I had the privilege of befriending the local children in our area. Many of them spoke a dialect distinctly different from the one we used at home. Some of my closest friends spoke what is known as Dhakaiya Kutti. I quickly fell in love with the dialect and its rich subculture. We became close, and before long I could switch linguistic gears with ease -- moving from Sylheti at home to Dhakaiya outdoors, and back again. It happened naturally, without any conscious effort.
It was not that my parents were particularly concerned about their children speaking a dialect different from their own. Their only real concern was that we might pick up too many swear words. Thankfully, my two siblings and I never developed that habit. This was not because our parents constantly lectured us about it. Rather, it reflected the values and upbringing that had become second nature to us.
For readers unfamiliar with the context, I should clarify that the seemingly abusive words and phrases our neighbourhood friends used were so deeply woven into their everyday speech that no one took offence. We did not even flinch when one brother addressed another using the "f-word." There was a shared understanding that no insult was intended. Such expressions were simply part of the local dialect and its subculture.
That is not to say we lacked our own repertoire of swear words in the Sylheti dialect spoken at home. Today, it is difficult to say which is harsher on the ears -- Dhakaiya or Sylheti. Both evolved over centuries within distinct subcultures, shaped by the unique social, economic and historical experiences of their respective communities.
Years later, while travelling by train from Sylhet to Dhaka with my toddler daughter, I witnessed a similar linguistic phenomenon. We shared a compartment with a large group of second-generation British Bangladeshis of Sylheti origin. Throughout the journey, they spoke loudly in a distinctly Cockney-influenced English, liberally peppering their conversations with the "f-word." As a minority in the compartment, my family and a few other local passengers found the constant cursing somewhat overwhelming. Yet we understood that no offence was intended. It was simply the way they spoke among friends during casual, everyday addas.
From the perspective of a standardized, civil society, the use of profane, obscene or impolite language may be classified as cussing. However, within many subcultures and dialect communities, such expressions are often regarded as entirely non-offensive and devoid of insulting intent.
During our childhood in the 1970s, we instinctively adjusted our language depending on our company—whether we were with close friends, elders, younger children or peers from neighbouring mahallas. Those interactions all took place in the physical world, within tightly knit communities where people knew one another personally. We had no concept of the vast cyber world that would later become such an integral part of our lives.
Today, the meteoric rise of the digital landscape has introduced a disturbing new dimension to public discourse. Online abuse and the casual cussing of fellow social media users have become commonplace. Whether using their real identities or hiding behind anonymity, many people hurl swear words with ease, fully aware that their remarks are hurtful and disrespectful.
In Bangladesh, we are increasingly becoming victims of a toxic online culture where mutual respect is the ultimate casualty. Too often, people enter online debates not to exchange ideas but to overwhelm their opponents with abusive language.
In today's cyberspace, we are living dangerously. We constantly vilify one another, gratifying our alter egos through cheap and mean-spirited exchanges in which logic and reason no longer matter. It often feels as though we are committing an intellectual hara-kiri, choosing cussing over thoughtful argument. Meaningful debates on the social and political issues that shape our national life are becoming increasingly rare, drowned out by the noise of mindless abuse.
A section of netizens -- including, regrettably, educated influencers, public figures, artists, academics, media professionals and intellectuals-- is dragging public discourse to a new low. For many of them, scoring points against opponents appears to matter more than engaging in reasoned discussion. Rather than debating facts and ideas, they resort to abusive language to silence opposing views.
For women, the situation is even worse. Female netizens routinely face an onslaught of gendered slurs and misogynistic abuse. This toxic environment discourages many women from participating in public conversations or expressing their views online. It is a deeply troubling development that society can no longer afford to ignore. If we fail to rid our online spaces of misogynistic abuse, we will ultimately fail the women of our society.
In my view, the moment someone resorts to abusive language, they effectively admit intellectual defeat. When logical arguments run out, swear words, anger and online venom become convenient substitutes, poisoning the broader digital ecosystem. It is painful to watch an increasing number of otherwise enlightened citizens join this trend, chasing fleeting popularity while showing little interest in genuine intellectual engagement.
The situation deteriorates further when ordinary social media users imitate these public figures, spreading hatred and normalizing even more abusive language. As a society, we must confront this cultural decline. Otherwise, we risk raising a generation that is intellectually diminished rather than enriched.
Reaz Ahmad is Editor, Dhaka Tribune.