Imagine a river swallowing a neighbourhood in Manhattan. By noon, the world is outraged.
Now imagine the same river taking homes in Bangladesh every monsoon for decades. Barely a headline. Why?
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s seminal essay, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” (1988), argues that the voices of the most marginalized populations, the “subaltern,” are silenced not by force but by the frameworks of intellectual discourse itself.
Originally a military term for lower-ranking officers, “subaltern” was adapted into social and political theory by Antonio Gramsci to describe subordinate classes living under the hegemony of ruling elites.
Historian Ranajit Guha later founded the Subaltern Studies collective to rewrite South Asian history from below.
Spivak engaged with that project as a critic, pushing the concept through a deconstructive lens.
Her conclusion is often misread. The subaltern is not literally unable to speak.
They cannot be heard or recognized on their own terms within dominant systems of knowledge.
While she used oppressed women as her example, the concept is not exclusive to them. It applies to anyone left unheard in colonial and postcolonial societies.
The danger lies with the well-meaning: when scholars speak for the subaltern, they may inadvertently reinforce colonial power structures and the colonial reading of the situation.
The relevance of subaltern theory in the socio-economic context of Bangladesh, a country born of colonial partition and postcolonial development struggles, finds clear resonance. Despite the country’s vibrant political culture, public dialogue and national discourse largely exist in two interconnected spheres: academic discourse and mainstream discourse.
Academic discourse is predominantly shaped by scholars, policymakers, and intellectual elites who debate questions such as whether the Constitution should be reformed or amended.
Mainstream discourse, meanwhile, is largely shaped by the urban middle and upper-middle classes, particularly journalists, political commentators, social media influencers, and online intellectuals who dominate Bangladesh’s digital public sphere.
While the rural poor, workers, indigenous peoples, and others have virtually no forum in which their own voices can shape the conversation.
Their voices are not necessarily absent because they have nothing to say, but because the structures through which public discourse operates rarely allow them to speak on their own terms.
Consider what daily life looks like for millions. It is defined not by constitutional debates or ideological disputes but by survival: the next meal, malnutrition, affordable healthcare, stable work, the squeeze of inflation.
Under such conditions, joining intellectual or political discourse is a privilege, not a practical possibility.
Many poor and rural Bangladeshis have limited formal education and civic literacy, so the legal and political language of these debates is unfamiliar.
Decision-makers and journalists tend to address “the people” in generic terms, turning individuals into statistics.
NGO and government reports might cite poverty data for a community but rarely include a single testimony from its members, in their own words. Attending policy forums or writing blog posts is a distant concern when the day is spent surviving.
As one study of rural women notes, although they may hear about development programs, their practical involvement is “tokenism,” invited to meetings only to satisfy formal requirements, while real decisions are made by others.
In short, their engagement is often “peripheral and performative,” not substantive.
This mirrors Spivak’s point that subalterns can speak, but the structures of power make it impossible for their voices to be heard or acted upon.
Major institutions remain concentrated in the hands of educated elites.
Policy and media debates, from national budget discussions to university syllabi, are shaped by those with formal power and influence, almost always from urban or upper-class backgrounds.
Grassroots leaders or community representatives have little access to these platforms. This reproduces a colonial-era pattern.
After independence in 1971 and before as well, Bangladesh’s elite retained much of the state machinery. As a result, even “progressive” policies are often debated in elite terms, side-lining the lived experience of the poorest. Because of these factors, public discussions in Bangladesh frequently occur about marginalised people, rather than with them.
Strikingly relevant is her insight that when well-meaning intellectuals or officials claim to speak for the subaltern, they often end up “ventriloquising” them, imposing elite interpretations on their lives instead of letting the subalterns speak for themselves. In the Bangladeshi context, this can be seen in instances where poor women or minority communities are represented only as case studies or footnotes.
Rather than just improving service delivery or hearing them in isolated surveys, policymakers must actively create spaces where subaltern people lead the discussion.
Such measures recognise Spivak’s warning that representation must mean letting subalterns define issues in their own terms. Subaltern theory suggests that giving marginalised Bangladeshis a real voice goes beyond formal quotas or token seats.
It calls for restructuring dialogue itself. Practical steps might include strengthening labor unions, farmers’ cooperatives, slum councils, indigenous community groups, etc., so they can develop their own leaders and agendas.
These bodies can articulate needs like land rights, safe housing, or local schools on their own terms.
Civic literacy programs in rural and urban slum areas could also help people understand how government and law work, and how to use their voice through village councils or local elections. Decision-makers, in turn, need to listen: policy forums on poverty alleviation or labor laws should include authentic community representatives.
Go back to the river. The families who lose their homes to it every monsoon have plenty to say. The question is whether anyone with power is prepared to listen.
Tasin Mahdi, a knowledge seeker who exhibits a profound commitment to the betterment of his home nation and a keen interest in international affairs.
