IN THE long corridors of Bangladesh’s educational institutions — be it a public school in Barishal, a madrasa in Sylhet, or an elite English-medium school in Dhaka — there’s a silence louder than the morning assembly bell. It’s the silence of boys not crying, not speaking, not asking for help. The silence of boys being boys—stoic, invulnerable, ‘strong.’ And buried beneath this stoicism is a crisis that is rapidly becoming a national emergency: the rising tide of mental health disorders among boys and young men.
The global conversation around youth mental health has finally pierced public consciousness, but there remains a demographic that still suffers in the shadows — boys. According to a 2023 US study, boys seek 40 per cent less mental health help than girls. This statistic is not merely a western phenomenon. In Bangladesh, though the data is scarce, the patterns are eerily similar, perhaps worse, amplified by conservative societal norms, cultural taboos and the rigid scaffolding of patriarchal expectations.
We do not lack signs. We lack the courage to see them.
Bangladesh’s youth population is one of the largest in the world, with over 30 per cent of the population aged between 10 to 24. This demographic dividend is often framed in terms of economic potential, innovation, and labour capacity. Yet, this same generation is increasingly anxious, alienated and emotionally fatigued.
Look closer: a boy in Rajshahi failing silently under academic pressure, another in Chattogram silently drowning in familial expectations, and yet another in Dhaka bullied for not fitting the hypermasculine mould. Depression, anxiety, identity confusion and performance anxiety — these are no longer conditions confined to western psychiatry textbooks. These are real ailments gripping our sons, brothers, students and friends.
According to the World Health Organisation, one in seven adolescents globally experiences a mental disorder. In Bangladesh, the 2019 National Mental Health Survey found that 14 per cent of children aged 7–17 suffer from mental health conditions. Among these, boys are less likely to receive any form of treatment. And not because they do not suffer, but because suffering is not allowed to show.
From an early age, boys in Bangladesh are taught that masculinity means control, suppression, and endurance. ‘Don’t cry like a girl,’ ‘men don’t get scared,’ ‘be a man’ — these refrains are recited like holy verses. The burden of masculinity becomes a straightjacket. It conditions boys to reject their emotions, camouflage vulnerability and glorify detachment.
What we celebrate as strength is often a mask of repression. A boy failing in mathematics may appear indifferent but is perhaps paralysed by shame. A teenager losing interest in school may not be lazy but deeply depressed. A youth growing more aggressive might not be criminally inclined but emotionally exhausted and unsupported.
This masculine script is not only outdated, it is deadly. Suicide is one of the leading causes of death among young men aged 15–29 worldwide. In Bangladesh, suicide rates are alarmingly high among youth, yet there is minimal conversation about how many of those deaths are connected to unaddressed mental health issues. In rural areas, suicide often becomes the only escape route from social disgrace or emotional despair, particularly for boys who have no vocabulary or permission for vulnerability.
In Bangladesh, schools are ground zero for both academic dreams and psychological damage. They are places where merit is measured in GPA and behaviour is policed by conformity.
The comparison culture adds more layers. Girls are often perceived to be better at academic performance and language-based subjects, leaving boys to trail behind in a system that doesn’t accommodate different learning styles or social development patterns. Rather than redesigning education to be inclusive and humane, our system tightens the grip — more tuition, more exams, more punishment.
Professor Mina Fazel of Oxford points out that schools must not be just about literacy but about life. In Bangladesh, the very institutions that claim to prepare young people for the future are often the ones most negligent of their present mental state.
It’s time to ask: Are we educating boys, or are we emotionally amputating them?
In urban centres like Dhaka or Sylhet, there is an emerging awareness of mental health, but only in whisper tones. Private school children might have access to counsellors, but how often do they visit them? In universities, mental health seminars are held, but do the boys attend or do they dismiss it as a ‘girls’ topic’?
There is a cultural paradox: the same society that ridicules boys for expressing emotion mourns when they take their own lives. We treat therapy as weakness, emotions as drama and silence as stoicism. No wonder boys suffer until they break.
Social media adds another layer of distortion. While it offers connection and information, it also reinforces toxic masculinity. The ‘manosphere’ — a cesspool of hypermasculine content — has made its way into South Asian digital spaces too. Influencers on YouTube and TikTok peddle pseudo-psychology and macho solutions, trivialising real emotional pain.
But not all is bleak.
There is growing evidence that when mental health services are tailored to men — using informal formats, familiar language, and accessible settings — engagement rises. In Australia, community centres that allow boys to talk while playing sports or during leisure activities have shown promise. Bangladesh can and must adapt such models. The culture may be different, but the minds are equally in need.
In Bangladeshi society, boys tend to open up to peers rather than professionals. Yet, we seldom equip peers with the knowledge or emotional intelligence to respond. Imagine a nationwide school-based program where mental health awareness is built into the curriculum, not as a one-day workshop, but as an ongoing, integrated dialogue. Peer support groups, trained mentor systems, and informal listening spaces can become a lifeline.
We must also empower parents, particularly fathers. The absence of emotional modelling from male role models creates generational echoes. When a father shares his own emotional journey, it gives the son permission to feel. But for that to happen, adult men must also unlearn their own internalised patriarchy.
Faith-based organisations, local clubs, and even cricket teams can become venues of change if mental health is framed not as weakness but as responsibility. ‘Being a man’ should include the courage to seek help, to express fear and to heal.
At the policy level, Bangladesh must recognise youth mental health as a national priority. We need more than just budget allocations; we need visibility. A Ministry of Youth program focusing on mental resilience, school-based mental health professionals, awareness campaigns targeting boys, and inclusive training for teachers and parents — these are not luxuries; they are lifelines.
Most critically, we need data. We cannot solve what we refuse to study. A nationwide mental health survey focused on adolescents and disaggregated by gender would be a good place to start.
Let us stop telling our boys to ‘man up.’ Let us teach them to open up.
In a country like Bangladesh, where gender roles are tightly scripted and public health is still catching up to social change, addressing boys’ mental health is both a moral and strategic imperative. A boy who feels safe enough to cry today becomes a man who can empathise, nurture and lead tomorrow.
Mental health is not gendered. But help-seeking behaviour is. And until we rewrite the script that says boys must suffer in silence, we will keep losing them to the shadows of our ignorance.
HM Nazmul Alam is an academic, journalist and political analyst.
