Why do governments struggle to combat misinformation? In Bangladesh, the answer lies less in falsehoods than in the way news is produced and distributed.
Before social media, misinformation travelled slowly. It moved through word of mouth, neighbourhood gossip and sometimes through political leaflets slipped under doors. Most people had no way to verify a claim independently, giving rumours an authority that facts often struggled to match.
Mainstream newspapers largely maintained editorial standards, while state television projected its own version of events and tabloids traded in fear and speculation. What misinformation lacked in speed, it gained in credibility. It arrived in print or from a trusted acquaintance, making it difficult to challenge once accepted.
Today misinformation often emerges from rushed reporting and limited verification. And through the convoluted incentives of digital platforms.
Consider the recent killing of a schoolgirl in Khulna. National newspapers reported that her parents murdered her because they opposed her relationships with several young men. Local journalists told a different story. The parents were allegedly involved in the drug trade, and the girl had married to escape abuse.
Even her age varied across reports, ranging from sixteen to eighteen, underscoring how little had been firmly established. The result was not simply two versions of one crime but two entirely different public conversations.
Local outlets framed the story around drugs, family violence and a forced return home. Engagement remained modest, but the discussion reflected local knowledge, with readers claiming familiarity with the family and questioning the police narrative.
National outlets presented it as an "honour killing", generating far greater engagement and shifting the discussion towards morality and social values. That difference is revealing. Local audiences debated what happened. National audiences debated what the incident represented.
Political scientist Shanto Iyengar describes this as episodic framing, presenting an event in isolation while stripping away the broader circumstances that shaped it. When reporting is incomplete, simplified narratives spread quickly. Digital platforms reward engagement rather than verification, allowing uncertainty to harden into accepted fact.
Research on Bangladesh's media landscape points to structural weaknesses that reinforce this pattern. Financial pressures, inadequate training and political influence leave many newsrooms reliant on incomplete information. Once a narrative gains momentum, algorithms amplify the version that provokes the strongest emotional response, not the one supported by the strongest reporting.
In the Khulna case, the label "honour killing" became more influential than the underlying facts. A complicated family tragedy was reduced to a slogan before key questions had been answered.
There are practical reasons for this. Few national newspapers maintain reporters in every upazila. Most depend on district correspondents and poorly paid stringers who often file for multiple organisations.
Sending reporters to reconstruct events through dozens of interviews requires time and money that many newsrooms no longer have. The police briefing becomes the story because it is accessible, quotable and easy to publish before competitors.
That economic reality shapes journalism as much as editorial judgement.
The recent death of an elderly mother in Mirpur followed a similar pattern. Sensational headlines spread rapidly across Facebook, prompting intense public anger and calls for accountability. As further reporting emerged, a more complicated picture appeared.
The daughter was reportedly living with mental illness, the two women had refused to allow domestic staff into the room, and family members maintained regular contact with the elderly woman. By then, however, public opinion had largely settled.
The verdict had been delivered before the investigation had properly begun.
This pattern is hardly unique to Bangladesh. Human rights investigators have documented how Facebook's recommendation systems amplified inflammatory content before communal violence against the Rohingya in Myanmar.
The issue is not simply that false information circulates. It is that engagement-driven systems consistently reward material that evokes anger, fear or outrage, regardless of whether the underlying facts have been fully established.
Governments increasingly find themselves responding to public pressure generated by those same systems. Social media has become an agenda setter, determining which stories demand immediate official attention and which disappear before investigations are complete.
That creates a difficult challenge. Public pressure can expose genuine injustice and compel authorities to act. But when governments respond primarily to algorithmically amplified outrage, they risk treating online momentum as evidence.
The early hours of any criminal investigation are particularly vulnerable to this dynamic. Police typically provide an initial account based on preliminary testimony and the information available at the scene. Those briefings are necessarily incomplete. The fuller picture often emerges months later through forensic evidence, witness statements and court proceedings.
By then, public attention has moved on. Readers remember the first headline rather than the final investigation. News organisations compete to publish first because speed attracts clicks, while digital platforms encourage headlines that maximise engagement.
The consequences extend beyond journalism. Once public opinion hardens around an early narrative, later corrections rarely receive equal attention. A more nuanced account may eventually emerge, but it struggles to displace the simpler version already embedded in public memory.
The challenge is not only to improve reporting but also to change how information is consumed. Media literacy deserves the same attention as digital infrastructure. Citizens should understand how headlines are framed, how algorithms prioritise content and why early reports frequently change as investigations progress.
News is not simply information; it is a process of verification. The first account is rarely the complete one.
Governments also need a broader response involving educational institutions, civil society and technology companies. Platforms that profit from engagement should bear greater responsibility for how their recommendation systems amplify unverified claims and emotionally charged content.
Most importantly, readers need to develop the habit of asking what is missing. What evidence remains unverified? Which voices have not been heard? What assumptions are being made before the facts are established?
In an age when algorithms shape what billions of people read, the greatest safeguard against misinformation is not simply better technology or stronger regulation. It is a public willing to suspend judgement until evidence catches up with emotion.
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Namia Akhtar is an anthropologist and has previously worked at the Embassy of the Netherlands in Dhaka, the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), and the European External Action Service (EEAS). She can be reached at namiaakhtar11@gmail.com