Living with Verbal Abuse and Stigma: Psychosocial Experiences of Persons with Disabilities in Bangladesh

In many parts of the world, the most visible signs of violence are physical: a bruise, a broken bone, a scar. Yet there is a form of harm that leaves no mark on the skin but can fracture a person's spirit just as deeply. This is verbal abuse, a pattern of shouting, mocking, insulting, and threatening that erodes a person's sense of worth and safety. For people with disabilities, this type of abuse is often woven into the fabric of daily life, reinforced by deep-seated cultural beliefs that view disability as a punishment or a moral failing. When a society tells a person they are a burden, a mistake, or a source of bad luck, the words can become a cage, trapping the individual in isolation and despair. Understanding how these words hurt, who says them, and what happens to the people who hear them is essential for building a world that truly includes everyone.

A team of researchers in Bangladesh set out to listen to the stories of people living with disabilities to understand the true weight of this verbal abuse. They traveled to the Cumilla district, a region in eastern Bangladesh, to conduct intimate, face-to-face conversations with twenty individuals. These participants included men and women of various ages, some with physical limitations, others with visual, hearing, or speech impairments, and some with intellectual disabilities or cerebral palsy. The researchers did not just ask if abuse had happened; they asked what it felt like, who was saying the hurtful things, and how it changed the participants' lives. By recording these stories and analyzing them carefully, the team uncovered a harsh reality: verbal abuse is not an occasional event for these individuals, but a constant, normalized presence that often comes from the very people who are supposed to protect them.

The most striking discovery was that the home, often seen as a sanctuary, was frequently the primary source of this pain. Family members, including parents, siblings, and even spouses, were often the ones delivering the insults. Participants described being called names like "devil," "useless," or "son of a bitch" by their own relatives. In some cases, the abuse was so severe that family members treated the person with a disability as a burden to be hidden away, sometimes even forcing them to sleep in cowsheds or tying them to furniture to keep them out of sight. One participant, a woman with cerebral palsy, recounted how her husband would slap her face simply because she was sleeping or moving, unable to tolerate her physical condition. Another described how her own family would raise their hands against her because they believed a person with a hearing impairment could not contribute to the household and was therefore less valuable. This betrayal by those closest to them created a profound sense of isolation, making the participants feel that they had no one to turn to for safety.

Beyond the family, the community and public spaces were filled with similar hostility. Strangers, neighbors, and even children would mock the participants in the street, using derogatory slurs like "cripple," "amputee," or "blind" instead of their actual names. The researchers found that this abuse was often rooted in moral and religious blaming. Many people in the community believed that a disability was a sign of a "divine crime" or a punishment for the sins of the parents. This belief system turned disability into a source of shame, leading neighbors to spread rumors that the person was "bad luck" or that their presence would bring misfortune to others. For women, this stigma was particularly damaging, as it was tied to their marriageability. Families would reject marriage proposals, and neighbors would whisper that a woman with a disability had a "bad character," effectively cutting off her future and her place in society.

The psychological toll of living under this constant barrage of words was severe and widespread. The participants described their daily existence as a "fire of hell," a state of relentless mental pressure. The constant humiliation led to deep depression, intense anxiety, and a complete withdrawal from social life. Many participants said they stopped leaving their homes, avoiding markets, gatherings, and even family events because they feared the mockery and stares. They felt invisible, or worse, seen only as objects of pity or disgust. This isolation was not just a choice; it was a survival strategy to avoid further pain. The damage went even deeper, with seven of the twenty participants admitting they had attempted suicide. They described feeling like a "mistake of birth," believing that their lives held no value and that the world would be better off without them. One participant shared a heartbreaking story of trying to end their life, only to be told by their own family to go outside and die instead of dying in the house.

The study makes it clear that verbal abuse is not a minor issue but a devastating form of violence that can be as harmful as physical attacks. It is a normalized part of life for many people with disabilities in Bangladesh, fueled by ignorance, religious superstition, and a lack of legal protection. The researchers found that while the abuse is invisible to the eye, its effects are visible in the broken spirits of those who endure it. The paper suggests that to change this, communities need to be educated to stop the blame and the insults, and that support systems must be put in place to screen for emotional abuse and suicidal thoughts. Without addressing this everyday cruelty, the goal of leaving no one behind remains out of reach. The voices of these twenty individuals serve as a powerful reminder that words can wound, and that healing requires more than just physical care; it requires a fundamental shift in how society sees and treats its most vulnerable members.