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THE Mahabharata introduces us to a tale dominated by rage, the wrath of Draupadi, the wife of the Pandavas, whose fierce anger becomes a catalyst for the eventual war of Kurukshetra. Her rage stems from a profound injustice: being disrobed and humiliated in the Kaurava court during a rigged dice game, an act not just of personal degradation but a symbolic violation of dharma. Draupadi’s sense of honour is assaulted, pushing her to demand retribution. This desire for justice ignites the flames of war, forcing the Pandavas into a relentless battle that would consume both families. However, as the narrative unfolds, a critical question emerges: Can rage, no matter how righteous, ever lead to true justice?

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Productive and destructive nature of rage

HANNAH Arendt, a German-born American political theorist and philosopher, suggested that rage is often a response to perceived injustices. It is not a reaction to impersonal forces like natural disasters but rather to deliberate acts of human cruelty, such as war crimes or oppression. Rage, in this context, is rooted in a sense of justice — it is an emotional response to the violation of what is right. As seen in Draupadi’s story, rage often arises in response to deliberate human cruelty — when one’s dignity or sense of justice is violated. Draupadi’s fury is not a reaction to impersonal misfortune but to the calculated humiliation inflicted upon her by the Kauravas. Her rage, deeply rooted in a sense of justice, compels the Pandavas to avenge her dishonour and restore their family’s dignity. Yet, the paradox of her anger lies in its duality: while it propels the pursuit of justice, it simultaneously fuels a cycle of revenge and devastation, ultimately leading to a war that destroys the very fabric of the society it sought to redeem. Draupadi’s rage becomes a focal point that shapes the Pandavas’ strategies and decisions during the war. For Bhima and Arjuna, her honour is interwoven with their own sense of purpose, turning the battle into a series of personal vendettas rather than a straightforward fight for dharma. This shift in focus — from justice to vengeance — makes the war bloodier and more destructive.

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Rage in current politics: a double-edged sword

THE question of whether rage can lead to justice is not only relevant in ancient texts but also in contemporary politics. Today, we live in an age of anger where social media and algorithms amplify rage, often at the expense of rational discourse. A recent example is the polemic surrounding the coordination committee for revising textbooks for primary and secondary schools. Various groups have taken to social media, flooding platforms with inflammatory content against each other. On one side, certain factions label their opponents as ‘fundamentalists’ and ‘communalists,’ while the opposing group brands them as ‘anti-religion.’ Amidst this cacophony of accusations, the opportunity for meaningful discussion on how to create textbooks that can equip our children to meet global challenges has been drowned out. Instead of fostering thoughtful dialogue on education reform, the debate has devolved into a battle of outrage, illustrating how the power of emotion can overshadow reasoned debate, leaving the core issue unresolved.

The French Revolution’s reign of terror stands as a sobering reminder of how rage against perceived hypocrisy can spiral into violence. What began as a righteous demand for liberty, equality, and fraternity quickly morphed into a brutal campaign of bloodshed under the guise of upholding virtue. Revolutionaries, fuelled by the belief that they were purging the old order’s corruption, unleashed a reign of terror that saw thousands executed, including many who had initially supported the revolution. This fervour for ‘virtue’ became a tool to justify widespread violence and oppression, illustrating the dangerous paradox of rage: in seeking to eradicate perceived injustices, it often ends up mimicking the very tyranny it seeks to destroy.

A similar phenomenon unfolded during the July-August uprising in Bangladesh. Public rage was stoked by what they saw as the Hasina regime’s hypocrisy — its façade of democratic rule while allegedly being propped up by foreign powers. When the government finally fell, this long-simmering anger erupted violently across the country. Citizens targeted symbols of the Awami League’s authority and perceived collaborators with ruthless zeal. On August 5, the crowd set fire to multiple significant sites in Dhaka, including the residence of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, also known as the Bangabandhu Memorial Museum, at Dhanmondi 32. The blaze also engulfed the Indira Gandhi Cultural Centre, an institution meant to foster bilateral ties between India and Bangladesh. To many, the Centre represented not just a cultural bridge but a reminder of the Indian government’s tacit support for Hasina’s autocratic regime through three contentious elections.

The fury did not stop there. Mobs broke into the home of Mashrafe bin Mortaza, a former captain of the Bangladesh national cricket team who had become a member of Hasina’s parliament. While Mortaza had once been a celebrated sports icon, his transformation into a political figure using his fame to bolster support for Hasina’s increasingly unpopular rule made him a target of public outrage. The attack on his home — a direct repudiation of his political role — shows how rage can shift focus from just political power structures to individuals seen as complicit in the regime’s actions.

Perhaps the most visceral example of this targeted fury was the assault on former Supreme Court Justice AHM Shamsuddin Chowdhury Manik. Although retired from the judiciary, Manik was widely viewed as one of Hasina’s judicial collaborators, having consistently endorsed her policies and rendered verdicts that legitimised her government’s controversial decisions. He was attacked at the Sylhet court premises, leaving him severely injured and admitted to the Intensive Care Unit. This incident starkly underscores Aristotle’s timeless wisdom: ‘Anyone can get angry; that is easy. But to get angry with the right person, to the right degree, at the right time, for the right purpose, and in the right way — that is not easy.’ The rage directed at Justice Manik, though aimed at a symbolic figure of the regime’s judicial overreach, was excessive — an illustration of how difficult it is to channel anger constructively in a climate where emotions are so easily provoked and amplified. In the heat of anger, the real task of reforming the judicial system to ensure that no government can exploit the courts to illegitimately remain in power was lost from the public psyche, overshadowed by the immediate desire for retribution. The uprising’s aftermath serves as a poignant reminder that rage, when unchecked, does not lead to justice but rather fuels a cycle of revenge and retribution. It illustrates how, in the pursuit of punishing perceived wrongdoing, we often end up perpetuating the very chaos and injustice we sought to dismantle.

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Hypocrisy trap

THE current political landscape of Bangladesh is rife with accusations of hypocrisy. The rage of many supporters of the July uprising is not primarily driven by a coherent vision of justice but by a deep-seated resentment towards the perceived hypocrisy of cultural and intellectual elites. While they rallied to defend symbols of an authoritarian regime like Bangladesh Television and Hasina’s flagship metro rail project, they turned a blind eye to the regime’s violent suppression of unarmed students and the urban poor. When those who are supposed to speak truth to power become complicit, the public’s sense of betrayal deepens, and resentment turns into a destructive force. However, this indignation is not confined to the ‘Islamists’ alone. The obsession with exposing hypocrisy permeates even the left-wing factions, where ideological purity has turned into infighting and the vilification of the ‘Islamists’. Left-wing groups intensified their criticism of the ulama, accusing them of supporting the regime’s oppressive policies. They highlighted the ulama’s silence on issues like corruption, bank robbery, and extrajudicial killings. This portrayal of the ulama as hypocrites further fuelled the post-uprising chaos as different factions within the protest movement clashed over their visions for Bangladesh’s future. This internal vilification added to the already volatile situation, leading to greater instability in the post-uprising period.

But as much as this rage against hypocrisy is justified, an obsession with exposing duplicity can be more destructive than the hypocrisy itself. When every figure is viewed as a potential hypocrite, the focus shifts from achieving justice to punishing perceived insincerity, leaving room for demagogues to exploit the disillusionment. In this toxic environment, the pursuit of justice is overshadowed by a relentless drive to tear down those deemed hypocrites, leading to a cycle of rage that ultimately undermines any possibility for genuine, constructive change.

The Mahabharata teaches us that rage, while potent, must be controlled if it is to serve justice rather than destroy it. In present Bangladesh, this lesson is more critical than ever. The rage that permeates our political discourse must be acknowledged and addressed, but it must also be guided by reason and a genuine commitment to justice. Only by doing so can we hope to build a society that values both emotional authenticity and the rational pursuit of the common good.

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Jonaed Iqbel is a development professional in the fields of peace, conflict, pluralism, and peaceful coexistence.