Bangladesh's gadget obsession leaving toxic legacy

In the narrow corridor of a Dhaka slum, a boy sits cross-legged on a tattered mattress, clutching a secondhand smartphone like a prized possession. Nirob's fingers dart across the cracked screen as he navigates his favourite mobile game. He barely notices his mother calling him for dinner. "I'll come later," the 12-year-old mutters, eyes still locked on the glowing display. Around him, the room is dark except for the cold light from the screen - a modern fire around which a new generation gathers.

Such a scene is not rare nowadays. Across urban and even rural Bangladesh, the irresistible pull of technology has embedded itself deeply into daily life. In tea stalls, college canteens, rooftop gatherings, and school corridors, people are perpetually hunched over smartphones, earbuds in place, scrolling endlessly. Mobile phones, tablets, smartwatches, LED TVs, fitness trackers - gadgets are no longer luxury items, they are cultural artifacts, economic tools, status symbols, and, increasingly, emotional crutches.

In the last decade, Bangladesh embraced digital life at a stunning pace. Government-touted 'Digital Bangladesh' vision, launched in 2009, promised to connect citizens and digitise services. Today, more than 130 million people subscribe to mobile internet. Local tech manufacturers assemble phones domestically. Children in remote villages attend online classes. Farmers receive weather updates via SMS. It is veritably a digital revolution - but one that is also revealing a more troubling undercurrent.

"The adoption has been exponential, but the psychological and social costs are just beginning to surface," says Professor Nusrat Hossain, a sociologist at Dhaka University. "We have moved from access to addiction without realising it."

Teenagers now spend hours on TikTok, young children have YouTube channels before they've learned to write properly, and office workers confess to checking their phones up to a hundred times a day. Parents, who once complained about children watching too much TV, now admit they themselves are often distracted by screens.

The pressure to upgrade devices - for better cameras, smoother apps, and faster processors - fuels an endless cycle of consumption. It is no longer enough to have a smartphone--one must have the latest version.

Mariam, a 15-year-old student in Narayanganj, says she replaced her phone twice in the last three years. "My friends all had better phones," she says, shrugging. "I felt left out. Now I can take better selfies, post reels faster. It matters." Her mother, who once struggled to get Mariam to read books, now struggles to get her to come to the dinner table without her phone.

Health professionals are raising concerns. Psychiatrists report growing cases of digital dependency, especially among teenagers and children. Sleep disorders, anxiety, reduced attention span, and behavioural issues are becoming common complaints. "We are dealing with a new form of addiction, one that's socially accepted but psychologically damaging," explains Dr Tapan Barua, a child psychologist in Chattogram. "Screens have become pacifiers, distractions, companions - and sometimes, substitutes for real human interaction."

But the consequences are not only mental or social. Hidden in this sea of screens is a silent environmental crisis. The obsession with devices - and the resulting obsolescence - is creating a growing mountain of discarded electronics. Most users have no idea where their old phones go once they are replaced. Many simply end up in drawers, forgotten. Others are dumped, sold, or scavenged. Each year, Bangladesh generates nearly three million metric tons of electronic waste. While shipbreaking contributes a significant portion, discarded household gadgets - phones, TVs, chargers, laptops - are fast becoming a major source. And because there is no effective nationwide e-waste policy in place, much of this ends up in informal recycling yards where safety protocols are nonexistent.

In one such site in Keraniganj, on the outskirts of the capital, Dhaka, young boys like 14-year-old Hridoy strip copper wires from broken circuit boards using fire and bare hands. The air smells of burnt plastic. The ground is stained with oil and chemicals. "Sometimes my eyes burn or my hands swell," says Hridoy. "But I have to work. My family needs the money." His employer, like many others in this grey economy, offers no protection, no healthcare, and no remorse.

Environmental experts warn that toxic materials from e-waste - including mercury, lead, and cadmium - are contaminating soil, water, and air, particularly in poor neighbourhoods where informal recycling thrives. Children, often the most vulnerable, are exposed to life-altering health risks. Yet, awareness remains low, and regulatory action stalled. Draft rules for e-waste management have existed since 2011 and were updated in 2017 under the Environment Conservation Act. But enforcement is weak, coordination between ministries is patchy, and producers are not held responsible for end-of-life disposal.

"Bangladesh has made great strides in digitisation," says environmental activist Shahana Akhter. "But we've completely ignored the waste stream it's producing. It's like importing millions of batteries but having no idea where to throw them when they die."

And that is the paradox of progress. For all its benefits, the digital age has introduced new dependencies, new inequalities, and new hazards. Poor families like Hridoy's are on one end of the supply chain - consuming low-end gadgets, salvaging old ones, or dismantling broken ones under toxic conditions. On the other end are urban consumers like Mariam, swapping devices regularly, driven by trends and social pressure. Both are caught in a system that rewards consumption but rarely pauses to ask: at what cost?

There are no simple fixes. Experts recommend a multi-pronged approach - digital literacy in schools, public awareness campaigns, better enforcement of import and recycling rules, and the formalisation of e-waste-collection systems. But progress is slow, and the problem is growing faster than the solutions.

Back in Mirpur, young Nirob has finally joined the digital world. He shares memes, plays online games, and dreams of becoming a YouTuber. He is curious, intelligent, and full of hope. But like millions of others in Bangladesh, he is stepping into a world of infinite scrolling - a world without stop signs.

As a country on the cusp of a digital future, Bangladesh must decide whether to let this journey be guided by algorithms and profit margins, or by reflection, responsibility, and a long-term vision for its people and its planet.