There’s something unsettling about scrolling through Facebook and stumbling upon people who seem to thrive in constant arguments. They’re not just defending their opinions—they’re starting fights. Every post is a battlefield. Every comment is laced with sarcasm, shade, or an outright insult. You wonder: how did it come to this? Why do some people seem to choose war over peace, especially on a platform that’s supposed to connect, not divide?
It’s not just occasional drama. It’s habitual. These people are always at the center of some bardagulan. You’ll see them dragging someone, responding with snide remarks, or dropping bombastic statuses that are obviously aimed at someone. It’s like Facebook became their personal arena, and every day they come armed with new ammunition. There’s always a siege, always an insult, always negative energy surrounding their digital presence.
And it’s exhausting—just watching it unfold is draining. You don’t even need to be involved to feel the weight of their toxic posts. You find yourself wondering: don’t they get tired? Doesn’t it weigh on them to be constantly surrounded by friction and animosity? Most people crave peace. These ones seem to reject it.
Sometimes, from a distance, it’s easy to think: small minds are often the loudest. Not necessarily because they’re unintelligent, but because they’re not interested in understanding—they’re interested in winning. Winning a petty argument. Winning attention. Winning sympathy. But it’s hollow, and often, it backfires. Because the more they bark online, the less seriously people take them.
There’s also a pattern. The same names. The same tone. The same energy. You could probably guess how they’d respond before they even type it. It becomes predictable. If someone posts a mild opinion, they twist it into something offensive just to ignite a fight. They pick sides in issues that don’t even need to be controversial. Everything is taken personally. Everything is weaponized.
It’s ironic. Facebook asks: “What’s on your mind?” But instead of sharing a thought, they often fire a shot. It’s not just unhealthy; it’s also sad. Because behind that keyboard is a real person, possibly hurting, possibly lost, and definitely misdirected. But instead of healing or growing, they project. They find comfort in chaos. That’s what makes it tragic.
Maybe they don’t realize how visible it is. How obvious it becomes when someone is always involved in bardagulan. When the pattern of conflict shows up week after week, you start to see it as a reflection of their character. You wonder if they live their real lives this way too—constantly defensive, always suspicious, itching for the next round. Or maybe it’s only online that they feel powerful. Perhaps in real life, they feel powerless, ignored, or insignificant. The internet gives them a stage. And conflict becomes their performance.
Still, it doesn’t excuse it. Being online doesn’t mean we get to abandon decency. It’s strange how some people think the screen gives them permission to insult others, to throw labels, to attack. When did cruelty become so casual? And why do people cheer it on, react with laughing emojis, or join the fight as if it’s some kind of entertainment?
Sometimes you see entire threads filled with mockery and insults, and it’s not just between strangers. Often, it’s people who once knew each other—friends, relatives, classmates. The fallouts are loud. The blockings are louder. And you think: is it really worth it? Is proving a point more important than preserving dignity?
Facebook can be a place of light—of memories, shared joys, updates, reunions. But for these people, it’s a place of tension. Their posts are like minefields. You don’t know where to step. They’re waiting for someone to comment the wrong word so they can explode. It’s not dialogue anymore. It’s ambush.
You pity them, in a way. Because while everyone else is trying to survive their own lives, these people are out here starting digital wars. While others are minding their peace, they’re sharpening their claws for the next bardagulan. And for what? Clout? Relevance? Ego? These things fade. But the impression they leave stays.
What’s also telling is how some of them constantly declare they’re being “real” or “authentic.” As if being rude is the same as being honest. As if calling someone names is bravery. But real authenticity includes empathy. Real confidence doesn’t need to tear others down. It uplifts without shouting. It speaks truth without cruelty.
You can’t help but wonder what happens when the screen turns off. When the phone is set aside. When the likes stop coming in. Are they proud of their behavior? Are they fulfilled by the attention? Do they feel in control, or are they simply lost in the noise they’ve created? Sometimes silence reveals what chaos hides: the emptiness behind all the shouting.
It’s tempting to engage. To call them out. To defend someone they insulted. But at some point, you realize it’s not worth it. Because some people don’t argue to understand; they argue to escalate. Responding to them just gives them fuel. Silence, ironically, becomes the most powerful response. Ignoring them is sometimes the only way to protect your peace.
You think of all the things they could do instead. Share joy. Support others. Learn something new. Celebrate small wins. But that requires intention. It takes more strength to be kind than to be cruel. And for people who’ve built their identity around bardagulan, it’s easier to continue being loud than to face the quiet work of self-reflection.
Not everyone will choose growth. Some will cling to negativity because it’s all they know. Some will keep picking fights because peace is foreign to them. But that’s their path—not yours. You don’t need to match their energy. You don’t have to stoop to their level.
What you can do is observe, reflect, and distance. You can choose light. You can curate your feed to protect your mental space. And most of all, you can remind yourself that silence is not weakness. Sometimes it’s the clearest sign of strength.
After all, peace doesn’t need to announce itself. It just is. Quiet. Steady. Rooted. And ultimately, far more powerful than the loudest chaos.
