I Marched for the 1st Time in Protest of the Kathua & Unnao Rapes
I am guilty of not having done anything about the many rapes that have happened before. But not anymore.
advertisement
Today, I marched for the first time.
On Friday, 13 April, Mumbai’s civil society citizens, women and child rights organisations and political parties such as the Aam Aadmi Party (AAP) and Congress organised a protest to demand justice for the eight-year-old victim in the Kathua gang rape and the Unnao rape survivor and her father, who was killed in police custody after being arbitrarily arrested.
I confess, I am guilty of not noticing the Kathua rape case when it happened four months ago. I am guilty of thinking the Unnao case is any lesser because the victim is alive. I am guilty of, despite my profession, reading about several rapes every day in my city, and across the country and simply... moving on. I am guilty of not having marched in protest of anything before.
So, today, I decided I would. And I’m glad I did.
A Slow Start
An eight-year-old girl was kidnapped, repeatedly sedated, gang raped, suffocated to death then bludgeoned – just to be sure, you know – all in the prayer room of a temple in Kathua, Jammu. Her body was then disposed of in the forest.
She happened to be a Bakarwal Muslim nomad, part of a community the Hindu accused wanted to intimidate. Lawyers and even two Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) ministers had the audacity to take out a procession in defence of the accused.
In Unnao, a 17-year-old girl had alleged that a BJP minister had raped her last year and was currently fighting for justice in court. In April, her father was beaten up by the minister’s brother and his men, arrested by the police under the Arms Act for six days, and killed in police custody a day after the girl tried to immolate herself in front of Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath’s house.
Convinced that we have hit rock bottom as a society and the only way out was up, I reached Azad Maidan.
I was initially disappointed. There were barely any people, any signs or banners to guide them and especially not enough young people.
I spent 20 minutes moving around, unable to see any large groups except for the one formed by party members of the Mumbai Congress. While I acknowledged the affirmative action, it was hard to shake off the fact that the party obviously would have vested interests. And this wasn’t an issue I was ready to have politicised just yet.
The previous night, Delhi’s people had showed up in hundreds at India Gate at midnight for a candlelight vigil for the victims. Mumbai could definitely do better than this meagre crowd, I thought.
It was a slogan that drew me in – as good slogans ought to do. “Hum sharminda hain, tere kaatil zinda hai”, shouted the crowd. It hit a nerve. I was deeply ashamed of having not done enough and earlier. That I was complicit in the system that allowed the state such free reign – so much so that the cops had the audacity to try and cover up the Kathua rape.
Another one assaulted my senses: “Arre, awaaz do! Hum ek hain!” I turned and saw a motley crowd, visibly in discomfort, in sarees and turbans and burkas in the Mumbai heat, chanting more than sloganeering. I could see people getting drawn into their collective spirit to fight back. I felt myself caring less and less about how many people were there.
What mattered were all those who did show up and that I was there.
The People I Met
The people who were there – not more than 400 – were not Hindus or Muslims or Sikhs or Christians. They were righteous, indignant Indians out there to demand justice for those wronged.
I met men, women, college students, social media celebrities, lone warriors, well-coordinated organisations, old people, young people – and they all had the same thing to say: “Ab bas.”
A woman, who had come with her two daughters, one of them about the same age as the Kathua victim, looked at me incredulously when I asked her what about these incidents had moved her to come out today.
She simply said: “These two girls”. On further prodding, she added a soft explanation. “I’m a housewife. I don’t belong to any organisation. I saw it on the news, so did my elder one. I immediately knew I have to come today if that means my daughters will grow up safe. They’re also Muslim.”
The anger was palpable; you could see it in people’s eyes when they talked. They would look straight into my eyes, often very agitated.
Another protester, said with hands trembling: “The government is supposed to have a responsibility. For the last four years, they have only played politics and done business... In both the Kathua and Unnao cases, there are BJP ministers involved. The government has to stop this... If they don’t, the people are not afraid to pick them up from the top and throw them back down”.
A mother of a young girl broke down as soon as she started talking to me. The heat, the constant repetitions of the young girl’s name in the slogans, the charged-up crowd – they were all adding to her heightened emotions. She cried out, “What do I say? What can I say? Just stop this casteist, communal politics”.
I couldn’t relate, but I could empathise deeply. Then I met two women, roughly my age: one, a criminal lawyer and the other, a marketeer. They both had taken the afternoon off to come and protest. I asked them their thoughts.
“I’m here today because after these two cases I realised I’m the one who has to get out and join the crowd. No one is going to do this for me. I tried to get my own network of people to come, but it’s so hard. But it’s about time we all came out and fought back. Do what it takes. Take the day off from work if you can afford it. But come and show them that our votes are not for free”, said the lawyer.
“Just sharing an article on social media and feeling good about yourself won’t cut it anymore. I came here because I didn’t know how else to react to the news these days. This is the only way out,” said the other. We smiled at each other because we sensed the similarity in our purposes.
I also met several nameless protesters who put their hearts and souls into chanting away in the sweltering heat. I heard them shout invigorating slogans such as “Ab aur naahin, ab bas” and “Nahin chalegi, taanashahi nahin chalegi”. Overwhelmed, I sat down for a minute as the voices around me reached a crescendo.
It was then that I saw it: someone had left a message for the Kathua victim on the red tarp that had been set up for the protests. A lone “Sorry” on a white sheet of paper stared back at me.
Final Thoughts
Was there unnecessary politicisation of the issues at times? Yes. Was there some “Modigiri hai hai” and even some “Jo Hitler ki chaal chalega, voh Hitler ki maut marega” (yikes)? Yes. Were there men fighting for their “sisters” and “India’s daughters” but not a girl and a woman, thereby missing the point? Yes. Were there enough people to call it a “big protest” if you took away the ones who’d come with political interests? Nowhere close.
But in those who did come, I found hope and a familiar anger. I met those who had been doing this for a while and they showed me the perseverance fighting for justice takes – but also how rewarding it can be. I met those who were there for the first time just like me, and recognised the fire in their eyes to take back power from those who were corrupted by it. I saw hope and a renewed determination to fight back.
Because the time to be lukewarm is gone. You’re either fighting with us, for justice, or you’re fighting against us – but you can’t sit and watch the fight anymore.
And I won’t. I will march again. And again and again. If this is what it’ll take – and I’m horrified this is what it took for me to speak up – then I’ll show up.
It’s about going back to the basics of democracy. It’s about reclaiming the streets, loudly and repeatedly, and demanding your rights and holding the government accountable as is your duty, in return.
(At The Quint, we question everything. Play an active role in shaping our journalism by becoming a member today.)