Does India Have The Moral Capacity to Hear Someone Like Syeda Hameed?

The team that had returned from Assam was about to make their report public. Syeda Hameed, Wajahat Habibullah, Jawhar Sircar, Harsh Mander, Prashant Bhushan, and Fawaz Shaheen had spent two days in the state. Reports of mass eviction of Bengali Muslim communities from various parts of the state were reaching us. The team had travelled to understand the ground situation. The report based on the observation of the team during that visit was to be released. The venue was Constitution Club. I had reached a little early.

As I approached the main entrance, a security guard stopped me: “This way is reserved for members only,” he said. The rest could enter through the side corridor. I paused briefly, thinking that members of parliament would not even be here if people like us did not vote them into power. But the moment they are elected, they erect walls between themselves and the people. The route that an MP walks becomes inaccessible to the very public who made it possible.

It struck me then: this year marks 80 years since Animal Farm was published. Who says George Orwell was only writing about the Soviet Union?

So, reminded of my place, I entered through the back corridor, meant for the common folk. I spotted young people wielding  microphones marked with names of mainstream TV channels like guns. My instincts told me there was something unusual. The big Indian media rarely pay attention to the the pain and suffering of this country’s marginalised. Just a week ago, we had released an independent tribunal report on the ongoing violence in Manipur – not a single media person from these channels had shown up. They also had not shown up when a report on the ecological devastation in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands was made public. Or when demolitions of slums were being documented in Delhi. There is little appetite in this media for stories of the vulnerable.

Then why this sudden interest in the evictions of Muslims in Assam?

I should have known that they were out hunting. The headlines in the newspapers should have given me some inkling: “Bangladeshis Can Stay in India, Says Former Planning Commission Member Syeda Hameed.” This angle was almost uniformly reported across outlets. Then came the barrage on social media. Assam’s chief minister Himanta Biswa Sarma declared that “people like Syeda Hameed are legitimising infiltrators. They dream of turning Assam into Pakistan of the dream of Jinnah.” In another statement, Sarma said he wouldn't personally file an FIR against her – it would only help her raise money for her legal defence and enrich herself. But if she returned to Assam, the law would deal with her in the way it operates in Assam, he said. He hinted that others could initiate legal proceedings even if the state did not.

Sarma linked Hameed to the Congress party. In an effort to distance themselves, leaders from Assam Congress attacked her, trashing her statement. Soon, leaders from other parties joined in – how could she say that Bangladeshis should be allowed to live in India?

Reading all this, even I was slightly annoyed. I thought, why did Hameed or anyone from the team go public at all, beyond the scope of their visit? But then I saw a video of her speaking. Surrounded by cameras, clearly being bombarded with questions about Bangladeshis, she eventually said, perhaps wearied by the relentless interrogation:

"After all, being a Bangladeshi is not a crime. The world is vast. Even they have a place on this earth created by Allah. They’re not stealing anyone’s rights.”

Anyone watching could see what she meant. All she was asking for was a humanitarian approach to Bangladeshi people. In India, the term “Bangladeshi” has become criminalised. As if the word itself means something illegal, unwanted, or inhuman. It's no longer possible to imagine a people identified as such being treated with dignity. Using this label, attacks are mounted on anyone who speaks Bengali and is Muslim. Sometimes even Bengali-speaking Hindus are caught in the net – after all, no one walks around with their religion stamped on their forehead.

In this context, Hameed was simply saying: look at Bangladeshis as human beings. They, too, have the right to live.

Nothing in her statement advocates that undocumented migrants from Bangladesh should illegally live in India.

But Hameed forgot, perhaps in her innocence, that today’s India – and Assam in particular – has only one response to such a plea for humanity: violence. The attack was initiated by the chief minister himself. The rest followed. But truthfully, even her statement wasn’t needed for the assault to begin. As soon as word got out that Hameed and her team were visiting Assam, Sarma launched his assault. He accused the team of supporting the "infiltrators". According to him, they had come to weaken Assam’s war against the "infiltrators," in alliance with Pakistan and Bangladesh. But, he said, this would not be allowed.

It later emerged that Assam Police had been closely monitoring the team. A climate of fear had been created – people were afraid to host the delegation. Before this, Sarma had repeatedly targeted Harsh Mander. Even in the legislative assembly, he had threatened that Mander would be arrested. Why? Because Mander had appealed to the courts for humane treatment of detainees in Assam’s detention centres. Because he had spoken out and legally challenged the injustices committed in the name of NRC. For this, Harsh had been declared an enemy of the state.

For the past 11 years, the BJP and major media in India have been waging a war against “infiltrators.” In this war, people like Hameed, Mander, and Prashant Bhushan are painted as traitors and collaborators with the enemy.

Also read: Backstory | The Assam Model: First They Come for Truth-Tellers, Then They Go for the Voiceless

All this was quietly playing at the back of my mind as I entered Constitution Club. Initially, we had thought Hameed should not attend. We were afraid the media would heckle her. But how could she stay away? She may appear delicate, but she’s firm in resolve.

The ‘nationalist’ media warriors were visibly restless. As I said earlier, they had no interest in what the team had actually witnessed in Assam. It is least interested in what the representatives from Assam’s Muslim organisations had to say. They had come with only one question, lobbed like bomb on the members of the team: "Why are you supporting infiltrators?"

Every team member who entered was bombarded with this question.

We had prepared ourselves for some of this. But what happened next was beyond anything we had anticipated. Barely 30 minutes into the discussion, a commotion broke out outside. It grew louder – and then, a crowd barged in, shouting slogans like, “Shoot the traitors of the country!” and “hit them with shoes!”

Some of them wore skullcaps – perhaps to create the impression that Muslims themselves were protesting against these terrible "friends of the infiltrators". Cameras led the charge. Mics were shoved forward. This was a nationally televised "nationalist protest" against "traitors who support infiltrators." The crowd hurled abuses, some even laughed as they were protesting. The mic-holders looked thrilled – as though they had found their prey. The organisers of the meeting cordoned the stage to protect Hameed, Mander, and Bhushan in case of physical assault.

It was a surreal sight. A mob had taken over a public meeting. Constitution Club’s own security was nowhere to be seen. We sat in silence. Our safety was at the mercy of the crowd’s will. Had they chosen to harm someone, there would have been no stopping them. On their way out, they flung placards at the stage. Someone could have been hurt.

For 20 minutes, this went on – abuse and threats, all under the glare of television lights. Then the mob left. So did the media. It was clear: this was a joint operation. A performance staged for the nation.

The meeting resumed. And strangely, no one seemed shaken. We had normalised the incident. Some friends asked, “But was there any violence?” I wondered, if this wasn’t violence, then what is violence? I asked myself, why was I not shaken? Have the lowered the bar for measuring normalcy too much?

Among the attendees were representatives of Muslim organisations from Assam. Why didn’t the media want to hear their voices? One of them said, “We can’t sleep at night.” Why didn’t that make the headlines?

Prashant Bhushan later said that while he was entering, a reporter had shoved a mic in his face and yelled, “Why are you supporting infiltrators?” This wasn’t journalism, it was gundaism.

Through all this, Syeda Hameed remained calm. When her turn came to speak, she said that as the mob stormed in, memories of India’s Partition flashed before her eyes. She was a child then. But this moment made her think of what her parents must have witnessed and endured. She expressed sorrow that “Bangladeshi” had become a slur in India. She recalled her deep, affectionate ties to Assam. But today, she was made to feel that she is a woman, a Muslim, and that her name is now a matter of national contention.

Who wants to understand Syeda Hameed’s pain today? Does India still have the moral capacity – and the desire – to listen to someone like her?

As I was writing all this, news came in: police complaints have been filed against Syeda Hameed in several places in Assam.

As she left the hall, the media pounced on her again. “140 crore Indians want to hear from you,” they shouted. I snapped: “You are not 140 crore Indians, you’re just one media agency!” Seeing her till her car, I waved to her driver to start. She waved gently, with her familiar smile.

What must Syeda Hameed be thinking today about her relationship with free India, a country that was born alongside her? She has given her love to this land. At this stage in her life, in what language is her country responding to her love?

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