The case of Kashmiri journalist, researcher and human rights defender, Irfan Mehraj, implicated under the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) for documenting human rights abuses in Kashmir is a stark reminder of how anti-terror laws are wielded to suppress voices that challenge the state’s narrative. Arrested on March 20, 2023, Mehraj continues to remain imprisoned without a trial.
Mehraj is accused of supporting secessionist activities and faces charges under the UAPA despite the absence of concrete evidence. His case not only reveals flaws in the prosecution’s case but also underscores broader concerns about the law itself. Rather than being an isolated incident, it reflects how the UAPA functions as a mechanism of state control, enabling far-reaching restrictions on dissent.
UAPA: A punishment in the process of law
Walter Benjamin famously argued that the law is not a neutral arbiter of justice but a mechanism of violence that preserves state power. UAPA exemplifies the violence of law – not merely punishing but ensuring that the process itself becomes the punishment.
Through its harsh provisions, prolonged incarceration without trial, stringent conditions on grant of bail, reliance on secret ‘protected witnesses’, and the reversal of the burden of proof, the UAPA strips away fundamental legal protections, transforming the very act of being accused into a near-permanent state of guilt. The law’s function is not to secure convictions through fair trials but to ensure that an individual is caught in a legal limbo where the passage of time itself becomes a form of retribution.
To begin with, the circumstances surrounding Mehraj’s arrest underscore a troubling disregard for fundamental legal principles and constitutional rights. The fact that his arrest was made without providing the grounds in writing is not a mere procedural error; it is a direct violation of the individual’s statutory and constitutional rights.
The Supreme Court has made it unequivocally clear that any person arrested, whether under UAPA or any other law, must be informed in writing of the reasons for their arrest. This requirement is not a formality but a fundamental protection enshrined in Article 22(1) of the constitution of India, ensuring that an individual’s liberty is not arbitrarily infringed upon.
Also read: ‘Bail Is the Rule, Jail Exception, Even in Special Statutes Like UAPA’: Supreme Court
By failing to provide the grounds of arrest in writing, the authorities not only deprive accused like Mehraj of the ability to understand and challenge the legal basis for their detention but also undermine the very principle of transparency in the criminal justice system. Such actions create a legal vacuum, leaving the accused without recourse to contest the legality of their arrest and the charges they face.
Mehraj’s case epitomises the systemic weaponisation of the legal process. He has been accused of being part of a vague and undefined ‘larger conspiracy’ that allegedly promotes a secessionist agenda – an allegation so broad that it could apply to anyone the state wishes to silence.
The prosecution relies on the ambiguous phrasing of the UAPA to create an atmosphere of suspicion where association, ideology, or even professional work can be framed as criminal. This deliberate vagueness is not an oversight; it is central to how the law functions. By refusing to define what constitutes ‘secessionist activities’ or ‘terrorism’ in precise legal terms, the state can conflate political activism, human rights work, or even financial aid with acts of terror. The result is that dissent can become indistinguishable from sedition, and accountability can and is painted as a national security threat.
Another insidious feature is the state’s reliance on secret ‘protected witnesses’. The prosecution in Mehraj’s case has invoked such witnesses to justify his arrest without disclosing their identities. This tactic effectively strips the accused of the ability to challenge the evidence against him, as he is neither allowed to know who these witnesses are nor cross-examine them.
Theoretically, protected witnesses are meant to ensure the safety of those testifying in sensitive cases. Still, in practice, this provision has been repeatedly used to introduce unverifiable and often politically motivated claims into legal proceedings. By shielding these witnesses from scrutiny, the law creates a judicial black hole where the prosecution’s assertions are accepted at face value, and the accused is left in a position where refuting the allegations becomes virtually impossible.
The issue is compounded by the fact that the UAPA allows for extended pretrial detention, often without formal charges. Authorities are granted extraordinary leeway to detain individuals for up to six months without filing a charge sheet, ensuring that the accused remains in jail even when the state fails to build a credible case against them.
Mehraj was initially detained for six months without a chargesheet against him and now for over two years without a decision on his bail application. Additionally, the distortion of due process is particularly worrying in Mehraj’s case, where the prosecution has listed 177 witnesses – an overwhelming number designed to ensure that the trial drags on indefinitely. With such an extensive list, it is unlikely that the trial will conclude anytime soon, violating the fundamental right to a speedy trial. The state, in essence, does not need a conviction to punish Mehraj. It simply needs to ensure that he remains entangled in an endless legal battle that deprives him of his freedom, livelihood, and reputation.
This is the violence of the law – not just in its punitive measures but in its very structure. The law’s burden of proof is reversed, meaning that once an individual is charged under the UAPA, the onus is on them to prove their innocence rather than on the state to establish guilt. This is a direct subversion of the fundamental legal principle that one is innocent until proven guilty.
In practical terms, this means that someone like Mehraj, who has been arrested without concrete evidence of wrongdoing, is placed in a position where he must disprove vague and unsubstantiated allegations. For instance, the prosecution relies on selective excerpts from WhatsApp chats and photographs, presented without context, to paint him as a terrorist. These chats, extracted from a group of journalists used to exchange news and information, are misrepresented as evidence of terror activities. This cherry-picking of evidence, combined with the UAPA’s draconian provisions, creates an insurmountable hurdle for the defence. The prosecution does not have to demonstrate that Mehraj committed an act of terrorism or engaged in unlawful activities; it only has to establish a tenuous connection – no matter how circumstantial – to an organisation or ideology that the state deems a threat. This inversion of justice ensures that individuals accused under the UAPA are not just prosecuted but are placed in a position where their legal battle becomes an almost impossible struggle against a state that holds all the power.
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Beyond individual cases, this legal framework serves a broader purpose. It enables the state to construct the identity of a ‘terrorist’ as a political tool, one that extends far beyond those engaged in violent activities. The UAPA does not merely target individuals who take up arms against the state – it casts its net wide enough to include journalists, activists, and human rights defenders who challenge the government’s narrative.
Mehraj, as a journalist documenting human rights abuses, fits neatly into this framework. His work, which seeks to expose state excesses, is reframed as an act of subversion, making him an enemy of the state not because of any crime he has committed but because of the truths he has reported. The state does not need proof that he engaged in illegal activities; it only requires the power to label him a terrorist, and the law provides it with the means to do so.
This process serves a dual function. It silences the accused and deters others from engaging in similar work while simultaneously shifting focus away from the state’s own atrocities. By making an example out of cases like that of Mehraj, the state sends a clear warning: anyone who attempts to document, investigate, or speak out against human rights abuses risks meeting the same fate. This is not about law and order – it is about control. By shifting the focus from state violence to those who expose it, the state ensures that the narrative remains one of national security rather than state accountability. International organisations, including the UN Human Rights Office, have repeatedly called for independent investigations into human rights violations in Kashmir. Rather than engage with these calls for transparency, the state has chosen instead to prosecute those who amplify them.
Deflecting accountability for state violence in Kashmir
The violence embedded within the UAPA is not limited to its procedural excesses and broad criminalisation of dissent; it also extends to the state’s attempts to criminalise the very act of exposing its own human rights violations.
In Mehraj’s case, two specific allegations can be focussed on: his involvement in the publication of a report on torture in Kashmir and his alleged role in funding victims of pellet gun violence. These accusations serve a more insidious purpose – they attempt to deflect attention away from the state’s documented abuses by framing the efforts to expose these atrocities as acts of criminality. By targeting him for highlighting the systematic use of torture and the devastation caused by pellet guns, the state seeks to obscure the actual violence it perpetuates in the region. This strategy not only diminishes the gravity of the alleged human rights violations but also reinforces a culture of impunity where the powerful can suppress the truth and silence critical voices.
The allegation that Mehraj funnelled funds to stone pelters, overground workers, and militant families is built not on concrete evidence but on the unverified claims of ‘protected witnesses’ – a legal mechanism that shields accusations from scrutiny and limits the accused’s ability to mount a fair defence. Even more troubling is the equation of fundraising for victims of pellet gun injuries with terror financing.
By this logic, the state not only evades accountability for its own actions but also ensures that those suffering from them are painted as criminals for merely seeking justice. The accusation that humanitarian efforts to assist victims of state violence amount to terror financing exemplifies how even the most minimal acts of solidarity – such as sharing information – can be reinterpreted to manufacture guilt.
What should have been a simple act of advocacy – publicly appealing for aid for victims – has instead been framed as a criminal conspiracy. This pattern is not unique to Mehraj; similar allegations of terror financing have been used against other dissenting voices. Instead of proving a direct link to unlawful activities, the prosecution relies on vague insinuations, forcing the accused to counter a presumption of guilt rather than the state proving wrongdoing.
This legal witch hunt must also be understood in the larger context of state violence in Kashmir, where repression is enforced through brutal means, including the use of pellet shotguns – a so-called ‘crowd control’ weapon. Even UN secretary general Antonio Guterres condemned the grave violations in the region, calling on India to end the use of shotgun pellets against children. Despite international criticism, the practice continued, with each cartridge releasing 360 metal splinters laced with lead, indiscriminately blinding, maiming, and killing civilians. The fact that these weapons remain in use despite their controversial nature underscores the broader issue of impunity.
Yet another allegation that Mehraj played a ‘pivotal role’ in editing and publishing a torture report, allegedly with the intent to incite unrest, is a mischaracterisation of the report’s actual purpose. The prosecution, in effect, claims that because the 2019 report called for accountability, it was inherently seditious – an assertion that conflates human rights documentation with secessionist propaganda.
Even minimal involvement such as that of a part-time researcher and copy editor with no role in determining the content or publication of the report has been tainted as criminal. Mehraj’s limited and technical engagement with the Jammu and Kashmir Coalition of Civil Society’s (JKCCS’s) report has been exaggerated to fit a broader narrative of wrongdoing. The mere association with a document critical of state violence is being used to build a case against him, forcing him to defend against an accusation rooted in selective interpretation rather than concrete evidence.
What makes this allegation particularly concerning is how it seeks to obscure the reality that the torture report exposes. Titled “Torture – Indian state’s instrument of control in Indian-state of Jammu and Kashmir,” the 560-page document provides a detailed account of 432 cases of torture in Kashmir since 1990, revealing that over 70% of the victims were civilians.
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It meticulously documents brutal tactics such as solitary confinement, sleep deprivation, and even sexualised torture, including rape and sodomy – methods that align with international definitions of war crimes. The report does not manufacture unrest; it merely records the suffering inflicted by an unaccountable security apparatus. That the prosecution frames this as a subversive act is an indictment of how the state evades responsibility for its own actions by criminalising those who expose them.
This attempt to silence human rights work follows a pattern of repression. The Indian government has long resisted calls for international scrutiny of its actions in Kashmir despite repeated condemnations from global bodies. In 2018, the UN Human Rights Office called for an international probe into rights violations in the region, and in 2019, the UN Human Rights chief recommended establishing a commission of inquiry (COI) for an independent investigation.
Instead of addressing these grave concerns, the state has chosen to discredit and prosecute those who document them. By targeting individuals like Mehraj, the legal system is being used to suppress accountability rather than serve justice. The real question here is not whether Mehraj played a role in writing the report – it is why exposing alleged state violence has been linked to criminality while those responsible for the acts detailed in the report remain shielded from scrutiny.
By deploying the UAPA against journalists, researchers, and activists, the state is not merely undermining individual freedoms; it is systematically dismantling the foundations of democracy itself. When fundamental rights can be curtailed arbitrarily, when due process is undermined, and when laws are structured to suppress dissent, the implications extend beyond any one person. The UAPA, in this sense, is not just a legal statute – it is an institutionalised method of social and political control. In Mehraj’s case, as in so many others, the real crime is not committed by the accused but by a system that has turned justice into a weapon against those who dare to seek it.
Saranga Ugalmugle is a lawyer and legal researcher.
