Mumbai: Rona Wilson has long been an advocate for prisoners’ rights and a staunch proponent of the term “political prisoner”. However, during his prolonged incarceration in the Elgar Parishad case, Rona found himself grappling with a “moral quandary”.
With new firsthand experiences, observations from his six-and-a-half-year stay in two central prisons in Maharashtra – Yerwada in Pune and Taloja in Navi Mumbai – his activism while incarcerated, and research conducted within the confines of prison, 53-year-old Rona now views the term from a different perspective. He now approaches the subject with a deliberate focus on caste and religious dimensions.
In the Indian context, particularly within mainstream discourse, the idea of “political prisoners” is often linked to left-leaning activists. Rona – among the first of the 16 human rights activists to be arrested in the Elgar Parishad case – argues that this is a “misplaced understanding”.
He points out that during the anti-colonial struggle, figures like Nehru and Gandhi were also identified as political prisoners. Rona traces the history of the term to the Irish nationalists, who, he believes, were perhaps the first to demand the status of political prisoners.
In recent years, however, he has spent considerable time in jail trying to broaden this perspective. He does acknowledge the “missing historical and social contexts” in the arguments around what a political prisoner is, and how Indian society, during pre-colonial and post-colonial times, has created a separate “criminal category” merely on the basis of one’s birth.
‘This regressive society punishes’ attempts to ‘disturb the social pyramid’
To do so, he draws on the significant research conducted by his fellow accused, Mahesh Raut, while in prison.
Raut, an Adivasi rights activist from Gadchiroli and a former Prime Minister’s Rural Development Fellow, converted prison into a place of research. Over many years in Taloja prison, Raut meticulously gathered data on individuals arrested under The Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act, a legislation introduced in 2012 to protect children from sexual abuse, exploitation and harassment.
Raut’s research revealed that more than 80% of those implicated under this Act belong to Dalit, Muslim and other marginalised identities, Rona notes.
“Sure, some of them might actually be involved in the criminal act, but a large section of this community is criminalised for merely disturbing the social pyramid,” he observes.
“These young men,” Rona explains, “whether intentionally or not, sought social mobility by forming romantic or sexual relationships with women from different communities. This, however, is seen as a violation of rigid social norms. This regressive society punishes such transgressions. As a result, their actions have led them to be imprisoned.”
Rona is now trying to understand if this very act of transgression, more importantly in a caste-ridden and highly communalised Indian society, “is a political act”.
Rona Wilson acknowledges that Indian society, during pre-colonial and post-colonial times, has created a separate “criminal category” merely on the basis of one’s birth. Photo: Sukanya Shantha.
In another context, Rona draws attention to Adivasis fighting for their land rights. An Adivasi, he says, becomes a political prisoner by the very virtue of being born in a certain geographic location, where she has to fight to save her land from the state and corporates who only look at their mineral-rich land for extraction.
“Over the years, very systematically, the natural ways of life of many communities, including the migrating communities, have been criminalised,” he points out, referring to the British Vagrancy Act and its replicas that the colonisers introduced in the country to criminalise several tribes.
“To have a deeper understanding of this, one needs to develop a deeper understanding of the colonial legal architecture that the colonial state followed and what the present Indian state has only mimicked. Despite all talks of decolonisation, the same legal architecture still continues,” he points out.
The Indian legal system doesn’t recognise any incarcerated person as a “political prisoner”. Until a decade ago, the prison manual of West Bengal recognised political prisoners as a separate category in state jails, allowing them a handful of but crucial provisions relating to books, food and space inside jail.
In 2013, the category was dropped from the state prison manual.
State has viewed political activism by Elgar Parishad accused as ‘affront to its authority’
In prison, political standpoints often have little significance, Rona says. If anything, the state has viewed political activism by him and others arrested in the Elgar Parishad case as an “affront to its [the government’s] authority” and treated them as “adversaries”.
In February 2020, just weeks before the BJP government imposed a nationwide lockdown to fight the fast-spreading coronavirus, Rona and others arrested in the Elgar Parishad case were moved from Pune’s Yerwada prison to Taloja prison. Here, his weekly phone calls to his family members were abruptly stopped.
On some prodding, Rona was told that his calls would be restored if his family stopped speaking to the press.
“How could I dictate terms to my family?” he asks.
Over the years, prison authorities softened their control over the human rights activists and even made the bare minimum provisions available as long as they didn’t protest. When the activists in the Elgar Parishad case protested, it had a cascading effect; the other incarcerated persons would also speak up – something that no prison authorities appreciate.
Rona recalls how the Elgar Parishad arrestees were provided 135 litres or nine buckets of water, a stipulated amount as per the Maharashtra prison manual, upon protesting.
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The disparity, however, was stark. “While we were given our quota of water, others got only a bucket or a bucket and a half at best,” he recalls. With such little water given to most prisoners, the living conditions inside the prison would automatically deteriorate for everyone.
Rona says that of the four toilets in each barrack, only two were functional. As per the prisoners’ unwritten rule, the very first toilet, the one closest to the prison barrack, had to be left unused. “This was done to ensure that the stench didn’t choke our barracks,” he says.
Having lived in jail through the coronavirus pandemic and later, Rona says that regardless of the pandemic, prisons in India are in a “state of emergency”.
This, he says, is articulated through a “corporal sense of retributive interventions”. So, every time prisoners organise themselves against a certain unfair practice in jail, the authorities go after them. “These are not [in Prime Minister Modi’s term] andolanjeevis, but very regular people who have never before formed unions or fought against injustice.”
So, when they finally do so, the system is out there to break their backs, Rona says. Incentives are abruptly withdrawn; prisoners are coerced and are pitted against each other. “And at the end, it is the ‘incorrigible 16’ who are blamed for everything,” he says.
In jail, some protests lead to some personal gain, others a collective good
Halfway through last year, Rona and his co-accused, Delhi University professor Hany Babu, were at the forefront fighting against the sudden hike in prices of dry and wet food items as well as rampant corruption inside the prison canteen.
Initially, many others had come forward in support of these activists, but with increasing pressure from prison authorities, other prisoners withdrew. As a result, the demands of the Elgar Parishad activists were acted upon; the others, however, were excluded.
“As against the earlier calculation of 400 grams of chicken in lieu of one kilo of chicken, we were finally given the exact quantity we had ordered. But for others, the earlier calculation still continues,” Rona shares.
He says that over the years he realised that some of these fights could lead to partial personal gain, while a few could be a collective fight.
Like the one the activists arrested in the Elgar Parishad case, including Rona, took up against the failed court production system in Taloja and other prisons in Maharashtra. For as long as Rona has been incarcerated, he says, he doesn’t remember the prison having an adequate number of escort guards to ferry prisoners to court or hospital.
The activists have staged several protests, but the most successful of them was last month, when prison officials informed them that no prisoners would be taken out owing to the Coldplay concert in Navi Mumbai. This led to an uproar inside jail, and these activist men decided to go on hunger strike.
“The officials knew we wouldn’t stay quiet and the unrest among other incarcerated persons was just as palpable. The protest led to a positive outcome. Most prisoners have since been taken out of jail for their jail dates or doctor’s appointments,” Rona shares. His co-accused and senior lawyer Surendra Gadling and cultural activist Sagar Gorkhe have already moved a petition before the Bombay high court on the same issue.
Rona eager to continue academic pursuits but worried about mother’s ill health
Rona, originally from Kerala, has lived most of his adult life in New Delhi – first as a student and then as a human rights defender.
In 2003, Delhi University professor Syed Abdul Rahman Geelani, after facing prolonged incarceration in the parliament attack case, was finally acquitted of all charges. After release, both Geelani and Rona formed the Committee for Release of Political Prisoners. One of the major campaigns that the committee took up was for the release of professor G.N. Saibaba.
Since his arrest in 2018, both Geelani (in October 2019) and Saibaba (October 2024) have passed away.
“Geelani was like an elder brother to me. I didn’t get to know about his death for almost a month,” Rona recalls. On his release, Geelani’s family was one of the first that he contacted. “Geelani’s son Atif recently got engaged. His daughter is pursuing her PhD in a foreign country,” he excitedly shares.
Rona too wants to pursue his PhD now. “After my MPhil from JNU, I had enrolled in a PhD program as well. It was around the same time as the parliament attack trial, and I decided to focus on building a defence campaign for S.A.R. [Geelani]; the PhD could wait,” he says.
He added that now that he is out, he will return to academic research.
For now, at least until the trial ends or the court changes his bail condition, Rona will have to live within Mumbai city limits. He has found a temporary shelter for the coming few months at a community retreat in Mumbai’s western suburbs. His friends and relatives from across the country have been visiting him.
But his elderly mother, who has fallen ill since his arrest, isn’t able to travel. “My arrest had a deep impact on her. She is too frail now. She can’t travel to Mumbai and I can’t leave this city,” he says. “I fear for her well-being,” he adds.
