Zakia Jafri passed away on February 1, 2025.
It was during tea with Zakia appa – where she tussled with her daughter-in-law about how many biscuits she could have – or the little meals we shared, where she would just hold my hand and stroke it, reaching out with empathy and mutual support. These are the memories that coming rushing back. It is as if we both knew and felt the enormity of the task we had jointly undertaken.
When we look back and take stock of the steely support from Tanveer bhai, Duraiappa (Durreshwar), Nargis, Najid bhai, the family and, not to forget, the dedicated team at Citizens for Justice and Peace (CJP), we couldn’t have known where it would lead – to some cracks in the otherwise hostile and unbreachable walls of accountability and justice? Or a cold rejection of a simple, hitherto unique plea –acknowledgement of the role of state actors as a murderous mob roamed unchecked for days?
February 28, 2002
I had first walked in alone into the charred remains of the Gulbarg society on March 4, 2002, armed with a small tape recorder and a notebook. Shards of broken glass bottles, tiny vials and their lids dotted the ground as I trudged across the eerie expanse where embers still burned.
No fire-brigade had come to its aid either on February 28 or at any point since then. I made my way to house number 19, Ahsan Jafri’s iconic home, heavy with the knowledge of what we knew until then of the man, his family, neighbours and his brutal death.
The home was no home any more, reduced to a haunting shell. It was bleak. Walls blackened with soot of the intense burning caused by flung gas cylinders. Fans gutted, gnarled and twisted. Miraculously, I found a signed postcard stamped with Jafri Sahab’s name, a diya-swastika and ‘Happy Diwali’ message written on it, on the stairwell – my precious memento of that first of dozens of visits.
A purple-pink bougainvillea that still lends defiant colour to the sombre ruins hung that day with barely surviving leaves and some overhanging blossoms. It had survived hours of mass arson. How could the flowers live on after the hell of February 28, 2002, I remember asking myself in some bewilderment.
Ironically, Zakia appa had spent that night of February 28 in the premises of the Shahibaug police station barely two kms away from the Gulbarg society in Chamanpura. She was alone. Only the next day was she shifted to the home of some distant relatives where she met her son Tanveer Jafri two days later.
Chamanpura falls under the Meghaninagar police station. Traumatised and shaken by the events that she witnessed from the terrace of her home, she was unable to sleep, full of anguished questions to which she had to find answers. Zakia appa has recounted that night to me several times over the years. She had spent the night haunted by cries and screams of a gory bloodshed – in the midst of the very same force who she saw had let her people down.
Eighty-six years, the day before yesterday, when she left us, Zakia appa was 63 in 2002, no age to hear the cries she did, no age to witness what her eyes could not turn away from. Over 69 persons were killed in cold blood that day as a 15,000-strong mob began attacking residents at 11 in the morning. No police help arrived till 6 pm.
Late that night, in the precincts of the Shahibaug police lines, she found several policemen present in their homes on the compound. Perplexed, her simple query to them was, “Why did you not come to my husband, my society, our neighbour’s rescue beta? We made so many calls” she asked. “We were given the day off,” one police officer casually replied.
This reply by one of them has gnawed at her, since. On June 18, 2009, six years later, she recounted this to the Special Investigation Team (SIT) appointed by the Supreme Court. In her official statement, she said “…No police turned up and the police came only at six in the evening and I was taken to Shahibaug police line. I saw that the police staff were present at home. They told me that they were not called for duty today (that day).”
Who was Ahsan Jafri?
Zakia appa’s husband of several decades, father of their three children, Tanveer, Nargis and Zubair had been the sole target of the mob. He was 72 when he was killed. Formerly with the Communist Party of India (CPI), he was later the city chief of the Indian National Congress in Ahmedabad, and a formerly elected member of parliament. Ahsan Jafri was a lawyer, thinker and poet.
If the ‘Happy Diwali’ postcard I had found offered a glimpse of the man – whose name soars above and beyond the hatred that was unleashed on the streets of Gujarat in 2002 – then Zakia appa’s moistened eyes, quivering smile and warm hands, Tanveer’s stoic clarity amidst pain and Nargis’ powerful articulations over two decades have actualised Jafri’s inviolable moral core and persona. In the Jafris’ resolve to calmly demand accountability from the high and mighty, Zakia appa, Tanveer and Nargis have always echoed Ahsan sahab’s deeply ingrained beliefs, his credo.
I first met Tanveer through his uncle in early March 2002. It had been Tanveer’s task to hold and help his mother heal even as he went back to Gulbarg society, his childhood home, around March 4. He had rushed to Ahmedabad from Surat where he resided. It was Tanveer who lovingly collected the remains of Ahsan sahab from outside their home, more from the Civil Hospital, Ahmedabad and laid his father to some peace and rest.
Zakia Jafri’s funeral in Ahemdabad. Photo: Teesta Setalvad.
Zakia appa now lies there with her husband, friend and guide, after she had come as a young bride to Ahmedabad from Burhanpur, Madhya Pradesh. Though there had been nothing peaceful about Jafri’s passing. The utterly stoic and adamant refusal of the Jafris to let go of their belief in the India that Ahsan sahab lived and died for, is special and rare.
Zakia appa and the Jafris turned their back on any bitterness born out of the realisation that even their neighbours had joined the mob on February 28. This is what made Zakia appa stand out with her children, as the stellar human rights defender she was.
She inspired millions, including us, and if there is some consolation today, 22 years after the massacre, it lies in the fact that a complicit media has had no choice but to reflect this in the coverage of her demise. For me personally, as a fellow human rights worker who has stood by the Jafri’s through every legal battle since February 28, 2002 – notwithstanding what it cost me personally and our team at CJP – it has been a rare privilege to embark on this unique journey.
Quiet dignity
Zakia appa had been a young mother, and Tanveer just six years of age, in September 1969, when Gujarat experienced the worst communal violence that the country had seen since Partition. Ahmedabad was the most acutely affected epicentre of the statewide violence.
A vast majority of the nearly 500 persons killed then were also Muslims. Ahsan Jafri lived in Dr Gandhini chawl, a tenement near Gulbarg society with his parents and family. He had already registered the Gulbarg society earlier in 1961 and it was under construction.
As the violence spread, young Tanveer watched in horror as Aiyub bhai’s shop was burned down. Why was this happening, they asked? Soon, there was no time for more questions, they just had to flee. Returning home in panic, Jafri sahab guided his family as they ran two-and-a-half kms down a railway track – the Asarva Udaipur railway line – past the rail crossing. There, some SRP vans came to their rescue and they were taken inside the Relief Camp located inside the police stadium at the same Shahibaug location where Zakia appa was to spend that fateful night of February 28, 2002, 33 years later.
Tanveer Jafri. Photo: Teesta Setalvad
Tanveer remembers playing out in the open and queuing up for tea which they drank in brightly coloured plastic glasses, a novelty at the time. “We lived there for a month, then for another month inside Ubair Shaikh’s Dunlop agency-cycle shop and after that moved into the barely constructed House No. 19 of Gulbarg society. There were no doors and windows, we used sheets to cover sight and sound. Despite this displacement and tragedy, even the fact that all our belongings had been burned and destroyed, Abba just did not let this mean anything to us, did not allow this loss to eat at us,” Tanveer recalls.
“How we lived, how he lived (Ahsan sahab) after the 1969 displacement, is how we have tried to regroup ourselves and live after the unforgettable tragedy of 2002,” says Tanveer. “Dangai hamaaree soch nahin badal sakte hai. Agar aisa hoga to dangaeeon kee jeet hai. Hamaara nuksaan hamen badal nahin sakta. (Rioters cannot change our way of thinking. If that happens, they win. Our losses cannot change us.) They cannot change our choices, the way we are or how we we think. It is this conviction that has ensured that the tragedy of 2002 does not change us,” he adds.
This profound resolve and dignity in the face of unspeakable loss is what epitomises Zakia appa and her family. It is this dignity that she brought to her battle for justice and accountability.
22 years in grief
Zakia appa lived for 22 years after her husband’s brutal killing in deep personal grief, battling sleepless nights and guilt – the guilt of surviving. Her beloved Ahsan sahab had sent her to the top storey of her home to safety, where dozens with her were saved, while many others perished. Those who stood by Ahsan till he finally gave himself up to the mob, just after he said his last prayer, were witness to his calm fortitude, his determined and desperate efforts to make calls (including to the high and mighty) and even his willingness to offer himself to the mob if other lives could be saved.
For the blood-thirsty and determined mob, that was not to be. Apart from the particularly brute way of his killing, young women were subject to gendered violence. To repeat, 69 persons lost their lives at just one location in Gujarat that day. The total number of the post Godhra killings – if we peruse official charge sheets – is close to 2,000.
Zakia appa’s guilt of being alive is evident in an unrelated incident that Nargis recounted in a letter, ‘Bless Us Abba’, in 2016.
“Ammi is never tired of recounting the incident when in the bedroom of your old house while you were sleeping, the small kerosene lamp on the side of the bed fell off and the curtain caught fire. You were sleeping on the side of the fire and Ammi was next to you. As the heat woke you up and you saw the fire, instead of jumping out of the bed immediately, you first woke Ammi up and asked her to get to safety. But when she woke up and saw the fire, she thinks she quickly jumped out of bed and ran to the door without even knowing where you were or what you were trying to tell her. It is more than 40 years since, but she still remembers and regrets that incident and feels guilty of putting herself first that day and not grabbing your hand as she ran to the door.”
I met Nargis for the first time in 2002 in the United States, as I deposed before the International Commission on Religious Freedom. I had that copy of Communalism Combat with me, a testimony of all the eye-witness accounts and FIRs. With swollen eyes, this young woman had only one question to ask me, was the killing of her darling Abba as brutal as she had heard? Lowering my head in shame, I half shook, half nodded, trying to conceal both the documents and facts. It was not to be.
Bearing witness carries an unbearable load. I have often wondered, even as Nargis and I spoke, laughed and squabbled over the years, “Has she ever forgiven me?”
On Saturday (February 1), as I stood inside Saraspur Roza in Ahmedabad, Nargis said, as she held my hand, “She is free now, my Ma. Free of the pain.” Then together we cried.
Journey for justice
Mass media, especially one that has become fearful and complicit, is selective in its coverage and often responsible for erasure of history. But Zakia Appa and Ahsan sahab’s sheer moral worth and the grit of her battle just could not be ignored. This is evidenced from the vast coverage of her demise. But what of the fact that the same coverage is de-fanged and de-contextualised? Especially when it chooses to ignore the venality of the state and the attempted decimation of a principled legal battle. From the start, attempts were made to dilute and erase the scale of the violence, not just across Gujarat after Godhra in 2002, but especially the targeted violence at the Gulberg Society and against Ahsan Jafri on February 28, 2002.
The journey for justice and accountability for the survivors of 2002 has seen its up and downs and as I take stock two days after Zakia appa left us, I wonder if the glass half empty or half full? Was it all worth it? In all, we, at CJP, collectively managed 172 convictions, 124 to life imprisonment. Never mind that higher courts often reversed decisions. On principle, we stood against death penalty.
Evidence of state complicity, absence of fire brigades and police response, documentary evidence on intelligence and police control records, was ignored by investigating agencies, and unfortunately, even our courts. Yet, the exemplary efforts put in by our band of dedicated human rights workers and lawyers, we managed to put all this substantive investigations on public record, all this evidence for history to judge.
Teesta Setalvad with Zakia Jafri. Photo: Author provided
While the Zakia Jafri case has seen its end, the trial in the Gulbarg society massacre is pending appeal in the Gujarat high court. On June 17, 2016, the trial court judge had convicted 11 persons to life while 13 other accused received sentences up to ten years. All charges of conspiracy were rejected, as was the evidence of three police witnesses, fire brigade records and those from the police control room. As Tanveer, in his own special way says it, “Victory in the courts is only half the story. In the annals of people’s recall and history, that we fought, that Ahsan sahab and Zakia appa are an inspiration to millions, that our collective battle has given others the confidence to fight; that we could through CJP put all this wealth of evidentiary material on record, that is our victory.”
In sum, as I said in tribute to Zakia appa, the day before yesterday, “You graced the courts, our homes and hearts. You did so with unwavering fortitude. Theirs is the loss who could not recognise the scale and magnitude of the loss for just what it was.” For the Jaffris and us, at CJP, who handed over 68 cases concerning the Gujarat carnage, despite all efforts, the state has never fully succeeded in curtailing some substantive successes of the wider battle.
As a footnote, I would like to record here what Zakia Appa, Tanveer, and I often discussed over the years: how high the costs have been, especially for some. For us at CJP, the stellar legal aid provided by our teams epitomises a constitutional right under Article 39-A, and at significant cost, we undertook this battle. Our trustees stood in staunch support. Alongside a committed group of High Court and Supreme Court counsel, we owe a special debt to advocate Suhel Tirmizi of the Gujarat High Court. His sacrifice, commitment, and services were invaluable – not only in being the guiding force behind setting up multiple legal teams of senior and junior lawyers to handle various trials, but specifically in the Zakia Jafri case. From 2006 to 2011, when the case first reached the Supreme Court, his contribution has been immense, and the personal costs he paid, heavy. We pay our tributes to him. There are too many lawyers – at the trial court, High Court, and Supreme Court – to mention here, but their efforts have been equally vital.
I end with this powerful poem penned by Farahdeen Khan and sent to be my dear friend Rukmini, who recognised how personal this loss was for me.
The Betrayal of Fire
She stood, a woman forged in the furnace of grief,
a widow not of one, but of a thousand souls,
each name etched in ash, in silence, in the acrid smoke
that curled from the pyres of justice undone.
Zakia, they left you among ruins, among bones
that the earth itself shuddered to cradle.
They call this nation a mother, but what mother devours
her daughters and spits their bones to the wind?
The gavel did not fall—it was hurled,
a cudgel masquerading as law.
Each robed man who turned his back
added another brick to the mausoleum of truth.
And what of the one who stood beside her?
Teesta, shackled for daring to bear witness,
for daring to say what history chokes on,
for dragging the carcass of conscience into the light.
What price for remembrance, for defiance?
A cell, a charge, a silence enforced—
For in this land, to fight for the fallen
is to fall yourself, and fall alone.
Tell me, you who avert your gaze—
what use is your silk, your scented wealth,
when the very soil beneath your feet
stinks of the unburied dead?
You recoil now, do you not?
Once, you drank with me, laughed with me,
shared in the hollow spoils of comfort.
But truth is a bitter draught, and you spit it out.
Yet I will stand, though my voice be drowned
by the thunder of cowardice and complicity.
For to be silent is to wield the knife,
to be neutral is to be an accomplice.
And so, when the reckoning comes—
not in the courts of men, but in the halls of time—
she will rise, they will rise,
and those who failed them will find no name to call their own.
Teesta Setalvad is a rights activist and journalist.
