SABAH GURMAT
On the morning of 28 November 2024, I left Delhi along with two other journalists, and we set out for Sambhal in western Uttar Pradesh, four days after violence erupted there following a court-ordered survey of the Shahi Jama mosque that left at least five dead.
Even though days had passed since the day violence broke out, all of us were aware of the silencing that seemed to be happening to Muslims in the town. But we didn’t anticipate people’s hopeless fatigue and a total erosion of trust—one that felt like a parable for the media and its role in this ‘New India’.
Given that Sambhal's internet was suspended for nearly a week after the violence broke out on 24 November, coupled with district authorities barring “outsiders,” including Opposition politicians, from entering the region until 10 December, the place was effectively subjected to an information blockade.
Media had been present on the ground this whole time, and one would imagine that for families of persons killed, there would be a desire to get one’s anguish across into the news.
But conversations with those affected made it feel as if the media was as guilty of the killings and arrests as the police, who were alleged to have been involved in firing at local Muslims.
“Hundreds of reporters have come to our home for four days. We have been saying the same thing, but will your coverage bring my son back?” said Idrissa Ghazi, the mother of 35-year-old victim Naeem.
Elsewhere, Subhan, the husband of Farhana, who has been incarcerated, seemed willing to answer phone calls but immediately cut it short upon my declaring to be a journalist who wanted to know what happened to his wife.
When I met with families of those killed, as well as families—invariably women left without the male breadwinner in the household—of those arrested in Sambhal, what felt impossible to overlook was how a colleague from a Muslim background made it a concentrated point to emphasise his religious beliefs and identity while meeting with families.
And for good reason. Journalists have long stopped being seen as “just doing our job” or asking questions and doing due diligence. Instead of being seen as a medium to communicate the people's plight, we functioned more as reminders triggering their trauma and mistrust.
As anti-Muslim violence, particularly incidents where state authorities are in the dock, persists, most in the media, lawyers and even civil society find that our questions or empathy aren’t enough.
Seeing my colleague struggle to even briefly establish trust despite emphasising his religious identity begged questions of what level of fear and repression was at play.
This sense of despair hit home upon meeting the fifth victim’s family, that of Rumaan Khan, in the neighbourhood known as ‘PathanoN ka mohalla” near Hayat Nagar.
Rumaan was the oldest of the victims in Sambhal, a 45-year-old father of four whose plight didn’t make the news as much as the others.
This was because the family said that they found his body injured but without any bullet wounds, and they decided against a post-mortem. I kept asking Rumaan’s oldest son, Adnan, why their family decided against pursuing the matter or at least trying to find out the cause of their father’s death.
Meeting this family towards the end of my time in Sambhal left me wondering – what makes a family refuse even to get a post-mortem done? Was it merely personal preference and religious beliefs, as they claimed, or was there a more worrying and unspoken collapse of trust? Their resignation to the fact of his death and a mute acceptance of impunity by refusing any further probing made me wonder whether there was ever any point in putting up a fight.
A day earlier, at Naeem’s home, where I met his bereaved mother Idrissa and aunt Laeeqa, his aunt said something that stayed with me: “Modi just wants himself to live. Khuda banna hai (he wants to become immortal like God). Ussi ki adalat, unhi ki hukumat (His courts, his/their rule). Sabko fanaa kar de, bas tu reh ja. (Destroy everyone else, only you must remain)”.
The sentiment of “ussi ki adalat, unhi ki hukumat” echoed when Rumaan’s family spoke of their decision not to conduct so much as a post-mortem.
While taking a bus from Sambhal to Delhi, I saw an Instagram post by American writer Rebecca Solnit. It was serendipitously about hope amidst times of despair: “Hope just means another world might be possible, not promised, not guaranteed. Hope calls for action; action is impossible without hope.”
I read it and spent the rest of the journey transcribing some interviews instead of dwelling further.
Read Sabah Gurmat's full story here.
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