Category: Articles

The Blame Game

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

On 22 April 2025, a devastating terrorist attack occurred in Baisaran Valley near Pahalgam, Jammu and Kashmir, resulting in the deaths of at least 26 tourists and injuries to over 20 others. This incident, the deadliest of its kind in India since the 2008 Mumbai attacks, specifically targeted male Hindu tourists and was reportedly aimed at resisting alleged demographic changes in the Kashmir Valley.

The attack was claimed by The Resistance Front (TRF), an offshoot of the Pakistan-based, UN-designated terrorist organisation Lashkar-e-Taiba. The assailants, dressed in military-style uniforms, opened fire on the tourists, leading to a tragic loss of life.

In response to the attack, Indian authorities launched extensive security operations, including combing homes and forests for suspects. The Indian government accused Pakistan of supporting terrorism in the region, a claim that Pakistan denies. The incident has led to heightened tensions between the two countries, with measures such as the suspension of the Indus Waters Treaty and increased military readiness.

But also in the aftermath, the expected chorus of blame began: apart from the terrorists’ religion, on the government and even the victimised tourists. News channels erupted with opinions; social media buzzed with anger, shock, and polarising narratives. Everyone had something to say — yet the deeper rot continues to go unnoticed.

I kept silent until today because, by default, I see the sides that many do not. I see how swiftly the blame game spirals out of control, and with it, the rise of hate crimes — doctors turning away Muslim patients, Muslims losing their jobs, and some even losing their lives to vigilantism! An entire community being vilified for the crimes of a few. The old, tired claim resurfaces: “All Muslims are not terrorists, but all terrorists are Muslims.” It is a statement so easily flung about, but one that is fundamentally untrue.

History tells a different story. Terrorism is not the property of any one faith. Violence has found vessels in every ideology and in every people. Yet, when fear rises, generalisations flourish, and nuance dies. I’d like to cite as examples, the Oklahoma City Bombings (1995), the Norway Attacks by Anders Behring Breivik (2011), Knoxville Unitarian Universalist Church Shooting (2008, USA), London Nail Bombings by David Copeland (1999, UK), Tokyo Subway Sarin Attack (1995, Japan), Eric Rudolph’s Bombings (1996–1998, USA), Ku Klux Klan (KKK) Activities (USA)… need I go on?

Today, a friend — a doctor — shared that while terror has no religion, “most terrorists are from one.” I had to speak, because this blindness is dangerous. It dehumanises millions who have never lifted a weapon nor harboured hate in their hearts. Extremism is not confined to any one religion or ideology. In India alone, we’ve witnessed violence perpetrated by various groups across the religious and political spectrum. To highlight one form while ignoring others is not only intellectually dishonest but also fuels the very divisiveness we seek to overcome.

Since a while now, we have been told that Kashmir is safe, that normalcy has returned. But Pahalgam tells us otherwise. The attack exposes glaring lapses in security and intelligence, yet few dare to directly question the government. The primary issue is not the religion of the attacker, but rather the systemic failures that allowed the attack to occur. Security lapses, intelligence failures, and policy shortcomings are complex issues that require nuanced analysis, not simplistic metaphors. Conveniently, the national gaze remains fixed on Pakistan — the familiar enemy — but we ignore China’s growing occupation into Jammu and Kashmir, Uttarakhand, Himachal Pradesh, Sikkim, and Arunachal Pradesh. We never look east; we have been taught only to look west. And it is costing us.

A few days ago, I remembered Mahmoud Darwish’s words:
“After the war, the leaders will shake hands. The old woman will wait for her martyred son. And the girl will wait for her beloved husband. And those children will wait for their hero father. I do not know who sold our homeland. But I saw who paid the price.”

I thought of the COVID-19 Delta wave in India in 2021 — a biological terror that ravaged thousands of homes while the government remained helpless, silent, or worse, indifferent. The COVID-19 Delta wave that struck India between April and June 2021 resulted in approximately 240,000 deaths, as reported by the United Nations. This period was marked by severe shortages of medical supplies, including oxygen, and overwhelmed healthcare facilities, leading to a significant loss of life.

My own family mourned the loss of an aunt, just as countless others buried their loved ones, gasping for oxygen in a country they had trusted. There was no blame game then, no 24-hour news cycle wailing about government failure. But when a terror attack strikes — when religion is involved — blame erupts instantly, and hatred finds easy targets.

Governments everywhere — in India, America, Europe — have always profited from division. Hindu vs Muslim. White vs Black. Men vs Women. Rich vs Poor. Straight vs LGBT+. Divisions keep them powerful; divisions keep the people distracted and weakened. It has been thus throughout history. In our history, the classic example of Imperialism using it against us is not even a century old!

When people are silent, dictators rise. When hatred is fed to children in schools, an entire generation grows up poisoned. The world once watched Hitler demonise Jews, and today we watch Israel commit atrocities in Gaza — and the cycle of hypocrisy continues.

Yes, the Pahalgam attack was horrific. Twenty-six lives lost in a targeted assault against Hindu tourists in Kashmir . It is natural to grieve, to rage, to demand accountability. But when that grief morphs into a sweeping indictment of an entire faith community, we must pause. We must ask: are we seeking justice, or simply a scapegoat?

Muslim scholars, activists, and everyday citizens have long been engaged in efforts to promote peace and counter extremism. Their work is often overlooked or dismissed, yet it is crucial to building a more inclusive and understanding society. No one talks of Syed Adil Hussain Shah, a 28-year-old Muslim pony ride operator, who laid down his life to protect a group of Hindu tourists during this brutal terror attack or of Sajjad Ahmed Bhatt who carried an injured boy.

We write. We speak. We bear witness. And we hope that one day, people will realise they have been made fools of — divided, manipulated, and made to suffer for agendas that are never their own. Until then, innocent lives will continue to be lost. The poor will continue to be brainwashed. And those who pay taxes and trust in their governments will continue to find themselves unprotected — even from those who claim to serve them.

The Death of Dissent

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

“The price of liberty is eternal vigilance.” – Thomas Jefferson

In India, the assault on artistic freedom is not only cultural—it’s institutional. While earlier, censorship came in the form of social outrage or informal threats, now it often comes with state machinery behind it. The Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) has become a gatekeeper of ideology, no longer simply certifying films, but often sanitising them.

Take the example of the film Santosh, banned even before it could find a wider Indian audience. It was praised internationally for its portrayal of a female police officer navigating gender, caste, and justice in rural India. But its uncomfortable truths and non-heroic depiction of systemic failures did not sit well with gatekeepers of “Bharatiya values”. A narrative that does not serve the nationalist ideal must be suppressed, even if it is fiction.

Similarly, the biopic on Mahatma Jyotiba Phule, an anti-caste reformer and visionary, was throttled before it could breathe. Brahmin groups claimed misrepresentation—not because the facts were false, but because the mirror held up by Phule’s legacy continues to make the privileged castes uncomfortable. Ironically, we celebrate Phule on paper while resisting the full force of his ideas on screen.

Living in India today, it is impossible to ignore the tightening grip of censorship on art and cinema. Again, I reiterate: the recent banning of the film Santosh, and the heavy censorship applied to the biographical film on Mahatma Jyotiba Phule—criticised by Brahmin groups who claim it misrepresents them—highlight how selective our sensitivities have become. When historical depictions of Muslim rulers or the atrocities committed by invaders are shown, even if they date back centuries, they are welcomed or weaponised in the name of truth-telling. But when caste, patriarchy, or power structures within the Hindu fold are critiqued, outrage follows.

This is not about protecting truth—it’s about controlling narrative.

As Aldous Huxley warned, “Dictatorships arise out of war, and during war the people are ready to accept the most authoritarian measures.” And one of the first authoritarian measures is censorship. From banning books and films to suppressing dissenting voices, censorship is the favourite tool of fascist regimes. It doesn’t begin with concentration camps—it begins with the silencing of stories.

But censorship is not new in India. We’ve seen it in past decades too, even in a supposedly liberalised nation:

  • In 1996, Deepa Mehta’s Fire, a quiet tale of love between two women, was attacked by Shiv Sena members who vandalised theatres, calling it “anti-Hindu”.
  • Her next film, Water, which explored the plight of widows in Varanasi, had its sets destroyed by extremists. She was forced to shoot it years later in Sri Lanka.
  • In 2006, Anurag Kashyap’s Paanch was denied release by the CBFC, though it had nothing explicitly illegal—it just dared to be raw, violent, and too real.
  • Parzania, about the Gujarat riots, could not find distributors in Gujarat itself. A film based on a real tragedy was censored through fear, not law.

And then there are the invisible bans—the films that are never made, the books never written, the theatre never staged. The inner censor, born of intimidation, is the most dangerous of all.

  • Throughout history, we’ve seen how dangerous this silencing can be:
  • George Orwell’s 1984 was banned in several countries, including the USSR, for its unflinching portrayal of authoritarianism and surveillance.
  • Bertolt Brecht, the German playwright, fled Nazi Germany because his politically charged theatre was deemed subversive.
  • Pablo Picasso’s Guernica, a powerful anti-war painting, was banned in Spain under Franco’s regime, as it exposed the brutality of the Spanish Civil War.
  • Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses was banned in multiple countries—including India—for alleged blasphemy, resulting in global controversy and threats to his life.
  • M.F. Husain, one of India’s greatest artists, was forced into exile due to threats and court cases from right-wing Hindu groups who took offence at his nude portrayals of Hindu deities.
  • A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess, was pulled from circulation in the UK after being linked to youth violence, despite its complex meditation on free will.
  • Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart was banned in parts of Africa for critiquing colonialism and Christian missionary zeal.
  • Federico Fellini and several Italian directors faced censorship under Mussolini’s fascist regime, where cinema had to conform to state propaganda.
  • Taslima Nasreen, the Bangladeshi author, has faced bans and exile for her feminist and secular writings that critique religious orthodoxy.

These are just ten examples that illustrate the same truth: art threatens only those who fear ideas. Every time power feels threatened, it does the same thing: it controls the narrative. This is how fascism begins—not with jackboots, but with red pens.

Let us also remember what Mahatma Gandhi did: he never demanded the banning of British goods through force. He simply asked Indians to consciously reject them, as an act of moral protest. The power of that choice lay in its voluntary nature. Boycott is democracy. Censorship is dictatorship. Mahatma Gandhi never imposed censorship. It was not a ban imposed by the state but a form of peaceful resistance that invited people to make a conscious choice, a form of protest rooted in ethical conviction. There’s a world of difference between a call to conscience and a top-down silencing.

Today, in India, we are banning fictional films that dare to tell truths. We are not even talking about documentaries that pose political questions based on ground realities—we are banning fiction that reflects uncomfortable realities. Santosh does not conform to the nationalist or upper-caste gaze, and thus it is removed. The Phule biopic threatens dominant caste narratives and so is sanitised. Meanwhile, historical epics glorifying Hindu kings are promoted as truth, not fiction. What then distinguishes our rhetoric from the Abrahamic rigidity we so often critique? Is Hinduism becoming as insecure as the fundamentalism it once stood apart from?

Huxley’s words ring chillingly true today:
“The effects of propaganda on public opinion form the foundation for fascism. If one can control what people hear, see, and say—one can shape how they think and, ultimately, how they behave.”

So, what kind of India are we building? One where truth is dictated by ideology? Where faith is invoked to shut down thought? Where hurt sentiments hold more weight than human suffering? We cannot claim to be a civilised, secular, pluralistic democracy if we only allow art that flatters the dominant caste, the dominant gender, the dominant religion.

True democracy is not only about voting—it’s about being able to tell stories, even uncomfortable ones. Especially uncomfortable ones. Art is meant to disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed. We do not need to agree with every artist. But we must defend their right to exist. That is the line between civilisation and censorship.

Salman Rushdie said, “No writer ever really wants to talk about censorship. Writers want to talk about creation, and censorship is anti-creation, negative energy, uncreation.” Neelam Chowdhry, a theatre director, said it best. “The artist does not only need freedom, but also must feel free.”

Censorship does not give this essential freedom. In fact, it brings a false sense of moral righteousness to destroy what one does not understand.

The choice is ours: do we become a nation that silences its artists, or one that listens—even when it’s uncomfortable?

Broken Spell

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Harry fiercely. “You’ve just been caught. Dobby told us everything.”

— Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, J.K. Rowling

There’s a moment in The Chamber of Secrets when the illusion breaks. Harry, barely twelve, confronts Gilderoy Lockhart — the charming fraud who built a life on stolen stories. It’s a pivotal scene, one where truth shines through the lies, and a young boy refuses to be gaslit by a man the world celebrates.

Reading that scene again as an adult, I find it eerily familiar. Not because I now share Harry’s sense of justice — but because I too have confronted someone I once admired. That person, heartbreakingly, is J.K. Rowling herself.

Like millions of queer kids, I grew up in the shadow of Hogwarts. It wasn’t just fiction — it was sanctuary. We were the misfits, the outcasts, the “mudbloods,” the ones who learned to wield words like wands. The books told us that love matters more than blood. That found family, not lineage, defines belonging. That courage means standing up for what’s right — even if you stand alone.

And yet, over the past few years, the woman who wrote those words has chosen to use her voice — not to protect — but to alienate. Her remarks about trans people have not only disappointed many of us; they’ve caused real harm. In posts, essays, and tweets, she has drawn lines that tell queer and trans folk we are not truly part of the world she imagined — not unless we fit into her definitions of gender and biology.

“You mean you’re running away?” said Harry disbelievingly. “After all that stuff you did in your books —”

“Books can be misleading,” said Lockhart delicately.

— Chamber of Secrets

Books can be misleading — or at the very least, they can be written by people who don’t live the truths they tell. This, for me, has become the great sadness of my relationship with Rowling. I don’t believe in cancel culture. I still believe the Harry Potter series said something real and necessary. But the spell is broken. I can’t wear a Hogwarts T-shirt with pride anymore, knowing what its creator thinks of people I love — people I am.

So, I reimagine the Lockhart scene like this — not with Harry and a charlatan professor, but with someone like me, confronting the very writer who made me feel seen — before making me feel excluded:

Harpreet: “You told us Hogwarts was a home for everyone. And then you shut the doors when we asked for truth.”

Rowling: “Well — let’s not be emotional — I’ve always supported free speech —”

Harpreet: “No. You stood by the freedom to exclude. You sold us magic — then told us we weren’t real enough for it.”

What Rowling doesn’t seem to understand is that many of us weren’t asking for ideology — we were asking for recognition. For empathy. For the very values her books taught us.

And so we find ourselves in this paradox: loving the message but questioning the messenger. That’s a painful place to be — and a powerful one too. Because unlike Lockhart’s victims, we remember what was taken from us. And like Harry, we confront the lie, not with bitterness — but with truth.

“You don’t get to wave a wand and pretend you were always the hero. The spell’s broken. We wrote ourselves into the margins when you left us out — and we’re not asking for permission anymore.”

The legacy of Harry Potter will outlive its author. But its soul — its real magic — belongs to the readers who made it a movement. To the queer, trans, non-binary, marginalised kids who kept reading even when they stopped feeling safe.

We were always part of the story. And now, we’re telling it ourselves.