Rape, caste and politics
The breakfast table was filled with apprehension, shock, disbelief, and outrage. Every news channel, every WhatsApp forward, every news headline pointed to the RG Kar Medical College rape case. A doctor, after a 36-hour shift, tried to get some sleep and woke up to a man, trying to rape her. She put up a strong fight, however she succumbed. The gruesome details of the crime lingered in the air, refusing to be ignored.
The conversation started with my parents and grandparents, telling me to be careful, not to go out at night or wear revealing clothes, the usual. I did not have the strength left in me to argue, because who is to explain to them that a woman was raped in her scrubs, the scrubs my own parents and grandparents wear to work every day.
I am sure, this was not just my breakfast table on the August 10, but every Indian’s breakfast table conversation. The mainstream media called this case “the Nirbhaya 2.0.” The Nirbhaya rape case took place in 2012, which naturally made me ask did no other rape case take place in 14 years? Or did we as a society collectively normalise rape, that only one stood out to us?
A few days later, ironically on the August 15, as the nation celebrated its independence, a 14-year-old Dalit girl was abducted, brutally gang-raped, and murdered in Muzaffarnagar. On the same day, a 6-year-old Dalit girl was raped by a 57-year-old government official in Bulandshahr. Yet, despite the horror of these crimes, there were no protests, no candlelight marches, and no public outrage. These are just two of the many cases that greeted me on the morning of our Independence Day — a day meant to commemorate freedom, but one that served as a reminder to the fact that we are not truly independent.
This is not an anomaly; it is merely the tip of the iceberg. Ten incidents of rape against Dalit women and girls are reported every single day in India. According to the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) in 2021, the country recorded an average of 86 rapes daily and 49 offenses against women every hour. Yet, despite these staggering numbers, the response from society remains uneven, disturbingly selective, and all too often silent.
What was most striking in the discussions I came across was the focus on the victim’s professional identity — “A doctor was raped.” The outrage, when it does occur, seems to stem from the victim’s social status rather than the sheer horror of the crime itself. It begs the question: why isn’t the conversation centered around the fact that a woman, regardless of her profession, was raped? Why isn’t anyone addressing the pervasive rape culture that we, as a society, have allowed to flourish over the years? Don’t all women — irrespective of their caste, religion, or profession — deserve safety, justice, and outrage when those rights are violated?
Incidents like Hathras, where a young Dalit woman was raped and murdered, went unnoticed by the broader public consciousness. The brutal assaults and humiliation of women in Manipur failed to ignite a sustained national outcry. NCRB data detailing the grim reality of violence against women in India goes largely ignored. These heinous crimes seem to only shake the conscience of urban Indians when they happen to someone with whom they can identify, someone from their own social or economic background, someone whose suffering they deem worthy of their empathy.
Newspapers can easily excuse themselves by saying that if they were to cover every rape case in the country, reports of rape would fill up all their pages. But dailies also let go of numerous rapes that deserve coverage given the interplay between sexual crimes and caste dominance.
This selective outrage exposes a disturbing hierarchy of human worth — one that is deeply entrenched in our collective psyche. A Dalit girl in a remote village is not considered “one of us,” while a doctor or a professional woman living in an urban setting somehow becomes a more relatable figure, her pain more tragic and her suffering more visible. Such a mindset lays bare the layers of privilege, casteism, and discrimination that continue to permeate Indian society, even 77 years after independence.
If our outrage is conditional, if our empathy is selective, then we are complicit in perpetuating the very structures of violence and discrimination we claim to condemn. To be truly free, to truly honour the values of independence, what must be confronted are not just the acts of violence themselves but also the social hierarchies that dictate which lives are mourned and which are forgotten. The toxic culture that allows such crimes to happen, time and again, with little to no accountability can be dismantled only when, this selective outcry does not take place, when society and the mainstream media stop framing certain victims as more deserving of justice, attention, and outrage than others.
Independence Day should be a reminder not just of our freedom from colonial rule but of the ongoing struggle for true equality — a reminder that no woman, regardless of her caste, class, or profession, should be seen as expendable in the eyes of society.
What is equally selective, and perhaps even more troubling, is the pattern of outrage directed against the government. The public and political class do not respond uniformly when those in power are implicated in or associated with crimes. During the Hathras case, a young Dalit woman was brutally raped by four upper caste men eventually succumbing to her injuries, there was no significant demand for Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath to step down, even as the state administration was accused of mishandling the case, burying the body of the victim without the family’s consent and intimidating the victim’s family. Similarly, when violence erupted in Manipur, leading to countless atrocities against women, women were made to parade around naked the state’s Chief Minister, N. Biren Singh[1] faced no substantial or sustained calls for resignation from those in power.
This inconsistency extends across the political spectrum. The former Chief Minister of Karnataka, B.S. Yediyurappa, now faces charges under the Protection of Children from Sexual Offenses (POCSO) Act, yet this has not led to mass demands for accountability or political consequences. Meanwhile, Prajwal Revanna, accused of non-consensually recording and raping more than 400 women, was still allowed to stand in the 2024 Lok Sabha elections. The lack of public outrage or even discussion around these issues raises an uncomfortable question: Is the outrage we see often politically motivated? Are calls for accountability determined more by political convenience than by principles of justice?
However, this is a question whose answer might be too troubling to confront. It suggests a society where justice is not blind but rather selectively applied, depending on who the perpetrator is and how politically expedient it is to demand action. It reflects a disturbing trend where political allegiance, rather than moral clarity, dictates public outrage. When powerful figures are protected by their political affiliations, the very foundation of democratic accountability is weakened. The selective outrage erodes public trust, making it appear that justice is a tool wielded for political gain rather than a right owed to every citizen.
The West Bengal government, in response to the heinous crime, recently passed an anti-rape bill on the September 4, 2024, which seeks capital punishment for rape convicts if their actions result in the victim’s death or leave them in a vegetative state. This legislative action, framed as a measure of “damage control,” raises fundamental questions about the true basis of our justice system. Are we driven by deterrence or rehabilitation? Is justice merely the administration of punishment, or does it involve a deeper engagement with the causes and mindsets that lead to such heinous crimes?
Proponents of capital punishment argue that it serves as a deterrent, a severe warning that aims to scare potential offenders from committing crimes like rape. However, this rationale is built on the assumption that the threat of death will be sufficient to dissuade criminals. But, as pointed out by one of the rapists in the Nirbhaya case in the documentary “India’s Daughter,” such measures can lead to unintended consequences. The convict chillingly remarked that capital punishment could push rapists to kill their victims to eliminate any witnesses and destroy evidence. This mindset underscores a harsh reality: punishment alone, especially in its most extreme form, does not address the underlying social, cultural, and psychological roots of crime. It does not erase the mentality that views women as objects or the entitlement that fuels such violence. What needs to be transformed is not just the crime but the mindset that enables it.
Philosophically, the debate over capital punishment intersects with Immanuel Kant’s perspective on human dignity. Kant posits that human dignity is an absolute value, one that cannot be quantified or compromised. Every individual, according to Kant, possesses intrinsic worth simply by virtue of their rational autonomy. Thus, individuals should never be exploited as mere means to an end but should always be treated as ends-in-themselves, worthy of respect and value. Applying this principle to capital punishment reveals a fundamental moral conflict. If a person is sentenced to death as a means to deter others from committing similar crimes, they are reduced to an instrument for achieving a social goal. This, Kant would argue, is morally reprehensible. Even when the end goal is to reduce crime or protect society, using an individual in this way violates their inherent dignity. For Kant, justice is not about retribution or even deterrence; it is about upholding the moral worth of every human being, even those who have committed grave wrongs.
Moreover, the idea of using capital punishment as “damage control” fundamentally contradicts the very principles of justice that society should uphold. True justice should strive for more than simple vengeance or deterrence. It should seek to understand the roots of criminal behaviour and work towards reforming not just the individual but also the society that allows such behaviour to exist. The pursuit of justice through capital punishment is a stark irony. In seeking to avenge a life taken, we take another life. Can this be considered true justice, or is it simply a continuation of the cycle of retribution? Can we genuinely claim to value human life while simultaneously extinguishing it?
This paradox becomes even more apparent when we consider that capital punishment, by perpetuating the very harm it seeks to condemn, does not address the deeper social issues that contribute to crime. It does not confront the misogyny, casteism, or other prejudices that fuel such violence. It does not offer a path to healing for the victims or their families, nor does it encourage societal reflection on the ways we enable and tolerate such crimes.
Capital punishment, in essence, embodies the notion of “an eye for an eye.” It is rooted in the belief that justice means retribution, a belief that overlooks the potential for rehabilitation and the moral imperative to respect human dignity, even in the most challenging cases. It fails to consider that justice should aim to transform rather than to destroy.
Instead of resorting to capital punishment, a more profound societal introspection is needed. We must ask ourselves what kind of justice system we want. Do we want one that perpetuates cycles of violence and dehumanizes individuals, or one that seeks to rehabilitate and transform? Do we want a system that reacts to crime with more harm, or one that works to prevent it by addressing its root causes? True justice should involve not just punishment but also education, transformation, and the fostering of a society where all lives are valued and protected. The challenge, then, is not just to punish, but to build a society where the very need for such punishment diminishes — where justice is not just a reaction, but a path to a more humane and equitable world.
(The author is a fourth-year law student at the BML Munjal University)
[1] The audio tapes, The Wire has recently released contain explosive contents including Mr. Biren Singh taking credit for the ethic conflict which took over 200 lives and displaced at least 60,000 people belonging to the Kuki and Meitei communities. Please find the link here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_a7b56ja9I