‘We pleaded. We begged. But it was all in vain. The police didn’t care about our pleas. They didn’t care that we were just students — young, hopeful, and filled with dreams. All they cared about was silencing us’
Mohammad Alamullah | Clarion India
THIS is the heartbreaking story of a bloody ordeal at Jamia Millia Islamia, where many innocent lives were shattered forever. Countless others were left severely injured, and many still fight the battle between life and death. In the darkness of night, Delhi Police and paramilitary forces stormed the Jamia campus, turning it into a scene of unimaginable violence. They barged into the library and opened fire, attacking unarmed students with sticks and batons, fracturing their hands, legs and other body parts. The marauding cops even desecrated the girls’ and boys’ restrooms, with some girls reporting horrifying assaults, their privacy violated most viciously. In the most horrific act, the police inserted batons into their private parts. Many girls, in tears, recounted their agony in front of media channels, but nothing was done. Later, the complicit Vice-Chancellor, Najma Akhtar, withdrew all the cases.
This was an assault on democratic India that shocked the world, and the entire nation screamed, “This is injustice, this is cruelty!” It was a vile attack by Delhi Police that no one connected to Jamia will ever forget. The truth is that even after five years, the blood of Jamia has not dried. That crimson stain still shines, it still hurts, and the wound continues to fester in our hearts. The screams of that day still echo, waking us from our sleep.
The morning of 15th December 2019 carried a strange stillness in the cold winds of Delhi — a stillness that lulls one into believing everything is normal, that life is as steady and predictable as it always has been. But as the sun rose, it became painfully evident that this day would be far from ordinary. It would be unforgettable.
This was the day our voices rose. This was the day we, the students of Jamia Millia Islamia — thousands of us — stepped onto the streets in protest. For us, this wasn’t just a protest; it was a cry for justice, a stand for equality, democracy, and the very soul of India. We were not merely opposing the Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA); we were standing against an ideology that threatened to divide, alienate, and marginalise us.
We were fighting not just for ourselves but for the rights of Muslims, Dalits, and other oppressed communities in this country. This was not a fleeting moment of rebellion — it was a movement, a wave of resistance that we hoped would echo through every corner of this nation.
That day, we held onto hope, even as uncertainty loomed over us. And as the sun set, the peace of the morning had long dissolved into chaos — a chaos that would test our courage, our resolve, and our belief in the promise of this nation.
Some moments become etched in memory not because of what they take from us but because of what they give — strength, purpose, and a reason to keep fighting, even in the face of despair. That day, we fought for the India we believe in, even as it slipped further from our grasp.
The morning began with a hope so profound; it could only stir in the hearts of a group of young people brimming with passion and unwavering resolve. We gathered outside Gate No. 7 of the university, our hearts filled with aspirations. We were ready to march, to speak, to listen. Thousands of us, united in our purpose, were joined by the locals of Jamia Nagar and students from other universities. We were peaceful, determined, and steadfast. The air carried an energy that only a collective yearning for justice could ignite.
We began our march towards India Gate — a symbolic destination for all who were disillusioned by the policies threatening the fabric of our nation. The streets of Delhi seemed to open before us, as though clearing a path for us to walk freely. Little did we know, the road ahead wouldn’t just be blocked — it would be riddled with violence, oppression, and the ruthless force that had decided to bare its teeth against us.
It was at Mata Mandir Marg, near New Friends Colony, that the tranquil morning abruptly descended into chaos. We had just approached a traffic signal when it all began. Without warning, without provocation, the Delhi Police descended upon us like a raging storm. It was as if a furious beast had been unleashed, tearing into its prey. They attacked us with a ferocity that words fail to capture, and what followed was sheer mayhem. Batons were raised, shots were fired, and tear gas filled the air, turning it into a choking haze. The sound of batons striking bodies echoed through the cold December air, mingling with the cries of pain and fear.
I had never heard such screams — raw, piercing, and haunting. The kind of sound that clutches one’s soul and leaves it trembling. My heart pounded, not just in fear, but in an overwhelming ache for what we were enduring.
The first blow of the baton, the first scream — it all happened so suddenly that it took us a moment to grasp what was unfolding. Shaheen, Chanda, Akhtari, Ladeeda, Ayesha — the friends who stood with us in this peaceful protest, in this fight for justice — were suddenly caught in the ruthless assault of the police. I could hear their screams, their cries for help as the police began mercilessly beating them. We scattered, trying to escape their wrath, but there was no refuge. The air was thick with the sharp stench of tear gas, stinging our eyes, making it almost impossible to see.
I was running, my steps faltering on the road, as our friends were beaten, dragged, and thrown to the ground. The police showed no mercy. There was no distinction between protesters and bystanders. To them, we were all the same — targets, enemies to be crushed. We had become invisible to those in power; our cries fell on deaf ears. For them, there was only one mission — to break us, to silence us, to shatter our resolve.
And then, I saw it — a sight that will forever be etched in my memory. The buses. Burning in the middle of the road. It felt as though the flames consuming those buses were also consuming the very soul of our nation. The fire, ignited by the police themselves, was part of a conspiracy — a strategy to tarnish us, to discredit our movement. And they succeeded.
The world saw only the burning buses, not the broken bodies and shattered spirits of the students.
As the police attacks continued, we witnessed something even worse. They didn’t just settle for dispersing us — they entered the university campus. Without any warning, without permission from the authorities, they broke down the gates of our institution. The sanctity of Jamia, once a symbol of knowledge, wisdom, and freedom, had now become gates of fear. They stormed in like a wave, wreaked havoc like a storm, and fled like thieves.
The library, our sanctuary of intellectual labour, was turned into a battleground. We rushed inside, hoping to escape the horror outside. But the police followed us. Tear gas was fired through the windows, choking us. The calm and serenity of the library was replaced with chaos, unrest, and the sound of desperate footsteps echoing across the students’ desks as they sought shelter. We hid behind the bookshelves, hearts pounding in our chests, waiting for the madness to end.
But it didn’t stop. The police broke down the doors, barged into the rooms, and dragged students out. I saw a student, just like me, trying to shield himself behind a desk, but the police ruthlessly beat him with their batons. They turned their attention to those who were cowering in fear, clinging to any chance of avoiding the terror. The violence inside the library was unimaginable.
We pleaded. We begged. But it was all in vain. The police didn’t care about our pleas. They didn’t care about our safety. They didn’t care about the dozens of injured, battered by their brutality. They didn’t care that we were just students — young, hopeful, and filled with dreams. All they cared about was silencing us.
This wasn’t just an attack on a campus. It was an assault on everything we believed in, on the hope that education could be a shield against tyranny, and on the idea that our voices mattered. The walls of Jamia, once adorned with the whispers of ambition, now bore witness to our cries of despair. And in that moment, we felt more alone than ever, clinging to the fragments of a dignity that was shattered right before our eyes.
Now they stormed into the washrooms. There, they mercilessly beat the boys who were relieving themselves. They didn’t stop at attacking the boys’ washrooms; they barged into the girls’ toilets too. We could hear the girls’ terrified screams.
After the storm of dust and blood settled, the footage that emerged and the stories the girls recounted were enough to make humanity hang its head in shame. The police had touched the girls’ private parts, and in some cases, they shoved batons into their private areas. A girl from Jharkhand sobbed uncontrollably on television, narrating her ordeal. But nothing happened.
I saw them smashing CCTV cameras, the shards of broken glass falling from the windows — each piece felt like a fragment of our shattered trust. The police cared for nothing — not our belongings, not our dignity, not the sanctity of the institution that had bestowed countless blessings upon free India.
This violence wasn’t just physical; it was emotional. It was an attack on our spirit, our will to resist.
And yet, amidst all this, there was a glimmer of hope — a spark of our resilience. Sitting in a dark corner of the library, struggling to catch my breath, I realised one thing. The police could break our bodies. They could try to crush our spirits. But they could never destroy our resolve.
We will rise again.
We will fight again.
The police had begun loading students into trucks, just like one would throw sacks into a vehicle. The night passed, and in the early hours of December 16, some of us were released. But the images of that night will haunt me for a long time. Blood stains on the library chairs, shattered glass, the sting of tear gas, cries for help — these remain etched in my memory.
Yet, what lingers the most is the feeling of betrayal, the overwhelming sense that we were deceived by those who were duty-bound to protect us.
The fight is not over, and perhaps it never will be. This was not just an attack on Jamia Millia Islamia. It was an attack on every student, on every person who believes in democracy, justice, and equality. The police might have wanted to silence us, but instead, they amplified our voices. They forgot that Jamia Millia Islamia is not just a university; it is a symbol of resistance. It embodies everything worth fighting for.
And no matter how many times they try to break us, we will never stop.
I wish they could understand that the flames of justice cannot be extinguished with tear gas. As long as there is breath in our bodies, as long as our hearts beat, we will keep walking. We will keep protesting. We will keep fighting for what is right.
Because that is the spirit of Jamia Millia Islamia. It is the legacy of its founders — leaders like Mohammad Ali Jauhar, Mukhtar Ahmad Ansari, and Mahatma Gandhi — who taught us to stand firm in the face of oppression.
On that day, after narrowly escaping death, when I returned to my room, exhausted and drained, I wrote on Facebook through tears. What I wrote was something like this:
“A small report on the police entering the Jamia Millia Islamia campus and the ill-treatment of students and staff has been shared by some media outlets. But no one can truly fathom the extent of the brutality and atrocities that took place inside. Since I was an eyewitness to the entire incident, I am trying to fulfill an informal journalistic duty of “witnessing” so that the public can understand the extent to which the police unleashed their barbarity within Jamia, and the false narrative being woven about the connection of the Jamia community with the December 15th protests.
“It is important to note that the student protest had ended by afternoon. We were all engrossed in our studies in the library when suddenly we heard shouting and the sound of gunfire. When we stepped outside, we learned that the Delhi Police had fired tear gas shells inside the campus.
“The police displayed their cruelty and savagery in such a way that as soon as they entered Jamia, they turned off the lights, and in the darkness, they not only hurled abusive words but also physically assaulted several students and committed heinous acts with many of the female students.
“A stampede broke out across the campus. Everywhere there was chaos and panic. We didn’t know what to do. Some students sought refuge in mosques, while others gathered in the library. The students had nothing to protect themselves with, except salt and water. The salt had been obtained from the canteen.
“When the situation had worsened beyond belief, thousands of students had gathered in a library meant for just two hundred. The library was completely packed, not a single inch of space was left, and even breathing was difficult. We had shut the doors and turned off the lights. The tables and drawers were placed against the windows, and all the cupboards were pushed against the door.
“It was a catastrophic sight. The sound of gunfire echoed from every direction. The cries of the female students pierced the sky. Some had broken their legs, others their arms; blood stains were visible at several places. Chaos and panic enveloped the air.
“Some students were outside the reading room but still inside the library corridor, visibly distressed. The air was thick with the fumes of tear gas, making it nearly impossible to breathe. We saw several girls in extreme distress, each praying for the others’ safety.
“We all felt death was so close, like it could reach us at any moment. And then, suddenly, there were loud banging sounds. Someone was relentlessly pounding on the door, and the girls screamed in fear. It hadn’t even been a moment before we heard a crash, and the CRPF had broken through the door. Laptops and books were scattered all over, and water mixed with blood covered the floor, creating a horrifying scene.
“The CRPF, upon entering, blindingly shone lights into our eyes and began striking us with sticks. Some boys and girls hid under the tables. Then, with utter disrespect, they ordered us to raise our hands and stand up. Under the shadow of rifles, they forced us to raise our hands and dragged us out of the library. It was night, and everywhere outside, the CRPF and police were encamped. They told us to keep moving, not to stop. As we were leaving, the CRPF and police officers were hurling abuses at us, calling us vile names. They were also directing filthy insults at the girls.
“They were cracking their sticks, shouting that we were the ones throwing stones, although it was the police themselves who had thrown stones. The students of Jamia had no role in this. We could clearly see and feel the hatred and brutality on their faces. They took us to Julaina and dropped us in the middle of the road. Everywhere, it felt like a curfew zone. The police were behaving as they pleased, breaking bricks and scattering them on the road, hoping to tell the media that the students had been stoning them.
“We could still hear the sounds of gunfire. When we reached the metro station, the gates were closed. We had nowhere to go. After much struggle, we walked to Haji Colony. There were several female students with us, and getting them safely to their homes was another challenge. Somehow, we managed to get them home.
“We reached home around midnight, and the state we were in was beyond description. The police had even attacked the mosque, where students, both male and female, were engaged in worship. The windows of the mosques had been shattered. The entire mosque was a scene of bloodshed and chaos.
“The videos of the mosque that went viral were truly heart-wrenching. The police had poured all their anger onto the students of Jamia. By evening, the scene at the university had changed drastically, it felt like a day of judgment. At least a hundred tear gas shells were fired inside Jamia, and there were multiple rounds of gunfire. The guards and soldiers stationed at the gates had their arms and legs broken.
“The sanctity of the Jamia Millia mosque was violated. The glass of the entrance door and windows were shattered, and the area where people pray was torn apart, with prayer mats scattered around, and stained with blood.
“In short, the police treated the students of Jamia with extreme brutality. We endured hours that felt like a severing of our connection to life, with a chilling atmosphere of fear and terror. The police, in their ruthless cruelty, attacked defenceless students. The torment we went through during that time, I don’t think we will ever forget. We somehow managed to save our lives, but after the storm of fear and terror passed, we learned that many of our companions were missing. The police had taken them away, but they weren’t revealing anything about them. May Allah be their protector and help reunite them with their families.”
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The views expressed here are the writer’s personal and Clarion India does not necessarily share or subscribe to them.
