I didn’t know Harsimrat Kaur Randhawa. But I know the story.

I know what it means when your family gathers in the living room, and someone says, “She got into a college in Canada,” and everyone nods, half proud, half scared, but mostly hopeful. I know the pride in watching a daughter walk through airport security with a backpack, a suitcase, and way too many dreams packed into both. I know the calls home. The “I miss ghar ka khana.” The “I’m fine, don’t worry.” The screenshots of assignments. The desperate math of converting every Canadian dollar back into rupees before buying a cup of coffee.

So no, I didn’t know Harsimrat. But I know her. Because she’s every Indian student who’s ever boarded a plane hoping for a better life.

And now, she’s gone.

Harsimrat was 21. A student from Punjab. She had gone to Canada like so many others, armed with ambition, grit, and probably three Tupperware boxes of homemade parathas. She was living her life. Going to class. Just… being. Until she was killed in a drive-by shooting in Hamilton, Ontario. Not because she was involved. Not because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But because she was there. Walking. Living. Existing.

A stray bullet. One of the most senseless phrases in any language.

It didn’t ask for permission. It didn’t check if she had dreams. It didn’t pause to see the messages left unread on her phone, or the plans she had saved in her notes app.

It just… ended her life.

Now, her family is begging for help. Not revenge. Not drama. Just the basic dignity of being able to bring her body home. That’s where we are. A mother, who spoke to her daughter just an hour before the tragedy, is now navigating paperwork, flights, and bureaucracy while grieving. And if that doesn’t make your heart clench, I don’t know what will.

What haunts me most is how unremarkably ordinary this was. Harsimrat wasn’t in a gang. She wasn’t involved in anything shady. She wasn’t at a protest or a club or somewhere people love to label as “risky.” She was just out. Doing her thing. Being a 21-year-old girl in a world that failed to protect her.

And you know what? That’s what makes it so terrifying.

Because it could’ve been any of us. Any of our sisters. Cousins. Friends. People we love. People we said goodbye to at an airport with shaky smiles and tearful goodbyes. People we send care packages to. People we video call at odd hours just to ask, “Khaana khaya?”

It could have been me. It could have been you.

We romanticize the idea of studying abroad. And look, I get it. New country. New opportunities. Cute snow pics for the ’gram. But we don’t talk enough about the risks. About how international students are often overworked, underpaid, and barely hanging on in countries where safety is supposed to be a given.

Canada, for all its maple syrup and apologetic politeness, is dealing with a real issue here. Gun violence has been on the rise. And no, I’m not going to pretend I have the answers to that. But what I do know is this: a 21-year-old girl should not be dying on a random street in Hamilton because someone decided bullets were a good way to settle a score.

Where is the accountability? Where’s the urgency? Where are the politicians who show up for photo ops when a student first gets their visa approved?

And let’s talk about the Indian government for a second. Because this family shouldn’t have to beg for help. There should be a system in place. A hotline. A rapid response team. Something, anything that makes these kinds of tragedies slightly less excruciating to deal with. We send thousands of students abroad every year. Surely we can do better for them when things go horribly wrong.

But maybe what breaks my heart most is the quietness of it all.

The way her life ended without headlines screaming for justice. The way the world kept moving. The way it’s already getting lost in the scroll.

I don’t want that.

I want us to remember Harsimrat.

Not just as another “case” or news article. Not just as a name in the long list of students who’ve died far from home. But as a girl who had dreams. Who laughed. Who loved. Who probably binge-watched Netflix and hated 8 a.m. classes. Who didn’t get the ending she deserved?

This article isn’t a call to action, not really. It’s just a scream into the void. A way of saying, “This is not okay.” A way of honoring someone I never met but feel like I know. Because that’s what grief does. It connects us. It reminds us of our shared fragility. Our shared humanity.

And to anyone reading this: Please, remember her name.

Harsimrat Kaur Randhawa.

She went to study.

She came home in a coffin.

And that should never be normal.

But here’s the thing: we’ve become so disturbingly numb to headlines like this. “Student killed in Canada.” “Stray bullet.” “Family seeks help.” We scroll, maybe sigh, and then move on to memes or match highlights. It’s not because we don’t care, it’s because we don’t know how to care anymore. Tragedy fatigue is real. We’re so used to the world breaking our hearts that we forget each name had a heartbeat, a history, a home.

Harsimrat’s death didn’t just highlight violence, it spotlighted a lack of systems. Why was it so hard for her family to get information? Why did they have to go to the media before anyone paid attention? Why is “bringing the body home” treated like a favor and not a basic right? These questions should haunt us. Because today, it’s her. Tomorrow, it could be someone you know.

And I hope God, I hope this doesn’t become just another story filed under “international tragedy.” I hope it changes something. I hope governments on both sides wake up. I hope the next Indian student who dies abroad (and I hate that we even have to say “next”) doesn’t have their parents stuck in an endless cycle of calls, forms, and helplessness.

Let her story be a catalyst, not just a case.

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