The death of Anjel Chakma is not just another crime headline. It is a mirror held up to our education system, our society, and our collective conscience.
Anjel was only 24. He had left his home in Tripura with dreams familiar to millions of students across India, to study, build a career, and create a better future for himself and his family. Like countless “outstation” students, he trusted that a university town would offer safety, opportunity, and dignity. Instead, he found violence.
On December 9, 2025, Anjel and his younger brother were shopping in Selaqui, near Dehradun, when a group of local men allegedly began hurling racial slurs at them. This is where everything changes. Anjel did what any self-respecting citizen might do: he spoke up. He reportedly said, “I am not Chinese, I am an Indian.”
That simple sentence, a declaration of identity and belonging, was met with rods, knives, and brutal force. For 17 days, Anjel fought for his life in hospital. Severe head and spinal injuries kept him in critical condition. On December 26, he passed away. And with him died a piece of our illusion that educational spaces in India are safe for everyone.
What followed was national outrage. Protests erupted across the Northeast. Student bodies demanded justice. Political leaders condemned the murder. Candlelight marches filled the streets. Social media overflowed with grief and anger. Yet beneath all this noise lies a quieter, more uncomfortable truth: Anjel’s death was not sudden or isolated. It was the outcome of long-standing neglect.
Police arrested five accused, including two minors. The prime suspect reportedly fled toward Nepal. A Special Investigation Team was formed, and the National Human Rights Commission issued notices to the Uttarakhand government seeking accountability for student safety. A Public Interest Litigation reached the Supreme Court, urging the formal recognition of racial slurs as a category of hate crime, a demand echoed earlier after the killing of Nido Tania in 2014.
But beyond legal procedures and official statements, one question remains painfully unanswered: Where were the universities?
Indian campuses actively recruit students from across states, cultures, and communities. Prospectuses proudly advertise diversity. Orientation speeches talk about inclusion. But when it comes to actual safety, especially for students who look “different,” speak differently, or come from marginalised regions, institutions often fall silent.
Most universities have no real crisis response protocols for off-campus violence. There are no rapid-response teams for racial attacks. No mandatory sensitisation programs for surrounding communities. No dedicated helplines for Northeast students facing harassment. In many cases, even campus security stops at the gate, as if responsibility magically ends there.
Outstation students live in rented rooms, PGs, and hostels scattered across unfamiliar cities. They walk unknown streets. Shop in local markets. Travel alone. They rely entirely on the assumption that society will treat them fairly, an assumption that repeatedly proves false.
Students from the Northeast have spoken for years about being called “Chinese,” mocked for their features, followed, threatened, or physically attacked. These experiences are normalised as “small incidents,” brushed aside as ignorance rather than recognised as systemic racism.
Universities rarely document these complaints. Administrations often advise students to “adjust.” Parents are told not to worry. Deans hold meetings, committees write reports, and then life goes on. Until someone dies. Only then do we suddenly care.
Anjel’s murder exposes how fragile student safety truly is. Campus safety in India is reactive, not preventive. Policies appear after tragedies, not before. Institutions depend on police intervention rather than building their own protective ecosystems. There is little collaboration between universities and local authorities to monitor high-risk areas where students live and shop. Counselling services are minimal. Legal awareness workshops are rare. Cultural sensitisation programs for staff and surrounding residents are almost nonexistent.
This is what makes Anjel’s story so disturbing; it didn’t have to end this way. Imagine if there had been community policing near student hubs. Imagine if local shopkeepers were trained to intervene or call emergency numbers. Imagine if universities had student safety apps linked directly to nearby patrol units. Imagine if racial harassment were treated as seriously as sexual harassment.
Imagine if Anjel had felt supported instead of alone. But imagination does not bring justice.
What India urgently needs is a clear national framework for protecting outstation students, especially those from vulnerable regions.
Universities must be legally mandated to extend responsibility beyond campus boundaries. Hate crimes must be clearly defined in law. Racial slurs should carry consequences. Emergency response systems must be standardized across institutions. Most importantly, empathy must replace apathy.
Education is not only about degrees. It is about dignity.
When students leave their homes to study, they are placing their trust in the system. That trust was broken for Anjel Chakma. His death should not fade into another forgotten protest. It should become a turning point, a moment when universities finally stop being silent, when administrators step out of air-conditioned offices, when safety becomes action instead of paperwork.
Because behind every statistic is a family waiting for a phone call that should never come. And behind every “outstation student” is a young person who only wanted to learn, live, and belong.
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