India proudly presents itself as the world’s largest democracy, founded on constitutional values of equality, liberty, and justice. Yet, for many citizens who look “different,” speak a different language, or belong to Indigenous and marginalised communities, these promises remain fragile. The death of Anjel Chakma exposes a painful truth: in modern India, citizenship does not always guarantee humanity. Some lives are protected, while others are quietly reduced to statistics.
Anjel Chakma belonged to an Indigenous tribal community, a group that has historically existed on the margins of Indian society. Indigenous people, especially from the Northeast and tribal regions, face racial profiling, excessive surveillance, and institutional neglect. When violence occurs against them, public outrage is fleeting, investigations lack urgency, and accountability is rare. Over time, their deaths fade into official records, stripped of identity and empathy.
The transformation from citizen to suspect often begins with appearance. Facial features, accent, clothing, or even a name can trigger suspicion. For people like Anjel Chakma, identity itself becomes a liability. Encounters with authorities are not shaped by protection but by presumption of guilt. This environment normalises abuse and enables violence in the name of law and order.
Colonial-era laws, militarized policing, and the absence of Indigenous voices in governance contribute to this reality. Such structures reinforce the idea that some communities must be controlled rather than protected. When Anjel Chakma died, the system responded not with moral urgency, but with paperwork and silence.
Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of such deaths is how efficiently they are absorbed by bureaucracy. Official reports are vague, responsibility is diffused, and justice is delayed indefinitely. Media narratives often sanitize these deaths, framing them as procedural mishaps rather than systemic failures. As time passes, the individual disappears, replaced by terms like “case,” “encounter,” or “unidentified victim.”
Statistics, while essential for governance, can also erase humanity. When deaths are counted but not questioned, society becomes desensitized. Anjel Chakma’s life was not merely lost—it was converted into data, stripped of dignity and memory.
India often avoids acknowledging racism within its borders. Discrimination against Indigenous communities is frequently dismissed as isolated incidents rather than recognised as part of a broader pattern. The lack of accountability sends a dangerous message: some lives matter less. When perpetrators face no consequences, violence becomes normalised.
This culture of impunity deepens mistrust between marginalised communities and the state. For Indigenous youth, the promise of equality feels distant and conditional. Anjel Chakma’s death fits into a recurring pattern where justice is delayed until it is effectively denied.
To look different in India often means living with constant caution. It means measuring one’s movements, words, and presence in public spaces. For Indigenous youth, it also means growing up with the awareness that justice may not protect them equally.
The psychological toll is immense. Fear replaces belonging, silence replaces resistance, and survival becomes the priority. When death occurs, the system responds with classification rather than compassion. This is how a citizen dies twice—once physically, and once in collective memory.
“The death of a citizen, the birth of a statistic” is not merely a phrase—it is an indictment of selective justice. A democracy cannot endure if it values lives unequally. Remembering Anjel Chakma means refusing to let his death dissolve into numbers. It demands accountability, reform, and a recommitment to constitutional values that protect every citizen, regardless of appearance or identity.
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