Memes, marches and the fear of being watched: Delhi's students push back

By Arun Mohan 

As someone who has lived in Delhi for over two decades, the sight of protests happening in and around Jantar Mantar, and the occasional rallies from Jantar Mantar to Parliament Street or from Barakhamba Road to Jantar Mantar, is not new. The vibrant Jantar Mantar road (entirely) and the huge Parliament Street rallies were themselves seen as a limited space for dissent, as engagement with policymakers was not guaranteed even after a huge protest. But over the years we have seen a clampdown on these very spaces as well. That, along with surveillance using facial recognition software and drones, has struck fear into people about the "state."

The right of people across the country to voice their opposition to any injustice happening to them, or due to happen to them, as a result of policies being discussed and passed by Parliament is an inalienable right guaranteed under the Constitution. To have this right taken away under the guise of regulations—in the name of inconvenience or threat to law and order—is to harm the basic foundations of democratic engagement. The other avenue, courts and the judiciary, means being in for a long haul with accumulated lawyer and miscellaneous costs, all while still awaiting justice two to three years after first filing a grievance. The long pendency of court cases is no news anymore.

So, without space for protest, how are people supposed to voice their anger and frustration? Across states in our country, and more so in Delhi, restrictions on protests and the designation of sites create practical challenges for any community wanting to do so. The first challenge is simply reaching Delhi in large numbers. If that is deemed difficult to contain, protesters are detained or stopped from travelling from their source state. If by some means they reach Delhi's borders, they are stopped there, as with the farmers' protests. If they manage to reach Jantar Mantar, the inability to stay and protest beyond 5 pm means finding a place to stay in Delhi—which is not a small ask. Not to mention food costs. So protesting also becomes heavy on the pocket. And if all of this is not enough, there is also the fear that surveillance today is not just about monitoring a protest but about mapping the people who come to it. With facial recognition, drones and our digital footprints on social media, the possibility of being identified and profiled later is enough to make many think twice before stepping onto the streets.

Over the last decade and more, these restrictions have become frequent, with a lack of permissions for rallies and a reduction of the Jantar Mantar protest area. What was once a free-to-protest stretch has been regulated over time to just over 200 metres, barricaded on both sides and made available for people to protest under the gaze of the police and the Rapid Action Force. Unless one has nothing left to lose, or is pushed to the brink, protesting might not be an option. But then again, for someone in that position, is democratic engagement even the first option?

The systematic manner in which the state is pushing people to lose faith in democratic systems has been worrying everyone. Even the uncles and aunties in family WhatsApp groups—many of whom openly support the "non-biological being"—cannot help but express a sense of helplessness and hopelessness about this new India. One where people don't seem to matter, where the country is increasingly synonymous with a certain person and his vision of development, and where questioning those in power appears to have become harder than ever.

We need to see the CJP and student movement in this light. What it has done to this government, the people, the students and the future of this country needs to be understood. This is not the first time students have come out onto the streets against this government.

The Occupy UGC movement of late 2015 and early 2016 was one among many. But there is something significantly different about what we are witnessing today. The Occupy UGC movement was rooted in the universities. It was led by research scholars, student unions, teachers and young people who understood that the withdrawal of fellowships was not merely about financial support but about who gets to access higher education and whose dreams matter. It was a powerful struggle that asked fundamental questions about public education, private investment, equality and the role of the state. The current student movement seems to have travelled much further. The crowds are no longer from organised student unions or politically aware campuses alone. There are coaching students, young graduates waiting endlessly for jobs (not just from Delhi), first-time protesters, and poor and middle-class students who have never been part of party politics—even those who would never have imagined themselves standing in a protest. What has brought them together is not an ideology, but uncertainty about their future.

Perhaps that is what makes this moment significant. Through the experience of police action, detentions and attempts to suppress this movement, many young people are beginning to ask questions that go far beyond the immediate demands. They are asking whether democratic rights are negotiable, whether peaceful protest has become something to be feared, and whether public institutions still exist to serve the people or merely to govern them. We saw videos online of crying protesters horrified by police action. One widely shared video showed a boy screaming, "Hit me, sir." There is much on social media that could be called theatrics, but not this. These were moments of deep politicisation—moments that all governments, not just this one, should be wary of. For many of these students, this may well be the first political action of their lives. But that realisation did not arrive because they went looking for it—it arrived because the institutions they trusted repeatedly failed them.

One of the defining characteristics of this movement has been its use of social media—not merely as a tool for mobilisation, but as a space for political expression. Unlike earlier movements that relied largely on speeches, pamphlets and press statements, this generation has spoken through reels, memes, satire and short videos that have travelled far beyond the protest site. Humour has become a powerful political language. Through wit and sarcasm, students have managed to question authority, expose contradictions and make complex political issues relatable to many who may never have attended a protest. Every day, our feeds were filled with remarkably creative content that made one wonder, "How are they doing this?" It was impossible not to appreciate this creativity—so much so that students and young people from many South Asian countries have watched in awe, sending messages of solidarity and love online.

In many ways, satire has helped remove the fear of speaking truth to power. It has allowed young people to reclaim the narrative, making the movement not only viral but relatable, ensuring that conversations from the streets continued long after people returned home, through social media feeds. In that sense, what we are witnessing is not simply another student protest. It is a generation beginning to discover that the struggle for an examination, a fellowship or a job cannot be separated from the larger struggle to defend democratic spaces, constitutional rights and the possibility of being heard.

The journey this movement takes is one we will all witness together. But for now, the sight of Delhi's streets—and especially the roads leading to Parliament—filled with young students carrying witty placards, singing creative slogans and refusing to give in, should be allowed to sink in and be celebrated. For perhaps the first time in years, they have reminded us that the roads leading to Parliament do not belong only to those in power. They belong to the people.

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Arun Mohan is a filmmaker who works with Media Collective, an independent media platform in Delhi