Badr Jan
At 21, Mohammad Parvez was a son, a husband, a brother—a young man brimming with dreams. But in a heartbeat, he was reduced to a statistic, a body on the pavement, gunned down in Jammu’s Bakshi Nagar. Stepping out to buy medicine, he returned in a blood-soaked shroud, his life extinguished by men in civilian clothes who were later revealed to be policemen.
The police narrative shifted like sand: first, Parvez was a drug dealer; then, a victim of “media confusion.” Two officers were suspended, a Special Investigation Team was announced, and the local SP called him a “martyr.” But as Toni Morrison once wrote, “The function of freedom is to free someone else.” What freedom is there in words when a mother’s son lies dead? What solace do suspensions offer when justice is a promise perpetually deferred?
Parvez’s killing is not an isolated tragedy but a symptom of a deeper malaise: a growing appetite for street justice. Weeks before, in Jammu’s Old City, a young man was publicly humiliated—his head shaved, face blackened, paraded like a criminal by a mob. Instead of outrage, some cheered; others turned away. As Hannah Arendt warned, “The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil.” The silence that followed emboldened a dangerous precedent, one that seemingly inspired the police in Bakshi Nagar to act as judge, jury, and executioner.
Parvez, a member of the Gujjar community, became a target in a pattern that is impossible to ignore. The Gujjars, a tribal group, face systemic exclusion and violence. From public humiliations to extrajudicial killings, their stories echo a chilling question posed by James Baldwin: “How much time do you want for your progress?” How many more lives must be lost before the system acknowledges their humanity?
The Gujjar community’s pain is palpable. They are not just seeking answers—they demand to be seen, heard, and treated with the dignity every human deserves. As Desmond Tutu said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” The system’s failure to protect its most vulnerable sends a stark message: some lives are worth less.
Political leaders like Omar Abdullah and Mehbooba Mufti have condemned the killing. Protests have erupted, and promises of justice have been made. But words cannot fill the void at Parvez’s family table. They cannot replace the warmth of his hand in his wife’s, nor ease the anguish of a father who buried his son. As Maya Angelou wrote, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Parvez’s story, like countless others, risks being drowned in the noise of fleeting outrage.
This is not just about one life. It is about a society at a crossroads. Will we continue to normalize badges that justify bullets? Will we accept a world where silence rewards violence? As Martin Luther King Jr. cautioned, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Parvez’s death is a warning—a call to confront the systems that fail the marginalized, from the tribal youth in Jammu to the countless unnamed victims across the nation.
Consider the case of Stan Swamy, the 84-year-old Jesuit priest and tribal rights activist who died in custody in 2021, denied basic medical care. Or the 2020 Hathras case, where a Dalit girl’s rape and murder exposed the intersection of caste and state apathy. These are not mere incidents but threads in a tapestry of systemic neglect. Parvez’s killing weaves another thread, a stark reminder that justice remains elusive for those society deems “lesser.”
Justice is not a press release or a suspension order. It is not a politician’s tweet or a fleeting headline. Justice is a mother sleeping soundly, knowing her son is safe. It is a system that values the poor and tribal as much as the powerful. Justice is what Parvez was denied.
Today, Parvez lies beneath the earth, his dreams buried with him. His mother speaks to his photograph, his wife clings to memories, and his community mourns a loss that words cannot heal. As we scroll past his story, we must ask: who will be next? Will we find the courage to care, or will we grow numb to a world where lives are extinguished without question?
As Albert Camus wrote, “The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” Let Parvez’s death be a rebellion—a call to dismantle the systems that fail the vulnerable. We failed him. Unless we act, we will fail others too, one grave at a time.
