Humanity is a privilege that is not granted to people like me.
For nearly six years, Umar Khalid — student activist, Muslim intellectual, and critic of Hindu nationalism — has waited inside Delhi's Tihar prison for a trial that has not come, accused of orchestrating riots he was a thousand miles from when they occurred. His case has become a mirror held up to India's judiciary, reflecting what human rights observers describe as the quiet transformation of legal process into a tool of political suppression. In his first interview since his 2020 arrest, Khalid speaks not only of his own diminishment but of a nation he believes is completing its passage into a post-truth order — and of the silence that makes such passages possible.
- A man accused of terrorism for riots he did not witness has now spent six years in one of India's most notorious prisons, with no trial date and no apparent end to the police investigation.
- Bail applications have been rejected repeatedly, fellow defendants have been released while Khalid remains, and judges have delayed, adjourned, and recused themselves in a pattern critics call deliberate obstruction.
- The psychological erosion is acute — Khalid describes losing not just hope but the sense of his own humanity, reduced to either a villain or a symbol while his inner life quietly collapses.
- International condemnation has mounted, yet the BJP publicly welcomes each denial of his freedom, and opposition parties and civil society have largely chosen silence over solidarity.
- Khalid warns that this silence is not neutral — it emboldens further persecution, as evidenced by political prisoners who have already died in custody, and by what he sees as the near-complete normalization of authoritarian rule.
Prison is hardest at sunset. Each evening, the thousands held in Delhi's Tihar are moved from their cells into the yard to wait for darkness — and for Umar Khalid, registered as prisoner 626714, that ritual has repeated itself for nearly six years without a trial ever beginning.
Khalid rose to prominence a decade ago as a student activist at Jawaharlal Nehru University, and later became a leading voice in the 2019 protests against a citizenship law widely seen as discriminatory toward Muslims. When sectarian riots killed 53 people in Delhi in February 2020, he was accused of masterminding the violence — despite being a thousand miles away when it occurred. Seven months later, he was arrested under India's harshest terrorism statutes. He has not been free since.
His case has come to represent what human rights organizations describe as the systematic use of the courts to silence dissent under Prime Minister Narendra Modi's Hindu nationalist government. Others charged alongside him have been granted bail. Khalid has not. Judges have delayed, adjourned, and recused themselves. No trial date exists. The BJP denies political motivation while publicly welcoming each rejection of his freedom.
The toll is visible. At thirty-eight, Khalid describes being hollowed out — reduced to an image, either terrorist or martyr, while his actual humanity erodes. Fellow prisoners have been told he is dangerous. 'Humanity is a privilege that is not granted to people like me,' he said in his first interview since his arrest.
Yet his convictions have not softened. He speaks of India's drift toward what he calls a post-truth society, of hate speech normalized and glorified, of political prisoners — including the activist priest Father Stan Swamy — who have died in custody while opposition parties and civil society remained largely silent. That silence, he warns, only emboldens further repression.
At night, locked back in his cell, Khalid finds sustenance in words scrawled on the walls — passages from his journal, and beside a picture of the anti-colonial revolutionary Bhagat Singh, Singh's own declaration: 'I am that mad soul who is free even in captivity.' It is a claim he must make to himself each night, as another sunset disappears into the walls of Tihar.
Prison is hardest at sunset. That's when the thousands held in Delhi's Tihar—one of India's most notorious lockups—are herded from their cells into the yard to wait for darkness. For the man registered as prisoner 626714, better known as Umar Khalid, that daily ritual brings a particular kind of dread. He has spent nearly six years in that yard, in that cell, without a trial.
Khalid discovered recently that Dostoevsky, imprisoned more than 150 years ago in a distant camp, wrote of the same feeling at sunset—that sinking awareness that another day of your life has simply vanished into captivity. The parallel struck him. "I guess maybe it is because it starts sinking in that another day of your life has been spent in captivity," he said in his first interview since his arrest in 2020.
Outside Tihar's walls, Khalid's name is known across India. A decade ago he emerged as a fiery student activist at Delhi's Jawaharlal Nehru University, then became the public face of massive protests in 2019 against a citizenship law widely seen as discriminatory toward Muslims. When sectarian riots tore through Delhi in February 2020—killing 53 people, most of them Muslim—Khalid was accused of orchestrating the violence. The charge sheet named him as a key conspirator in a plot for "violent regime change." There was one problem: he was a thousand miles away when the riots happened. Seven months after the violence, police arrived at his family home and arrested him under India's harshest terrorism statutes. He has been in prison ever since, awaiting trial.
Khalid is a Muslim and a leftist, a fierce critic of Prime Minister Narendra Modi's Hindu nationalist agenda—one that seeks to remake India from a secular nation into a Hindu one. His case has become emblematic of what human rights groups say is a systematic weaponization of the courts against dissent. The Modi government and his Bharatiya Janata Party have ruled for twelve years. International organizations have condemned Khalid's detention as unjust. New York's mayor sent him a handwritten note of solidarity, prompting an angry rebuke from the Indian government. Yet judges have repeatedly rejected his bail applications. No trial date exists. The police investigation continues without apparent endpoint.
Others charged alongside him have been released on bail. Khalid remains. Judges have delayed, adjourned, and recused themselves from his case. The BJP denies any political involvement while publicly welcoming the rejections of his freedom. "Slowly hope started dying out," Khalid said of the cycle of dashed expectations. "And without having hope to hang on to, surviving prison becomes exceptionally difficult."
The toll has been severe. At thirty-eight, Khalid describes being reduced to an image—either a terrorist in the eyes of right-wing media or a symbol to leftist supporters—while his actual humanity erodes. "When you are reduced to just an image, either negative or positive, it becomes difficult to maintain not just your humanity but even your sanity at times," he said. Fellow prisoners whisper that he is a terrorist. The propaganda, he believes, dehumanizes him in their eyes. "Humanity is a privilege that is not granted to people like me."
Yet his years behind bars have not softened his convictions. He watches as Hindu nationalism has become India's dominant political force, as hate speech and what he calls "genocidal language" have become normalized and glorified. "The process of India becoming a post-truth society is near complete," he said. He is particularly bitter at the opposition parties and civil society groups that have remained largely silent about his case and the growing number of political prisoners in Indian jails. Some, like the activist priest Father Stan Swamy, have died in custody. "This silence emboldens this regime to go after further dissidents," Khalid said.
At night, locked back in his cell, Khalid finds some peace in words he has scrawled on the walls—quotes from his journal, passages that sustain him. Next to a picture of Bhagat Singh, the anti-colonial revolutionary, he has written Singh's famous words: "I am that mad soul who is free even in captivity." It is a claim he must repeat to himself each night, waiting for another sunset to come.
Citações Notáveis
When you are reduced to just an image, either negative or positive, it becomes difficult to maintain not just your humanity but even your sanity at times.— Umar Khalid
This silence—of opposition parties, of civil society groups—emboldens this regime to go after further dissidents.— Umar Khalid
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does sunset feel different in prison than anywhere else?
Because it marks the end of something you can't get back. You're forced into the yard with thousands of others, and there's this moment when you realize another day of your life is simply gone. Dostoevsky felt it too, in a camp on the other side of the world, 150 years ago. That's what struck me—that this particular dread is almost universal to captivity.
You were a thousand miles away when the riots happened. How do you process being accused of masterminding them?
It's dystopian. The charge sheet says I engineered communal violence as part of a pre-planned attack on the nation. But I was elsewhere. Others charged in the same case have been released on bail. I remain. The judges keep delaying, adjourning, recusing themselves. No trial date. It's not about justice—it's about keeping me here.
What does it do to you, being called a terrorist on television night after night?
It dehumanizes you. People you share meals with start calling you a terrorist behind your back. You become an image, not a person. Even people who sympathize with you forget that I have vulnerabilities, fears, imperfections. Six years of this has wreaked havoc on my mind and body.
Why stay vocal about politics from inside a cell?
Because silence emboldens them. The opposition parties, the civil society groups—they've been largely quiet about political prisoners. Some have died in custody. If I stay silent, I'm complicit in my own erasure. I have to speak, even if it's just words on a wall.
What do those words on the wall mean to you?
They're lifelines. Quotes from my journal, passages that remind me I'm still human. Bhagat Singh wrote, "I am that mad soul who is free even in captivity." I read that before I sleep. It's not about denying where I am. It's about refusing to let them take everything.