Silence can be dehumanising. And few silences are more chilling than that of a democratically elected leader when her own citizens are being slaughtered or forced to flee in terror. When men are hacked to death in full public view, when women and children are seen desperately escaping in boats across rivers, when entire localities are emptied out by the fear of communal mobs — silence from the top isn’t just irresponsible. It becomes complicit. That is precisely what West Bengal is witnessing today. Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee and her Trinamool Congress leadership seem to have abdicated their constitutional responsibility, choosing instead to placate the aggressors while offering little to no solidarity to the victims.
To call West Bengal a communal cauldron would be stating the obvious. The state has a long and complicated history of identity politics, community clashes, and sectarian mobilisation. Yet the events of April 2025 mark a particularly dangerous inflection point. Because this isn’t just communal tension bubbling over — it’s the state machinery choosing inertia in the face of organised lawlessness. When mobs from one community are allowed to run riot for days, it reflects not only administrative failure, but political permission. And when the victims of that violence are treated as collateral damage, or worse, as inconvenient reminders of government inaction, it crosses the threshold from apathy to abandonment.
The Waqf Amendment Bill, 2025 — which triggered the violence — was passed by Parliament on April 4 and received presidential assent on April 5. Protests began brewing in several states, including Kerala, Telangana, and Uttar Pradesh. But nowhere did they metastasize into the kind of coordinated, large-scale violence that West Bengal saw. The first flames of unrest were lit on April 11, notably after Friday prayers. That timeline — a six-day delay — is telling. It hints not at spontaneous fury, but careful orchestration. What were intelligence agencies doing in those six days? Were they blindsided, or were warning signs deliberately ignored?
The violence itself has been brutal and deeply communal in nature. In Murshidabad — a Muslim-majority district — a Hindu father-son duo, Horogobindo and Chandan Das, were dragged out of their home by a mob and hacked to death. Their crime? Belonging to a community perceived as an enemy. Their fate? Dying helplessly in front of their loved ones. Video footage and eyewitness testimonies reveal women pleading with the attackers, falling at their feet, begging for mercy — only to be ignored. This was not just a murder. It was a public execution, a message written in blood.
In the days that followed, hundreds of Hindus — mainly women and children — fled their homes. Boats were used to cross the Ganga into Malda, as entire neighbourhoods in Murshidabad emptied out. These were not isolated incidents. This was a pogrom. A targeted, fear-driven displacement that shattered the myth of communal harmony.
Yet through all this, the police remained largely absent. Testimonies from victims state that emergency calls were made for hours — with no response. Local police stations, just minutes away, stayed inert. The law-and-order machinery either failed or chose not to intervene. Videos show shops being looted, homes torched, people attacked — while officers watched from a distance. The inaction was so stark that only after the Calcutta High Court's intervention were central forces deployed.
One would expect, at the very least, that the state’s chief minister would condemn the violence unequivocally and pledge justice to the victims. Instead, Mamata Banerjee chose to address the rioters directly — and with empathy. On Saturday, she declared that the new Waqf law would not be implemented in West Bengal. This wasn’t a statement of policy; it was a political olive branch, extended not to the victims, but to the mobs. “What is the riot about?” she asked, making it seem as though violence had erupted in confusion — not because criminals were emboldened by silence.
Her message was clear: the state government’s opposition to the Waqf law was so strong that violence in its name was understandable — even if not encouraged. This equivocation, this balancing act, stripped away any illusion of neutrality.
Other TMC leaders followed suit. MP Mahua Moitra, in a video message, appealed with “folded hands” to the Muslim community, urging peace and assuring them that a writ petition had been filed in the Supreme Court. No such folded hands were extended to the grieving families of Murshidabad. No direct outreach to the hundreds who had fled their homes. No robust police crackdown on the instigators. Not even a token visit to the scenes of horror.
Firhad Hakim, Kolkata’s Mayor and a senior state minister, added further insult by claiming that the 400 Hindu families weren’t fleeing — they were merely “relocating within Bengal.” He attempted to recast a traumatic exodus as logistical adjustment. In doing so, he trivialised not only the fear that forced people to flee but the very notion of justice. To him, displacement didn’t matter as long as it didn’t cross state borders.
This revisionism has prompted outrage. BJP leaders have labelled the violence as a state-sponsored pogrom and condemned Mamata’s government for being selective in its outrage. Amit Malviya, head of the BJP’s IT cell, warned that today’s denial of exodus could become tomorrow’s denial of extermination. It may be hyperbolic, but the fear is not unwarranted. When governments begin to rationalise mob violence and minimise victimhood, the seeds of future catastrophes are sown.
It is also impossible to ignore the electoral calculations behind these responses. Muslims have been a crucial vote bank for the Trinamool Congress. In the 2011 Census, they made up 27% of Bengal’s population. More recent estimates by political actors place that number closer to 33–40%. In close elections, that demographic weight can tip the scales decisively. This political reality seems to have dictated the TMC’s response more than any constitutional principle.
What adds an extra layer of sorrow to this tragedy is the timing. April 15 is Noboborsho, the Bengali New Year — a time of renewal, joy, and celebration. But for hundreds of families, it’s a day of mourning and displacement. Their new year begins not with feasts and festivity, but with death, fear, and shattered homes. For them, West Bengal doesn’t feel like home anymore. It feels like a battlefield — one where they are unwelcome, unprotected, and unheard.
When state leaders respond to riots by consoling aggressors and downplaying the suffering of victims, they corrode the very foundation of secular governance. Their silence — or their selective empathy — emboldens violence and alienates entire communities. It creates a chilling precedent where violence becomes a legitimate means of political negotiation.
West Bengal stands at a dangerous crossroads. To walk this path without course correction is to invite more violence, deeper divides, and long-term communal alienation. What Bengal needs now is not just peace — but justice. Not just silence — but truth. And not just political calculation — but moral courage.
Until then, the silence from Nabanna will continue to echo louder than any speech. And its price will be paid in blood.
