Jasmine Fatima
The following is not a scene from a horror movie. There is no dark room, no deserted street, no masked stranger lurking in the shadows. It is a classroom. In a university. In broad daylight. And if the reported account is true, what happened there is perhaps more terrifying precisely because the person who allegedly crossed every boundary was not an unknown predator—but a professor, a Head of Department, a man entrusted with the education, evaluation and academic future of the very students who sat before him.
Picture the scene
A classroom in a science department. Young men and women sit quietly, each carrying a different story of struggle behind their academic journey. Some have come from modest homes. Some have watched their parents sacrifice everything so that their children could study. Some have travelled miles, fought financial hardship and spent years preparing for the privilege of sitting in that classroom. They came there believing that a university would be a place that would change their lives, where knowledge would liberate them, and where the person standing at the head of the classroom would be worthy of their respect.
Then, reportedly, the professor calls out a female student’s name.
“Stand up.”
She stands.
He looks at her, and, in the presence of the entire class, the professor reportedly draws attention to her father’s humble occupation, making a degrading remark about his profession, and then turns his attention to the young woman’s appearance.
Imagine a young woman standing before an entire classroom, suddenly reduced—not to a student, not to a scholar, not to a human being with dreams and dignity—but to an object of someone else’s vulgar amusement.
For a few seconds, she reportedly stands frozen. She says nothing. Words fail her. And then, almost imperceptibly, tears begin to gather in her eyes. She does not scream. She does not protest. She simply stands there, trying to hold herself together while silent tears run down her face.
The room falls silent. Her tears speak, because she cannot.
Before the shock has even settled, the professor reportedly turns to the class and offers himself, astonishingly, as someone who can advise students about alcohol consumption.
Then comes the statement that should make the conscience of every decent society tremble.
Addressing the female students, the man reportedly tells them, in substance, that they should understand who he is; that he has the power to destroy their careers and their lives; that the marks of their theses are in his hands.
And then, reportedly, comes the most grotesque declaration of all: these young women are not his daughters or sisters; they can, in his words, be his girlfriends or wives.
Stop for a moment.
Read that again.
This was reportedly not whispered in a dark corridor. Not muttered behind a closed door. Not said secretly to one frightened individual.
It was allegedly said in a classroom, in front of students, by a person occupying a position of authority.
That is perhaps the most frightening part of the entire story. Because when a predator begins to speak without fear in daylight, in a room full of witnesses, the question is no longer merely about the predator.
The question becomes: what has happened to the ecosystem around him that taught him he had nothing to fear?
If the subsequent reports are accurate, students protested. A complaint was lodged. The matter attracted public and media attention. And then came the familiar institutional choreography: explanations, statements, committees, appeals for calm, and—most disturbingly—attempts to persuade or pacify the victim.
And then, reportedly, the complaint was withdrawn. The frightened person disappeared into silence.
Those who had dared to speak were reportedly asked to explain themselves.
And the alleged perpetrator? Conveniently absent.
Perhaps this is how institutional machinery protects itself: not by proving that nothing happened, but by making the person who complained wish that she had never spoken.
But who gave him the courage?
This is where the real questions begin. What gave this so called custodian of knowledge, the courage to speak in such a manner before an entire classroom?
Was it arrogance? Was it intoxication with authority? Or was it something far more disturbing—the knowledge that consequences, if any, would be manageable?
Who taught him that a student’s vulnerability could become a weapon in his hands?
Who made him believe that the marks of a thesis could become a bargaining chip against the dignity of a young woman?
Who are the people behind such men—the mentors, patrons, networks, friendships and invisible hands that allegedly enable individuals in positions of authority to behave as though the institution itself belongs to them?
And what happened to similar complaints in the past? How many students came forward before this? How many quietly withdrew? How many were advised to “adjust”? How many were told to forgive? How many were told not to destroy their careers over “one incident”?
How many young women were made to believe that silence was the price of completing a degree? And what became of those complaints?
Did the celebrated committees actually deliver justice—or did they merely produce paperwork?
If individuals previously accused of serious misconduct continue to occupy influential positions, what exactly are these committees protecting? The victim? Or the institution’s reputation?
And if the same kinds of complaints keep appearing over the years, can an administration honestly claim that it knew nothing? Was nobody aware of the conduct of such individuals before the latest incident? Were whispers never heard? Were complaints never received? Were students never seen leaving offices with tears in their eyes? Were colleagues never uncomfortable?
Or did everyone know something, but nobody wanted to know enough to act?
There is a profound difference between not knowing and choosing not to know. The first may be ignorance. The second is a moral decision.
And what of those who watched?
There is another uncomfortable question. What is the responsibility of the people who witness such behavior and remain silent? The classmates who hear it. The colleagues who know. The employees who see. The administrators who receive complaints. The senior officers who hear whispers.
The people who say, “It is not my matter.” The people who lower their eyes because they have a promotion to secure, a contract to renew, a favor to obtain, or simply a comfortable life to protect.
Yes, fear is real. Consequences are real. But so is complicity.
History rarely remembers the excuses of those who stood silently beside injustice.
A university is not corrupted only by the person who commits the wrong. It is also weakened by the silence of those who knew, watched and calculated that speaking would cost them more than remaining silent.
Who will clean the filth?
Someone has to. But who? The administration? The committees? The courts? The media? The Society?
Or will everyone wait for someone else to take the first step? We speak endlessly about protecting our daughters and sisters.
But what does that protection mean if, when a young woman finally gathers the courage to speak, we ask her to forgive the person who allegedly threatened her future? Her dignity?
What kind of compassion asks the wounded to embrace the hand that wounded them?
Forgiveness may be a virtue when freely chosen by the injured. It must never become an administrative instrument for silencing the injured.
A society that pressures a victim to forgive before establishing accountability is not teaching compassion. It is emboldening the predators, handing them a license to repeat their behavior, secure in the knowledge that the burden of silence will once again fall upon the victim.
And this is only the incident that came to light
Perhaps this is the most frightening thought of all. This is one incident that reportedly surfaced because someone found the courage to speak—even if that courage was later overwhelmed by fear.
But what about the others? What about the students, scholars, who never complained?
What about the research scholars who depend almost completely upon supervisors for their thesis, evaluation, recommendations, extensions, publications and academic futures?
What about the young scholar who knows that one disagreement with a powerful supervisor can delay a thesis for months or years?
What about the student who knows that refusing an inappropriate demand may mean academic isolation?
What about the woman who calculates the cost of speaking and discovers that silence appears cheaper?
We should not confuse the absence of complaints with the absence of wrongdoing.
Sometimes there are no complaints because fear has already done the work of censorship.
Victim-shaming, whispered questions about a woman’s clothes, behavior and the endless demand that she prove her innocence—these are among the oldest weapons used to silence the vulnerable.
And then society congratulates itself for being civilized.
But institutional injustice does not end with sexual harassment
There is another class of people whose suffering rarely receives headlines: the temporary, contractual and outsourced employees who keep institutions functioning while remaining permanently insecure.
Some of them have served for years.
They open offices before others arrive. They close them after everyone leaves. They carry files, maintain laboratories, operate systems, process records, assist students, support faculty and perform responsibilities that institutions cannot function without.
And what do they receive in return? A salary that barely keeps pace with life. A contract that must be renewed. A future that remains uncertain.
And, often, the perpetual reminder that they are “temporary”.
An institution may spend lakhs beautifying an office, purchasing furniture, renovating spaces and creating impressive surroundings—and yet discover, with remarkable precision, the relevant rule book when a modest salary revision is requested for a person who has served it for years.
How extraordinary is our mathematics of compassion. There is always money for the visible. There is always procedure for the powerful.
But when the person who has quietly served the institution for a decade asks for a little dignity in the form of a modest improvement in wages, suddenly the rule book becomes sacred scripture.
Some such employees have reportedly found themselves confronted with an age ceiling that could prevent them from even competing for regular positions, despite having spent years acquiring precisely the institutional experience that such positions require.
Think about the cruelty of that irony. A person is considered experienced enough to serve an institution for ten years—but perhaps too old to compete for a position in that very institution.
What kind of system creates experience and then disqualifies the person who acquired it?
What kind of institutional philosophy uses people for years while refusing to acknowledge their years of service?
And sometimes, even a holiday reveals the heart of an institution
Perhaps nothing exposes institutional insensitivity more painfully than something as ordinary as a holiday.
If one community’s important festival is treated with extraordinary generosity while another community’s equally important festival receives only a single day, the question is not merely about the calendar.
The deeper question is: Whose feelings are considered worthy of consideration?
Who decides whose celebrations deserve institutional recognition?
Is equality merely a word to be printed in official documents, or does it mean that every employee and student should feel that their dignity, culture and legitimate sentiments matter?
These may appear to be separate issues—harassment, contractual exploitation, unequal treatment, institutional privilege.
They are not. They are symptoms of the same disease. The disease is the abuse of power.
The disease begins when one human being starts believing that another human being exists beneath him. It flourishes when institutions protect positions rather than people.
And it becomes incurable when decent people decide that silence is safer than conscience.
The questions we must not escape
So let us ask ourselves, without fear and without pretending:
Who protects the powerful when they cross the line? Who protects the student when the accused controls her academic future?
Who protects the contractual employee when the person signing the next contract is the same person before whom she must complain? Who watches the watchdog?
What happens to complaints after the media leaves?
How many committees have delivered justice, and how many have merely delivered reports?
How many victims have quietly disappeared from institutions because staying was unbearable?
How many careers were damaged—not because someone lacked merit, but because someone dared to speak?
How many employees have spent the best years of their working lives in temporary employment?
How many people are told to be grateful for exploitation because at least they have a job?
How long can an institution preach values to students while violating those values in its own corridors? And perhaps the most painful question of all:
When did our fear of losing our own comfort become greater than our fear of losing our collective conscience?
We owe our daughters more than advice to “be careful”
To the women who read this: no degree and no career is worth the destruction of your dignity.
No position is worth surrendering your self-respect. No academic achievement should require you to tolerate humiliation. And no institution should make you choose between your future and your dignity.
Speak when you can. Seek support. Stand together.
And when one woman speaks, let other women—stand beside her.
To parents: believe your daughters. Listen to them before advising them to remain silent. A career can be rebuilt. A degree can be pursued again. A job can be found elsewhere.
But the psychological wound created when a person is repeatedly told that her dignity is less important than an institution’s reputation, can remain for years.
Do not teach your daughters that endurance is strength.
Teach them that their voice has value.
And to the rest of us
We do not need more speeches about morality. We need courage.
Not the courage that appears on social media for a day. Not the courage that arrives when the cameras are switched on. Not the courage that is available only when speaking carries no personal cost.
We need the difficult kind—the courage that stands beside the powerless when nobody is watching.
The courage to say “No” to a powerful person. The courage to ask why a complaint disappeared.
The courage to question an institution we depend upon. The courage to defend a contractual worker whose salary is insignificant to us but whose entire household depends upon it.
The courage to refuse to laugh when someone is humiliated. The courage to stop calling cowardice “adjustment”.
And the courage to understand that silence is not always neutrality. Sometimes silence is permission. And sometimes silence is the final brick in the wall that imprisons the victim.
We have spent generations teaching people to fear authority. Perhaps it is time to teach authority to fear accountability.
Let the universities become places where knowledge creates humility, not arrogance; where authority creates responsibility, not entitlement; where committees deliver justice, not cosmetic reassurance; where a student’s vulnerability is protected, not exploited; and where an employee’s years of service are valued rather than conveniently forgotten.
The filth will not disappear merely because we refuse to name it. The darkness will not leave because we close the curtains. Someone has to open the window. Someone has to let the light in.
Perhaps that someone is you. Perhaps it is me.
Perhaps it is every student who refuses to remain silent, every teacher who refuses to protect misconduct, every employee who refuses to accept humiliation as destiny, every parent who stands firmly beside a daughter, and every administrator who remembers that an institution exists for human beings—not the other way around.
So I leave the reader with questions rather than conclusions.
How many more must suffer before we stop calling silence peace?
How many complaints must disappear before we ask where they went?
How many careers must be threatened before we question the hands holding the power?
How many young people must lose faith in institutions before institutions examine themselves?
And how many times will we choose our personal safety, comfort and petty interests over the dignity of another human being?
I do not claim to have all the answers. I would genuinely like to hear yours.
Write. Question. Disagree. Challenge. Tell me where I am wrong.
But let us, at least once, refuse to be cowards. Let us rise above the small calculations of personal benefit.
Let us remember that one day every chair of power becomes an empty chair, every designation becomes a line in an old file, every signature becomes meaningless ink, and every privilege eventually disappears.
Let us choose, while we still can, to be remembered as human beings.
And perhaps the greatest question before us is whether we still possess the courage to stand beside our women when they are threatened, humiliated or silenced by those in positions of power—or whether we will remain silent and leave them to face that battle alone.
(The author is Editor-in-Chief, Wadi Ki Awaaz and can be reached at [email protected])
