September 19, 2026… Today marks eighteen years since the Batla House ‘encounter.’ Eighteen years is a long time, long enough for children to grow into adults and the young to grow old, for parents to pass away, for sisters to get married, and for a new generation to grow up at the doorsteps of these homes. Yet, in some homes in Azamgarh, September 19, 2008, has never truly ended. The calendars kept changing, but the story remained frozen in time. Legal battles dragged on, lawyers changed, and court dates came and went. Some young men were acquitted, only to be imprisoned again; some were convicted; some died behind bars; and the families of others are still moving between courts and prisons, searching for answers to their questions. And now, eighteen years later, that same fear stands at the doorsteps of two more homes in Azamgarh, wearing a new name.
It was in Azamgarh that the Uttar Pradesh Anti-Terrorism Squad (ATS) arrested Mohammad Sheikh from Khudadadpur on May 31, 2026. Roughly three and a half months later, on September 12, 19-year-old Mohammad Nabeel was arrested from Chitara Mahmudpur in Didarganj. These two arrests have once again evoked a sense of fear in Azamgarh, bringing back memories that remain vivid for many local families even today, dating back to 2008. The wave of arrests of young men following the Batla House ‘encounter’ had cast a shadow of suspicion over the entire region; these new arrests have reopened old wounds.
According to Rajiv Yadav, a social activist who has worked on human rights issues in Azamgarh for years, whenever a young person is arrested in the area, particularly since 2008, the shadow of past incidents resurfaces alongside the arrest. He notes that the police, investigative agencies, and the media often link new arrests to those from the past, thereby perpetuating a lingering cloud of suspicion over certain areas and families.
Rajiv Yadav is the General Secretary of Rihai Manch, a socio-political organization in Uttar Pradesh, though these days he is also known as a farmers’ leader.
It should be noted that the ATS alleges Mohammad Sheikh was in contact with, and working for, a network linked to Shahzad Bhatti, an alleged gangster based in Pakistan. Meanwhile, Nabeel faces accusations of propagating AQIS ideology, recruiting youths through WhatsApp groups, and disseminating extremist content. These are serious allegations. Yet, for a journalist, the most significant point is: these are allegations, not court verdicts. And perhaps this is the very distinction that many families in Azamgarh have been grappling with in their own lives over the past eighteen years. The gap between an accusation and a proven crime, a mere few words in law books, can span years in the life of a family. Perhaps the most heart-wrenching aspect of this entire saga concerns those who are not in prison, but in a state of waiting. For some families, the wait grew so long that parents passed away without ever seeing the verdict in their sons’ cases. In some homes, a father was lost; in others, a grandfather; elsewhere, the grief of losing a brother was endured. As the trials dragged on and hearing dates came and went, the family unit gradually diminished. This is the human dimension of terrorism cases, a side of the story that never finds its way into an FIR.
Even eighteen years after the Batla House encounter, most of the arrested youths, with the exception of one or two, remain in prison. Cases against several of them are proceeding in various cities. It is the same long, grueling journey of endless court dates, lawyers’ fees, frantic efforts by families, and the constant oscillation between hope and despair. And accompanying this journey is something else: fear.
When I wrote about this subject last year, I sensed a palpable fear among those in Azamgarh connected to the case; this year, the atmosphere remains much the same. To be honest, for a moment, it felt as though there was no need to write anything new. If I were to simply retrieve last year’s report, change the date, and republish it, it would still read like the story of today.
This is because, once again, I tried to speak with various activists and affected families linked to the case, yet, apart from Rajiv Yadav, no one was willing to speak on the record. This silence is not merely silence; it is born of years of experience and the loss of faith that any system exists in the country to address their plight. Perhaps this is why, even after eighteen years, the story of Azamgarh continues to unfold not only in the courts but also within the silence of the people.
Rajiv Yadav says, “People’s faith in democracy, and in the system itself, has waned. They feel that both the judiciary and the powers that be are against them. They clearly feel that if they received no justice during the tenures of so-called secular governments like the Congress and the Samajwadi Party, what hope is there for justice from the current government, which rose to power on a platform of hostility towards Muslims? Nor should we forget that draconian laws like the UAPA and NSA were enacted during the Congress regime…”
Rajiv adds, “People are afraid when we stage sit-ins or protests. They say, ‘If we go there and protest, a case might be slapped against us. If any unrest breaks out, we will be the ones facing charges, and bulldozers will be sent to demolish our homes.’ But we cannot accept this fear. Today, oppression is not directed solely at Muslims; it is being inflicted upon every person in the country who stands for truth and justice. Muslims, too, must stand up for their rights; they must speak out.”
I said with a little laugh, “They certainly want to speak out, but their name isn’t Rajiv Yadav.”
In response, Rajiv Yadav recited a couplet by Rahat Indori: “na ham-safar na kisī ham-nashīñ se niklegā, hamāre paañv kā kāñTā hamīñ se niklegā”(Neither a fellow traveler nor a companion will extract it; the thorn in my foot will be removed by me alone). He then added that everyone must fight their own battle.
Perhaps this eighteen-year-old story from Azamgarh ultimately boils down to a single question, if fear becomes the norm in a segment of society, whose responsibility is it to break that cycle? The state’s? The judiciary’s? Political parties’? Society’s? Or that of citizens who still believe that justice is not merely a legal term, but a fundamental necessity for a living society? And when silence becomes the only form of protection, the question is no longer just about who will be arrested next; it is also about who will raise their voice against it.
Even eighteen years after the Batla House ‘encounter,’ the debate will continue. Some will reiterate the police’s version of events; others will recall the questions raised about the incident; and some will cite court verdicts. Yet, behind all these legal and political debates, there will be homes where there is no politics, only waiting. A mother waiting to hear her son’s voice; a brother awaiting the next court date; and an elderly father, perhaps gazing at the doorway, wondering once again: “Eighteen years have passed. How many more?”
