On This Day, In That Year: Inside Jallianwala Bagh – OpEd |
On 13 April 1919, the day of Baisakhi, thousands gathered at Jallianwala Bagh in Amritsar. It was a day of harvest and quiet celebration, yet beneath the surface lay a growing unease. Just days earlier, two respected local leaders—Saifuddin Kitchlew and Satyapal—had been arrested without warning and taken away from the city. Their only offence was mobilising people peacefully against the Rowlatt Act, a law that permitted detention without trial. Their sudden removal had stirred anger and anxiety, and many who gathered that day came not in defiance, but in search of answers.
They were unarmed and unsuspecting. By evening, that enclosed ground—hemmed in by high walls and narrow exits—had turned into a site of unimaginable tragedy. Reginald Dyer entered the Bagh with armed troops and, without issuing any warning or asking the crowd to disperse, ordered them to open fire. The soldiers aimed directly at the densest sections of the gathering. Panic spread instantly, but there was nowhere to escape. The exits were too few and too narrow. People ran in desperation; some leapt into a well to escape the bullets, many were trampled, and countless fell where they stood. The firing continued for nearly ten minutes. Later, Dyer would claim that he intended to produce a “moral effect,” to teach a lesson and instil fear. It was not an act of confusion—it was deliberate and cold.
What unfolded at Jallianwala Bagh was not merely a massacre; it was an assertion of power stripped of humanity. Yet what followed revealed an equally troubling reality. The inquiry conducted by the Hunter Commission acknowledged that Dyer had exceeded his authority, but the consequences were mild. He was relieved of his command and allowed to retire. There was no punishment commensurate with the scale of the crime, no trial that reflected the enormity of what had occurred. Sections of British society went further and praised him, raising funds in his honour and portraying him as a defender of the Empire. A nation that prided itself on civilisation and justice failed to uphold either. It would take more than a century for even an expression of regret to emerge, long after those who suffered had passed into history. Dyer himself remained unrepentant until the end.
The moral response, however, came from individuals who chose conscience over honour. Mahatma Gandhi returned the Kaiser-i-Hind medal awarded to him by the British, refusing recognition from a regime that had shown such disregard for human life. Rabindranath Tagore renounced his knighthood, declaring that honours held no meaning in the face of his countrymen’s suffering. These were not acts of anger, but of moral clarity—quiet yet powerful gestures that signalled to the world that dignity cannot coexist with injustice.
For Gandhi, Jallianwala Bagh marked a decisive turning point. The belief that the Empire could be persuaded through reason was shattered. His response was not violence, but a deeper commitment to non-cooperation, urging Indians to withdraw from the institutions that sustained colonial rule. In doing so, he transformed the freedom struggle into a mass movement grounded in conscience and collective resolve.
Yet if Jallianwala Bagh awakened a nation, it did not transform the world as much as one might have hoped. Barely two decades later, humanity witnessed The Holocaust—a tragedy of staggering scale in which millions were systematically killed. The world promised itself that such horrors would never be repeated. But history has not kept that promise.
In more recent times, different regions have witnessed suffering that echoes the same pattern. The Syrian Civil War has reduced cities to ruins and displaced millions. In the Gaza Strip, cycles of violence have brought immense hardship to ordinary lives, especially children. In Iran, tensions and strikes have drawn civilians into the consequences of larger geopolitical struggles. In Lebanon, recurring instability continues to disrupt lives and livelihoods. The contexts differ, the histories are complex, and the arguments are many, but the human cost remains painfully similar.
The pattern is disturbingly familiar. Power is exercised, violence follows, explanations are offered, and accountability fades. Those responsible are often known and their actions visible, yet they continue—shielded by position or circumstance. Dyers come and go. They are noticed, debated, and then gradually forgotten. The world reacts, but only briefly. There are statements, expressions of concern, and moments of silence, followed by a return to normalcy for those watching. For those who suffer, there is no such return.
Jallianwala Bagh endures not merely as a memory of the past, but as a mirror to the present. It reminds us how easily authority can lose its moral compass, and how systems meant to uphold justice can fail when they stand too close to power. It raises an uncomfortable question about the societies we claim to be. If a nation that considered itself civilised could overlook such an act—and take more than a century even to express regret—what does that reveal about the distance between our ideals and our actions?
To remember Jallianwala Bagh is to remain alert to its lessons. It is to insist that justice must be real and timely, that accountability must reach those who wield power, and that silence in the face of injustice is never neutral. It is also to recognise that cruelty does not disappear; it returns in different forms and in different places whenever it is allowed to pass without consequence.
More than a century has passed, yet the questions remain. Can we truly call ourselves a civilised world if those with blood on their hands continue to walk free? Can we claim progress if suffering repeats itself across generations, merely changing its location and language? The memory of Jallianwala Bagh does not accuse—it reminds. And in that reminder lies its enduring power.