Covering a riot, moving between empathy and objectivity

Bengal — undivided or current — is not alien to communal violence. I had read about communal strife in history books, and in the news while growing up. But the first time that I saw it with my own eyes was this year.

In April, a mob had torched houses and shops in the Samsherganj police station area in West Bengal’s Murshidabad after a protest against the Waqf (Amendment) Act, 2025 turned violent. A father and his son lost their lives just outside their home, and a 21-year-old man died of injuries sustained in police firing.

I spent close to a week in the area and reporting on this developing story meant taking stock of grief, loss and anger. But there was also the larger picture — the law and order situation, fiscal aftershocks, and the regional history and politics.

On the first day, I found myself in the middle of re-emergent violence. One community had pelted stones at the houses of the other. I was determined to stay put, but found a group of villagers confronting our vehicle and threatening us if I did not leave. We eventually did. However, the most heart-wrenching part of my stay was to meet grief-stricken families and ask them to recount the details of one of the darkest days of their lives.

Of the two families in mourning, only one allowed me to visit them. Just before I stepped into the first house, I was ready with pointed questions for the bereaved women of the house to ensure that my reportage had no gaps. But all this changed when I got in. My questions about the merciless killing of their closest kin disappeared in the tense and grief-stricken air. The family looked tired — dealing with the mourning and talking to countless reporters who had the same cruel task. I was cognisant of how important it was for reporters to dig into the story. But at that moment I struggled to verbalise what I wanted without troubling them further. After a few moments of silence, I asked how they were coping. In the course of the conversation and grieving, the horrifying memories revisited them. At the house of the 21-year-old man, I was asked to leave. The family made it very clear that they were in no mood to entertain questions, which they had almost been ambushed into doing over the last few days. But they were still kind enough to offer me and our photographer a glass of water, with a plate of biscuits. The only condition was a promise not to ask questions. We respected this.

At Betbona village, I saw charred currency notes — someone’s precious life savings. Houses built with dreams, labour, and the practised frugality of several generations were now ash. I saw families weep after their cattle were stolen or killed in the violence. To villagers, especially those who have livestock, cattle are like their children. I met villagers who lost everything but made sure to take their beloved goats with them when they fled.

The scores of survivors recounted their horror and counted their losses, adding that they would never be able to recover. They thought of reporters as problem-solvers, believing that if we could somehow detail their predicament well, they would get relief. A mother in Betbona urged me to ensure that her teenage daughter could continue her education elsewhere.

I found myself battling with a tough question: where does one draw the line in being humane and empathetic, and maintaining the stoic objectivity that is required of a reporter on duty? Which of these should take precedence in interactions with survivors? I have come to believe that there is no singular answer.

West Bengal has seen some of the worst examples of communal strife,but also, exemplary instances of communal harmony. In Tinpakuria gram panchayat, teachers from two communities continued to teach despite the tensions. Friendship and duty triumphed. The school principal, a Muslim, recounted to me how a former principal, a Hindu, passed away from an illness days after the violence had unfolded. Teachers from both communities helped his family with the last rites, he recalled.

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