Thank you dear subscribers, we are overwhelmed with your response.
Your Turn is a unique section from ThePrint featuring points of view from its subscribers. If you are a subscriber, have a point of view, please send it to us. If not, do subscribe here: https://theprint.in/subscribe/
The recent reported incident of acid attack on a Delhi University student near Laxmi Bai College is not just a crime of individual brutality, it is a grim reminder of the fragility of safety and the erosion of collective conscience in our society, opening a Pandora box that reveals symptoms of layered negligence: institutional apathy towards student safety, ineffective enforcement of laws meant to deter such violence, and a social indifference that normalizes everyday misogyny until it culminates in horror. This demands more than sympathy or outrage, it calls for a reckoning with how our campuses, our legal systems, and our moral reflexes have all failed together.
For many students, the university campus represents freedom. Yet, in Delhi and across India, that freedom fades right outside the college gate. Beyond this boundary, institutional responsibility ends, and civic neglect begins. The recent incident exposes how fragile this illusion of safety truly is. The threat lurks not in distant shadows but along familiar streets: dimly lit alleys, unpatrolled roads, and cameras serving only as showpieces. Institutions proclaim safety as a priority, yet their measures remain superficial: complaint cells lack follow-up, committees meet only post-tragedy, and safety audits are rare. The fear surrounding campuses is no coincidence but an outcome of systemic apathy and administrative indifference.
In India, justice stays on paper. India’s response to acid attacks is among the strictest in the world. The Criminal Law (Amendment) Act of 2013 inserted Section 326A into the IPC (renumbered as Section 124 of the BNS) prescribing a minimum of 10 years’ rigorous imprisonment, extendable to life, along with compensation to cover the victim’s medical expenses. The Supreme Court’s landmark judgment in Laxmi v. Union of India (2013) further mandated strict regulation of acid sale, requiring retailers to maintain buyer identification, record the purpose of purchase, and report any suspicious transactions. Yet, the persistence of such attacks exposes the hollow space between legislation and enforcement. Acid continues to be sold freely in local hardware stores for a few hundred rupees; record-keeping is once in a moon, and local authorities seldom inspect compliance. Even when offenders are caught, cases move painfully slowly through trial courts, allowing the deterrent value of punishment to evaporate. Justice, delayed and diluted, often fails both to reform the guilty and to restore faith among the fearful. In effect, the law may have the sharpness of acid on paper, but it loses all sting when poured into the hands of an indifferent system. The law exists more as a moral gesture than a protective shield. Reminding us that impunity, not ignorance, fuels crimes like these.
The acid may have been hurled by one hand, but it was sanctioned by countless silences. Such violence is not born in isolation; it grows in a society that romanticizes power and forgives entitlement. Behind most attacks stands an insecure masculinity unable to accept rejection, enabled by a culture that masks harassment as courtship and stalking as persistence and stays silent in the face of “minor” misconduct. Bystander apathy completes the cycle. This selective morality: reactive, performative, and temporary has turned tragedy into routine. People witness discomfort, ignore warning signs, and wait for disaster before speaking. Outrage arrives only after the wound, loud yet fleeting. The real question is not how such men find acid, but how they find the confidence that no one will stop them.
Each tragedy becomes a headline, soon replaced by another, while institutions and authorities retreat behind statements and symbolism. Outrage through marches, hashtags, and campus protests, though necessary, has become ritualized; it substitutes for reform rather than demanding it. What gets lost amid slogans and solidarity posts is the uncomfortable truth that the problem is not episodic but systemic. Marches do not compensate for broken surveillance systems, nor do panel discussions ensure police accountability. The loudest voices often belong to those who were silent when vigilance was most needed. Yet, beyond policy lies the deeper challenge, reclaiming our collective conscience. It demands an ecosystem of vigilance sustained by empathy and institutional responsibility. Safety cannot depend only on guards or gates but on a vigilant culture rooted in empathy, laws and mechanisms are powerless without a community that refuses silence. Universities must treat safety not as a reaction to tragedy but as an essential part of governance. While the regulation of acid sale must finally be enforced. The moral shift must begin with individuals who intervene, report, and refuse complicity in everyday misogyny. Until society learns to act before it mourns, and until silence itself feels like guilt, no reform will truly make our campuses safe.
These pieces are being published as they have been received – they have not been edited/fact-checked by ThePrint.