How to Temper Iron Souls

Ardhendu Banerjee

In the aftermath of a crime that has ripped the fabric of the society apart, a nation teeters on the edge of its own conscience. The barbaric rape and murder of a young lady doctor at Kolkata’s R G Kar Medical College and Hospital has become the spark that ignites an inferno of collective indignation. From the hidden alleys to the open streets, voices rise, not merely for justice but for the reckoning that has long been overdue. This atrocity is not an anomaly but a glaring symptom of a deeper malaise—every hour, 51 women in India are brutalised, a statistic that should sear citizens’ collective soul.

The police, as the state’s appointed guardians of law and order, have long held a complex and contested role in society. In the wake of the tragic RG Kar incident, however, their position is under unprecedented scrutiny. From the outset, questions have swirled around their handling of the case, culminating in widespread calls for the resignation of Kolkata Police Commissioner Vineet Goyal. But it is not merely the failure to protect a woman at her workplace that has sparked outrage—it is the heavy-handed suppression of public grief and anger. The cancellation of a football derby and the sight of supporters from rival clubs marching together in protest have shaken the nation’s conscience. A young woman’s poignant plea— “We are unarmed; do not strike us down. I am neither Trinamool, BJP, nor CPM—see; I come before you in white, as nothing more than a human being.”—has laid bare the raw vulnerability of the people. This echoes the words of SUCI Labour Minister Subodh Banerjee in 1967, who insisted that the police must never serve the interests of the powerful at the expense of the people. Yet, half a century later, the question remains: for whom do the police raise its baton? The answer, it seems, still lies with the rulers, not the masses.

The police present a duality—an instrument of the state and a collection of individuals, each shaped by the system they serve. This duality traces its roots back to the colonial era, when the East India Company introduced the ‘Daroga System.’ These police forces were not created to protect the people but to safeguard the interests of the colonial masters, ensuring their dominance and quelling any hint of rebellion. This historical legacy persists, casting a long shadow over modern policing in India. Today, the police remain a tool of power, wielded by the state to control and intimidate rather than protect. In Uttar Pradesh, the state government brazenly celebrates encounters as achievements, with the Chief Minister publicly boasting about the number of lives taken under his regime. Perhaps that’s why eighteen years have passed since the Supreme Court ordered police reforms, yet no state has fully implemented them. In 1996, former IPS officer Prakash Singh sought to liberate the police from political sway through a landmark Supreme Court petition. The court’s seven-point guidelines promised a reformed police force, yet a 2021 survey by the Commonwealth Human Rights Initiative reveals a grim reality: only a handful of states have embraced these reforms. Most states persist in handpicking police chiefs, controlling transfers, and undermining the independence of oversight bodies. This enduring entanglement of politics and policing starkly contrasts with the court’s vision, highlighting a persistent struggle for genuine reform. The quest for an apolitical, effective police force remains elusive. Thus, the police, it seems, prove again and again that they are a weapon of the state, used not for justice but for the perpetuation of power.

While the police are often viewed through the lens of institutional failures, it is crucial to recognise the profound human cost borne by individual officers. These men and women navigate the grim underbelly of society—handling domestic violence, substance abuse, and the aftermath of tragic accidents. Their lives are a relentless oscillation between high-stakes action and profound emotional desolation. In a world where cynicism becomes armour and dark humour a shield against unspeakable pain, they suffer silently. Their toll is stark: diminished life expectancy, chronic health issues, and suicide rates that far exceed those of other workers. The scars of their service—both seen and unseen—reflect a deep-seated trauma, especially acute for those involved in shootings, many of whom leave the force disillusioned within a few years. In this way, the average cop becomes a paradox of extremes—brave yet brutal, a seeker of truth yet a master of deceit. Driven by ideals yet tainted by greed, they embody a profound contradiction. As David J Dodd observed in 1967, they see themselves vilified by the very society they strive to protect, denigrated by the public, mocked by the media, despised by the impoverished, and hindered by the legal system. And in this searing contradiction lies the enigma of law enforcement’s troubled soul. The facade of authority belies a fragile human reality, demanding society’s empathy and a re-evaluation of the systems that shape their experiences. However, when the power of the state is mired in corruption and gangsterism, can one truly expect these police to safeguard women?

The protests sweeping West Bengal are a cry for justice, but the answer to women’s protection lies deeper—in the radical reform of police force and the liberation of the state from its colonial mindset. True democracy must first take root, and the police must be granted the peace and security they need to protect others. Until then, the safety of women, and indeed of all citizens, remains an elusive dream, overshadowed by a system in desperate need of transformation.

In a world where state rulers prefer to awaken the primal instincts within the police, shaping them into instruments of power rather than protectors, is there a solution? The solution, though distant, is not unfathomable. A 1995 article in the Bulletin Law Enforcement painted a vision of ethical transformation through a three-tiered approach to police training. From the moment of recruitment, through the unfolding of their careers, to the ethical guidance of their leaders, this model offers a pathway to redemption. But it is the often-forgotten middle tier that holds the key: the regular nurturing of empathy, the sowing of seeds that could blossom into understanding and humanity.

 The rulers who seek to awaken the beast within, fear the humanising of the police, for it threatens their throne of power. And so, genuine change remains a dream deferred, a vision of what could be, stifled by the very hands that should set it free.

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Frontier
Vol 57, No. 21, Nov 17 - 23, 2024