The unprecedented protests witnessed across India following the brutal killing of a Hindu man, Dipu Chandra Das, in Bangladesh mark a turning point that can no longer be dismissed as episodic outrage. From New Delhi—outside the Bangladesh High Commission—to Jammu and Kashmir, Kolkata, and Hyderabad, thousands of ordinary Hindus came together with a single, unmistakable demand: save minority Hindus in Islamic-majority nations.
This was not a politically choreographed spectacle. Nor was it driven by party flags or ideological slogans. What stood out was the rawness of the anger and the clarity of the grievance. Television reporters who spoke to protesters found a common refrain—this cannot go on any longer. The protests were less about revenge and more about warning: India’s civil society will no longer look away when Hindus are targeted across its borders simply for their faith or speech.
According to multiple accounts circulating in regional and international media, Das was allegedly lynched in Bangladesh over comments attributed to him regarding Prophet Mohammad. Reports claim that the violence did not end with his death—his body was allegedly hung from a tree and set on fire. Even allowing for ongoing investigations and the need for judicial confirmation, the sheer brutality described evokes images of medieval savagery, not conduct befitting a modern republic.
The essential question is unavoidable: Can any civilised society tolerate mob justice, religious vigilantism, and public executions masquerading as moral outrage? If the answer is no—and it must be—then silence, equivocation, or perfunctory expressions of concern are grossly inadequate.
After widespread outrage, UN Secretary-General António Guterres reportedly expressed concern and urged restraint from the Yunus-headed caretaker government in Bangladesh. While such statements are routine, they ring hollow against the scale and frequency of violence faced by religious minorities—not just Hindus, but also Buddhists and Christians—in Bangladesh over the past decades.
Is “expressing concern” the full extent of the UN’s moral authority today?
If the United Nations genuinely seeks relevance, it must go beyond scripted diplomacy. It must warn, monitor, and where necessary, intervene institutionally. In Bangladesh’s case, that could include deploying international election observers ahead of the scheduled February polls—not merely to ensure procedural fairness, but to signal that systematic targeting of minorities will have diplomatic and political consequences.
Equally troubling is the growing pattern of banning or marginalising democratic political forces. If reports of pressure on opposition parties—particularly the Awami League following the ouster of Sheikh Hasina—are accurate, the UN must ask: Can democracy survive when political pluralism is throttled under the pretext of stability?
The Bangladesh episode fits into a larger, deeply troubling pattern of institutional paralysis at the UN.
The organisation failed to hold China accountable for the global devastation caused by COVID-19—whether through negligence, opacity, or worse. Millions died, economies collapsed, and yet no binding accountability mechanism was enforced. The world was told to “move on.”
In South Asia, the UN has been a mute spectator to Pakistan’s steady descent into militarised authoritarianism. The recent empowerment of Pakistan’s Army—through legislation reportedly shielding it from judicial review—marks a fundamental subversion of civilian supremacy. General Asim Munir’s consolidation of power, while an elected government plays the role of a rubber stamp, should alarm any institution that claims to uphold democracy and rule of law.
If these are not failures of mandate, then what exactly constitutes failure for the United Nations?
For decades, Hindu society in India was fragmented—deliberately so. Successive governments, particularly under Congress rule, deepened divisions along caste, sub-caste, language, and region. The political logic was simple: a divided majority is easier to manage, guilt-trap, and neutralise.
Meanwhile, appeasement politics flourished. Minority Muslim concerns—legitimate or manufactured—dominated policy discourse, while other communities such as Christians, Buddhists, Parsis, and Sikhs were selectively acknowledged but rarely prioritised. Hindu concerns, especially those extending beyond India’s borders, were often ridiculed as “majoritarian paranoia.” That equation appears to be changing now.
The protests over Das’s killing suggest an emerging realisation: demographic majority does not guarantee security, dignity, or justice—either at home or abroad. Hindus are beginning to understand that silence has not earned goodwill; it has merely emboldened aggressors.
These protests were not a call for war, nor an appeal for diplomatic adventurism. They were a message—measured but firm—to India’s neighbours: mistreatment of Hindu minorities will no longer be treated as an internal matter beyond scrutiny.
They were also a message inward: that Hindu society must overcome artificial fault lines if it is to protect its civilisational interests.
Whether this moment becomes a sustained awakening or fades into yet another cycle of outrage will depend on consistency—of public pressure, media courage, diplomatic resolve, and political will.
But one thing is clear: the era of reflexive silence is ending. And for the first time in a long while, the world is being told—clearly and unapologetically—that Hindu lives matter, everywhere.
