— ✍️ Dr. Debjani Sahu

I started my career with one dream: to be the voice of the voiceless. Those words were not just a line from my journalism school; they became a part of who I am. They have remained etched in my heart through every phase of my professional journey.

It was 2006, a time when news channels were rapidly emerging across India. For many, it was an exciting time to enter journalism. But for me, a first-generation learner, the journey into the newsroom was anything but easy. There were barriers of opportunity, privilege, and access that many never have to think about. Yet I persisted. Eventually, I found my place in a publication house, where I began to understand the true responsibility that comes with being a journalist.

However, it was my journey with NCDHR that transformed my understanding of journalism. It was there that I truly rediscovered my purpose—not merely to report events, but to amplify voices that are ignored, unheard, or deliberately silenced. It brought me back to the dream that had inspired me in the first place.

Today, I finally attended the CJP protest, something I had been wanting to do for a long time. Standing there, I didn't feel like I had changed the world. Far from it. I simply felt that I had done a tiny part of my responsibility as a citizen. It may not even be a drop in the ocean, but every ocean is made of countless drops.

I was deeply moved by the movement started by Abhijeet Dipke, who left behind the comfort of his life in the United States to stand for a cause that seeks accountability and justice for students who have been failed by the system. He reminded me that commitment is measured not by convenience but by conviction. When people are willing to cross continents, leave behind comfortable lives, and endure hardship for a cause they believe in, it forces us to ask ourselves: what prevents the rest of us from simply showing up?

What stayed with me long after I left was the sight of Sonam Wangchuk. Watching one of India's most respected innovators and educators sitting on a prolonged fast was heartbreaking. Regardless of one's political views, it should concern all of us when someone of his stature feels that fasting is the only way left to draw attention to issues he believes are critical for the country's future.

Equally moving were the young students who had joined the hunger strike. In the scorching heat and suffocating humidity of Delhi, they sat with quiet determination, sacrificing their comfort and health for a cause they believed was larger than themselves. Their resolve was a reminder that democracy is not sustained only by leaders, but also by ordinary people willing to stand up for what they believe is right.

What troubled me equally was the silence surrounding Sonam Wangchuk. Bollywood celebrated 3 Idiots, a film inspired by his life and ideas. It earned accolades, awards, and enormous commercial success. Yet today, when the person who inspired millions through that story is raising concerns about issues he believes will shape the future of our youth and our country, that solidarity seems largely absent.

This isn't about expecting celebrities to solve our problems. Some artists, public figures, journalists, and influencers have spoken up, and they deserve appreciation. But many others, especially those with immense influence over young audiences, appear reluctant to engage with difficult conversations.

Perhaps they are afraid. Perhaps they don't want to be seen as political. Perhaps they believe it doesn't concern them. I don't know.

But the bigger question is not about Bollywood.

The bigger question is about us.

Have we become so fearful that we choose silence over conscience? Have we become so comfortable that we believe someone else will always speak, protest, question, and defend what matters?

Why do we expect social activists, students, independent journalists, and a handful of concerned citizens to carry the weight of social change while the rest of us watch from a distance?

Democracy is not sustained by governments alone. It survives because ordinary citizens care enough to participate, to ask questions, to disagree peacefully, and to stand in solidarity when it matters.

So today, I want to ask every ordinary citizen, not as an activist, but simply as a fellow Indian:

Why are we silent?

If not now, then when? If not us, then who?

-Dr. Debjani Sahu works with the National Campaign on Dalit Human Rights (NCDHR) as a Project Lead. Her interests include caste, media representation, gender, children and youth, politics, and governance.