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How white women use strategic tears to avoid accountability | Ruby Hamad

The legitimate grievances of brown and black women are no match for the accusations of a white damsel in distress

That the voices of women of colour are getting louder and more influential is a testament less to the accommodations made by the dominant white culture and more to their own grit in a society that implicitly and sometimes explicitly wants them to fail.

At the Sydney writers festival on Sunday, editor of Djed Press, Hella Ibrahim, relayed the final minutes of a panel on diversity featuring writers from the western Sydney Sweatshop collective. One of the panellists, Winnie Dunn, in answering a question about the harm caused by good intentions, had used the words white people and shit in the same sentence. This raised the ire of a self-identified white woman in the audience who interrogated the panellists as to what they think they have to gain by insulting people who want to read their stories.

In other words, the woman saw a personal attack where there wasnt one and decided to remind the panellists that as a member of the white majority she ultimately has their fate in her hands.

I walked out of that panel frustrated, Ibrahim wrote. Because yet again, a good convo was derailed, white people centred themselves, and a POC panel was told to police its [sic] tone to make their message palatable to a white audience.

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Trauma assails brown and black women from all directions. There is the initial pain of being subjected to gendered racism and discrimination, there is the additional distress of not being believed or supported, and of having your words and your bravery seemingly credited to others.

And then there is a type of trauma inflicted on women of colour that many of us find among the hardest to disclose, the one that few seem willing to admit really happens because it is so thoroughly normalised most people refuse to see it.

It is what that writers festival audience member was demonstrating, and what blogger and author Luvvie Ajayi called the weary weaponising of white womens tears.

To put it less poetically, it is the trauma caused by the tactic many white women employ to muster sympathy and avoid accountability, by turning the tables and accusing their accuser.

Almost every BW (black woman) I know has a story about a time in a professional setting in which she attempted to have a talk with a WW about her behavior & it has ended with the WW (white woman) crying, one black woman wrote on Twitter. The WW wasnt crying because she felt sorry and was deeply remorseful. The WW was crying because she felt bullied and/or that the BW was being too harsh with her.

When I shared these tweets on my Facebook page asking brown and black women if this had ever happened to them, I was taken by how deeply this resonated, prompting one Arab woman to share this story:

A WW kept touching my hair. Pulling my curls to watch them bounce back. Rubbing the top. Smelling it. So when I told her to stop and complained to HR and my supervisor, she complained that I wasnt a people person or team member and I had to leave that position for being threatening to a coworker.

For the doubters, here is a mild version of this sleight-of-hand in action:

Jully Black and Jeanne Beker

Notice it is the white woman Jeanne Beker who first interrupts the black woman Jully Black who takes the interruption in her stride. Black continues to speak passionately and confidently, which Beker interprets as a personal attack on her even though Black is clearly talking in general terms (just as Winnie Dunn was). Beker then attempts to shut Black down by essentially branding her a bully.

Had Jully Black not stopped and repeated Jeanne Bekers words back at her Why are you attacking me? they would have passed largely unnoticed, just another woman of colour smeared as an aggressor for daring to continue speaking when a white woman wanted her to stop.

It doesnt usually end this way. White women tears are especially potent because they are attached to the symbol of femininity, Ajayi explains. These tears are pouring out from the eyes of the one chosen to be the prototype of womanhood; the woman who has been painted as helpless against the whims of the world. The one who gets the most protection in a world that does a shitty job overall of cherishing women.

As I look back over my adult life a pattern emerges. Often, when I have attempted to speak to or confront a white woman about something she has said or done that has impacted me adversely, I am met with tearful denials and indignant accusations that I am hurting her. My confidence diminished and second-guessing myself, I either flare up in frustration at not being heard (which only seems to prove her point) or I back down immediately, apologising and consoling the very person causing me harm.

It is not weakness or guilt that compels me to capitulate. Rather, as I recently wrote, it is the manufactured reputation Arabs have for being threatening and aggressive that follows us everywhere. In a society that routinely places imaginary wide-eyed, angry and Middle Eastern people at the scenes of violent crimes they did not commit, having a legitimate grievance is no match for the strategic tears of a white damsel in distress whose innocence is taken for granted.

We talk about toxic masculinity, Ajayi warns, but there is (also) toxicity in wielding femininity in this way. Brown and black women know we are, as musician Miss Blanks writes, imperfect victims. That doesnt mean we are always in the right but it does mean we know that against a white womans accusations, our perspectives will almost always go unheard either way.

Whether angry or calm, shouting or pleading, we are still perceived as the aggressors.

Likewise, white women are equally aware their race privileges them as surely as ours condemns us. In this context, their tearful displays are a form of emotional and psychological violence that reinforce the very system of white dominance that many white women claim to oppose.

Ruby Hamad is a journalist and PhD candidate at the University of New South Wales

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Hookworm, a disease of extreme poverty, is thriving in the US south. Why?

Exclusive: in America, the worlds richest country, diseases that thrive amid poverty are rampant, the first study of its kind in modern times shows

Children playing feet away from open pools of raw sewage; drinking water pumped beside cracked pipes of untreated waste; human faeces flushed back into kitchen sinks and bathtubs whenever the rains come; people testing positive for hookworm, an intestinal parasite that thrives on extreme poverty.

These are the findings of a new study into endemic tropical diseases, not in places usually associated with them in the developing world of sub-Saharan Africa and Asia, but in a corner of the richest nation on earth: Alabama.

Scientists in Houston, Texas, have lifted the lid on one of Americas darkest and deepest secrets: that hidden beneath fabulous wealth, the US tolerates poverty-related illness at levels comparable to the worlds poorest countries. More than one in three people sampled in a poor area of Alabama tested positive for traces of hookworm, a gastrointestinal parasite that was thought to have been eradicated from the US decades ago.

The long-awaited findings, revealed by the Guardian for the first time, are a wake-up call for the worlds only superpower as it grapples with growing inequality. Donald Trump has promised to Make America Great Again and tackle the nations crumbling infrastructure, but he has said very little about enduring chronic poverty, particularly in the southern states.

The study, the first of its kind in modern times, was carried out by the National School of Tropical Medicine at Baylor College of Medicine in conjunction with Alabama Center for Rural Enterprise (ACRE), a non-profit group seeking to address the root causes of poverty. In a survey of people living in Lowndes County, an area with a long history of racial discrimination and inequality, it found that 34% tested positive for genetic traces of Necator americanus.


The parasite, better known as hookworm, enters the body through the skin, usually through the soles of bare feet, and travels around the body until it attaches itself to the small intestine where it proceeds to suck the blood of its host. Over months or years it causes iron deficiency and anemia, weight loss, tiredness and impaired mental function, especially in children, helping to trap them into the poverty in which the disease flourishes.

Hookworm was rampant in the deep south of the US in the earlier 20th century, sapping the energy and educational achievements of both white and black kids and helping to create the stereotype of the lazy and lethargic southern redneck. As public health improved, most experts assumed it had disappeared altogether by the 1980s.

But the new study reveals that hookworm not only survives in communities of Americans lacking even basic sanitation, but does so on a breathtaking scale. None of the people included in the research had travelled outside the US, yet parasite exposure was found to be prevalent, as was shockingly inadequate waste treatment.

The peer-reviewed research paper, published in the American Journal of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene, focuses on Lowndes County, Alabama the home state of the US attorney general, Jeff Sessions, and a landmark region in the history of the nations civil rights movement. Bloody Lowndes, the area was called in reference to the violent reaction of white residents towards attempts to undo racial segregation in the 1950s.

It was through this county that Martin Luther King led marchers from Selma to Montgomery in 1965 in search of voting rights for black citizens, More than half a century later, Kings dream of what he called the dignity of equality remains elusive for many of the 11,000 residents of Lowndes County, 74% of whom are African American.

Raw sewage is carried through a PVC pipe to be dumped only a few yards away from a nearby home. Photograph: Bob Miller for the Guardian

The average income is just $18,046 (13,850) a year, and almost a third of the population live below the official US poverty line. The most elementary waste disposal infrastructure is often non-existent.

Some 73% of residents included in the Baylor survey reported that they had been exposed to raw sewage washing back into their homes as a result of faulty septic tanks or waste pipes becoming overwhelmed in torrential rains.

The Baylor study was inspired by Catherine Flowers, ACREs founder, who encouraged the Houston scientists to carry out the review after she became concerned about the health consequences of having so many open sewers in her home county. Hookworm is a 19th-century disease that should by now have been addressed, yet we are still struggling with it in the United States in the 21st century, she said.

Our billionaire philanthropists like Bill Gates fund water treatment around the world, but they dont fund it here in the US because no one acknowledges that this level of poverty exists in the richest nation in the world.

Flowers took the Guardian on a tour of Lowndes County to witness the conditions in which hookworm continues to proliferate. One stop was at a group of mobile homes outside Fort Deposit that graphically illustrated the crisis.

An eight-year-old child was sitting on the stoop of one of the trailers. Below him a white pipe ran from his house, across the yard just a few feet away from a basketball hoop, and into a copse of pine and sweet gum trees.

The pipe was cracked in several places and stopped just inside the copse, barely 30ft from the house, dripping ooze into a viscous pool the color of oil. Directly above the sewage pool, a separate narrow-gauge pipe ran up to the house, which turned out to be the main channel carrying drinking water to the residents.

The open sewer was festooned with mosquitoes, and a long cordon of ants could be seen trailing along the waste pipe from the house. At the end of the pool nearest the house the treacly fluid was glistening in the dappled sunlight a closer look revealed that it was actually moving, its human effluence heaving and churning with thousands of worms.

Ruby Dee Rudolph, 66, noticed her septic tank was slowly sinking unevenly into the ground. Photograph: Bob Miller for the Guardian

This is the definition of Make America Great Again, said Aaron Thigpen, 29, a community activist who assisted with the hookworm study. This is the reality of how people are being forced to live.

Thigpens cousins live in the trailer park, and he has talked to them about the perils of piping sewage from their homes and dumping it in the open just a few feet away. They are disgusted about it, theyre sick and tired of living like this, but theres no public help for them here and if youre earning $700 a month theres no way you can afford your own private sanitation.

He added that people were afraid to report the problems, given the spate of criminal prosecutions that were launched by Alabama state between 2002 and 2008 against residents who were open-piping sewage from their homes, unable to afford proper treatment systems. One grandmother was jailed over a weekend for failing to buy a septic tank that cost more than her entire annual income.

People are scared. They dont like to speak out as theyre worried the health department will come round and cause trouble, Thigpen said.

The challenge to places like Lowndes County is not to restore existing public infrastructure, as Trump has promised, because there is no public infrastructure here to begin with. Flowers estimates that 80% of the county is uncovered by any municipal sewerage system, and in its absence people are expected and in some cases legally forced to provide their own.

Even where individuals can afford up to $15,000 to install a septic tank and very few can the terrain is against them. Lowndes County is located within the Black Belt, the southern sweep of loamy soil that is well suited to growing cotton and as a result spawned a multitude of plantations, each worked by a large enslaved population.

The same thing that made the land so good for cotton its water-retaining properties also makes it a hazard to the thousands of African Americans who still live on it today. When the rains come, the soil becomes saturated, overwhelming inadequate waste systems and providing a perfect breeding ground for hookworm.

Ruby Rudolph lives just beside the main Selma to Montgomery road where King led the protest walk. On the other side of the road theres a brown history placard to mark the spot where her grandmother, Rosie Steele, ran a campsite for the weary marchers.

After they moved on and the campsite was cleared, Rudolph said, her grandmothers grocery store was set on fire in an arson attack. She was 13 at the time, and can remember the flames leaping into the night sky.

Rudolph, now 66, does have her own septic tank at the back of her house, which she shows us in the sweltering 41C (105F) heat. But it doesnt function properly and when it rains the tank spills over, spreading raw waste all over the yard. Thats better than when it flushes back into the house, and Ive had that too, she said.

Shes been told a replacement system would cost her at least $12,000, which is beyond her means. She runs through her finances: she gets up at 4am every day to do an early shift at a Mapco convenience store, which brings in less than $1,200 a month. From that amount she has to pay $611 for her mortgage and theres the electricity bill that can be more than $300 a month when its hot and the air conditioning is busy. Theres not a lot left to put toward a new tank.

Perman Hardy, 58, stands with her grandson Carlos near the pipes that carry sewage from a relatives nearby trailer home into the woods, approximately 30ft from the back door. Photograph: Bob Miller for the Guardian

Perman Hardy, 58, lives in nearby Tyler in a collection of seven single-storey homes all occupied by members of her extended family. Only two of them have septic tanks, the rest just pipe raw waste into the surrounding woods and creeks.

Hardy is one of the lucky ones with a treatment system of her own, but like Rudolphs it is often overwhelmed in the rains with faeces washed back into her home. Last year the stench was so bad she had to vacate the property for two weeks over Christmas while it was professionally cleaned.

Hardy has traced her family back to slaves held on the Rudolph Bottom plantation about five miles away. The road that leads to the old plantation from her house is still called to this day by white neighbors Nigger Foot Road, she said, though she and other African Americans call it Collerine Cutoff Road.

As a child, Hardy worked in the cotton fields after school and, mindful of that and her familys slave history, shes determined to see a better future for her grandchildren. I dont want the same for my boys. But its still a struggle. Its the 21st century and we shouldnt be struggling like we still are today.

The daily hardship faced by Hardy, Rudolph and fellow inhabitants of Lowndes County is reflected in the Baylor studys glaring statistic of 34% testing positive for hookworm. The sample size was low 67 people participated with 55 giving stool samples, all of whom were African American but the results are so stark that the Houston scientists now want to conduct a larger survey across the region.

We now need to find how widespread hookworm is across the US, said Dr Peter Hotez, dean of the National School of Tropical Medicine, who led the research team along with Rojelio Mejia. Hotez, who has estimated that as many as 12 million Americans could be suffering from neglected tropical diseases in poor parts of the south and midwest, told the Guardian the results were a wake-up call for the nation.

This is the inconvenient truth that nobody in America wants to talk about, he said. These people live in the southern United States, and nobody seems to care; they are poor, and nobody seems to care; and more often than not they are people of color, and nobody seems to care.

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‘A violence no autopsy can reveal’: the deadly cost of India’s campus prejudice

Many Dalit students regard university as a place of ridicule and abuse. Amrit Dhillon investigates the aftermath of two suicides and asks: is it time to make campus caste discrimination a criminal offence?

Vikas Kumar Moola has been troubled by two questions ever since his best friend Muthu Krishnan, a postgraduate history student at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), killed himself on 13 March. What could I have done to stop it? Should I have done more to help him make friends?

Theirs was an old and close friendship based on caste (both are Dalits, the lowest rung of the Hindu caste system), poverty, missed meals, penny pinching and dreams. I knew he was unhappy, he was lonely, but what else did I miss? asks Moola, a PhD sociology student at JNU.

List typical characteristics of Dalit students across India, and you can tick them all off against Krishnans name. They are first-generation school-goers; they come from rural homes with no toilets or electricity; their command of English is often weak; and their poor, rural origins imply a lack of social sophistication.

Muthu Krishnan, who died in March. Photograph: Facebook

On top of this, their self-esteem and confidence already bears the weals of daily brandings: being seated separately at school, served food in different utensils, having to wear wristbands that mark them as Dalits, being singled out to sweep classrooms and toilets, and seeing classmates refuse to eat meals prepared by Dalit cooks.

Jitendra Suna, a Dalit former student from the same department as Krishnan, describes the level of segregation that he encountered as soon as he started at JNU. When I was allotted my hostel room, I walked in and the boy I was going to share with asked me my caste immediately then said I had to get out. There is ghettoisation there.

The structural violence leaves invisible marks on a Dalit students body and psyche that no autopsy can reveal, wrote Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee, who teaches poetry at New Delhis Ambedkar University.More than anything else, it is this burden of accumulated structural inequity that Krishs suicide has exposed.

Saving money like an ant

The caste system has been entrenched in Indian society for centuries. Based on their occupations, people belong to one of four main castes. The first and highest are the Brahmins, who are mainly teachers and priests; the next group are the Kshatriyas, mainly military and administrators; the third are the Vaishyas, traders; and the last and lowest are the Shudras, the people who do menial work. Outside this system altogether are the Dalits, formerly known as untouchables, who form about 16% of the Indian population.

When Krishnan announced the news of his acceptance by JNU last July on Facebook, he was deluged with praise from friends. He was a hard-working Dalit student from the poor rural village of Salem in Tamil Nadu province; many described his determination as an inspiration.

Jitendra Suna, a Dalit former student, says there is ghettoisation on the campus of JNU. Photograph: Jyoti Kapoor/Getty Images

He was the first-generation learner in his family. According to his multitude of Facebook posts, he had skipped many meals in order to afford his earlier degree at Hyderabad University, working menial jobs and drinking countless cups of heavily sweetened tea to kill the hunger pangs. He described saving money like [an] ant and begging people to get money to reach JNU, one of Indias premier universities.

Krishnan was so determined to achieve his dream that he apparently wrote his proposal 38 times before making it to JNUs Centre for Historical Studies, for an MPhil programme in modern history. He had struggled for years to get a grip on the unruly English language; in an earlier interview for JNU, Krishnan said he had been criticised for speaking simple language.

English is a monumental mountain for Dalit students to climb: Even the best Dalit students are not judged to be any good because of their weak English, says Professor Kancha Ilaiah Shepherd, a public intellectual who has added Shepherd to his caste name as a snub to upper-caste Hindus (he comes from a goat shepherding family).

No matter how creative a Dalit can be with English, they are judged not on merit, nor depth, nor originality but on their accent and fluency in English, Shepherd adds. The same intellectuals who damn English as a colonial, imperial legacy are the first to penalise Dalit students for not speaking it.

Sitting in his small study, working on an article about the entrenched discrimination faced by Dalit students in institutions of higher education, JNUs emeritus professor Dr Sukhadeo Thorat recalls meeting Krishnan just before his untimely death.

Thorat, who is honorary chairman of the Indian Council of Social Science Research, remembers this tall and striking student walking over to him after a lecture to shake his hand and ask the origin of a particular quote he had referenced: When equality is denied, everything is denied.

A procession to honour Dr BR Ambedkar, chief architect of the Indian constitution which outlawed discrimination based on caste. Photograph: Rafiq Maqbool/AP

I told him it was from Dr BR Ambedkar [Indias most famous Dalit, who renounced Hinduism to escape the caste system and converted to Buddhism]. He knew his works well, but hadnt come across this quotation. Krishnan repeated it in his final Facebook post.

In 2007, Thorat had authored a government-commissioned report, the first of its kind, into caste discrimination at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences in the Indian capital. The report found that 72% of students (primarily Dalits) complained of discrimination, and more than 90% said they were humiliated in practical and oral examinations. Hostels were segregated, and Dalit students were socially isolated and excluded from sporting and cultural events.

The report offered a number of recommendations, including remedial coaching in English and guarding the examination system against caste bias. Yet 10 years on, little appears to have changed in Indias higher education system. Indeed Thorats son Amit, an assistant professor at JNU, is now working on a pilot study for University College, London, to understand why universities become places of social defeat for so many Dalits.

The early findings of this study entitled Discrimination, Distress and Higher Education in India suggest deep and complex pressures. Amit Thorat says it is hard to understand the emotional stresses these students go through concerning their identity: how they look, the clothes they wear and how they speak. They are made to feel a lack of identity, he says, and are disabled through structural and institutional mechanisms.

Anisa Rao, an upper-caste history student at Hyderabad University, says the differential treatment in university classrooms jumped out at her immediately: Lecturers are just nicer, friendlier, more interested and more supportive towards us than towards Dalits.

Dalits stick together

Krishnans interest in Dalit history was something he shared with his friend Rahul Sonpimple, a second-year MPhil student at JNU. On the day Krishnan ended his life, they had met for breakfast at Jhelum Hostel.

Sonpimple says his friend seemed in good spirits, putting on sunglasses and mimicking the Tamil film actor Rajnikanths dialogue (he was said to look a bit like him). But their discussion soon turned to the pressure they both felt to do well, to help their families escape extreme poverty.

We sat outside to enjoy the winter sunshine and have poha [savoury puffed rice] and milk, Sonpimple recalls. Then Krish said he had to go to the library; he was always breaking off to go and study. He said it had taken him five years to get into JNU, and now he had to prove himself.

A protest demanding the resignation of the Hyderabad University vice-chancellor in January 2016, following the suicide of Dalit student Rohith Vemula. Photograph: Hindustan Times via Getty Images

Owing to the heatwave outside, we are talking inside the cavernous dining hall of the Brahmaputra Hostel for male students. The male kitchen staff, some wearing only vests under black aprons, fling steel plates, thalis and serving dishes on to shabby trestle tables in preparation for lunch. Huge mounds of boiled rice are placed more carefully on the tables. The clatter of steel adds to the din of the whirring fans.

Dalit students stick together, Sonpimple says over the noise. Upper-caste faculty and students dont socialise with us. Krish and I werent close friends, but we shared the same ideas over Dalit ideology.

Even the food Dalits eat has caused them to be singled out for unfair treatment. Dalits have traditionally eaten beef because it is their job to remove dead cows; hence it was, and continues to be, the cheapest source of protein for them. Yet high-caste groups in Hyderabad and other campuses have tried to stop Dalit students eating beef on campus, by getting it removed from the refectory menu and stopping Dalits cooking it in hostels.

Krishnans Facebook posts were full of stories of his excitement whenever his family were cooking maana (the word for beef in his Tamil dialect). But he also relayed one anecdote about boarding a bus carrying five kilos of beef in a black plastic bag and spotting an old school friend, then thinking he would be able to pass the journey talking to him. The friend ignored him, and looked for an alternative bus.

Krishnans posts offer a chronicle of how being a Dalit shaped his life even once he had reached the supposedly enlightened surroundings of Indias higher education system.

According to Sonpimple, he was particularly upset by the decision of the national University Grants Commission (UGC) last year to give more weight to the viva voce (verbal discussion) than the written exam in admissions to postgraduate courses. This, Krishnan believed, was a ruse to reduce Dalit applicants, who would lack the English skills of their upper-caste counterparts.

He told me that when he walked into one interview, the look on the faces of the panel said, Oh, how on earth did you manage to get this far? Sonpimple recalls.

In his last Facebook post, Krishnan referred to this new rule: There is no equality in MPhil/PhD admission, there is no equality in viva voce there is only denial of equality.

Question their assumptions

In a recent survey of four Indian states, almost half the upper-caste people polled by the Centre for the Study of Developing Societies said the reason Dalits lag behind other groups in life was not due to unfair treatment, but a lack of effort. This belief flies in the face of the statistics, however: according to the National Crime Records Bureau, there were 47,064 crimes against Dalits registered in 2014, up 40% from 33,655 in 2012.

Upper-caste students change the subject when we question their assumptions or challenge their caste privileges, says Krishnans friend Moola. They dont even accept we have suffered injustice. This creates a barrier.

JNU students protest against planned cuts in university places for the next academic year. Photograph: Burhaan Kinu/Hindustan Times/Getty Images

As in most important Indian institutions, the vast majority of lecturers in higher education are from upper-caste backgrounds (62.85%). But 16% of student places are now reserved for Dalits in all federally run universities, and many state governments have given an even larger allocation (JNU reserves 15%).

The larger Dalit student presence is largely the result of Indias policy of reservations: affirmative action to make reparations for centuries of inequality. Between 2001 and 2011, the number of Dalits attending college rose by 187%.

Yet these quota students are often treated with scorn. Dubbed uncles for supposedly being older than the norm (because they may take longer than three years to complete their degrees), Dalit students can be regarded with hostility because the quotas mean there is stiffer competition for everyone else.

Though the UGC issued a regulation in 2012 banning any form of caste discrimination on campuses, Moola says there are no posters or signs at JNU to make students aware of the ban unlike gender discrimination, which seems to be taken more seriously.

Sukhadeo Thorat believes it is time to introduce a law making caste discrimination in universities a criminal offence. He says this approach worked with ragging (the victimisation of new students), which had been a huge problem on campuses. Once ragging was made a criminal offence, universities introduced strict processes to prevent and address it.

Moola agrees but adds wistfully that, while you can prove violence or abuse, how do you prove something as insidious as exclusion, contempt or denigration? No matter what I do or Krish could have achieved, in India we will always just be Dalits, he says.

My birth is my accident

In January 2016, many Indians were plunged into introspection when Rohith Vemula, a 26-year-old Dalit scholar at Hyderabad University, killed himself. Unlike Krishnan, Vemula left a note linking his desire for death to his experience of prejudice. He wrote: My birth is my fatal accident.

Vemulas death sparked countrywide campus protests, amid accusations of caste-related discrimination. He was one of five Dalit students suspended by the university after they were accused of assaulting the head of a right-wing student political group a charge they all denied and which was not proved.

Police use water cannon on protesters demanding the resignation of the Hyderabad University vice-chancellor over the suicide of Dalit scholar Rohith Vemula. Photograph: Hindustan Times via Getty Images

They were expelled from their university residence and told they were not allowed to enter any campus buildings, eat at the mess or vote in student elections. The exclusion was likened by supporters to the old practice of veli wada, in which Dalits were forced out of their villages into ghettoes.

According to Professor Shepherd, university administrations ignore widespread caste discrimination. Education in a situation of inequality and humiliation with no consolement of any kind is a source of suicide among Dalit students.

Sukhadeo Thorat agrees: My research indicates that experiences of discrimination, exclusion and humiliation are the predominant reasons for Dalit student suicides. While the statistics are sketchy, one estimate suggests that between 2007 and 2011, 18 Dalit students killed themselves.

JNU has begun an internal inquiry into Krishnans death which, according to Dr Rajesh Kharat, the head of its anti-discrimination cell, was the universitys first Dalit suicide. It has further agreed that if students are not happy with the outcome of this inquiry, it will set up an independent one.

Kharat says that having spent 30 years at the university, he believes caste discrimination is confined to very small pockets adding that the anti-discrimination cell had received no complaints in its first two years. However, since Krishnans death, we have had six or seven complaints of caste discrimination, which we are looking into.

JNU is known for providing access to opportunities for poor communities, Kharat says. They have gone to join the civil service and academia. But we mustnt be complacent; the inquiry has to act fast so this young mans death does not discourage other students.

Former JNU student Jitendra Suna describes the anti-discrimination cell as non-functional, however. Have they done a single thing to sensitise faculty and students to the need for equal treatment? No. If they were serious, they could have implemented the [2007] Thorat committees recommendations.

Suicide is usually the result of multiple factors, not just one, Kharat adds. I dont know why Krishnan didnt approach any of our Dalit faculty. I myself am from the same community, but he didnt come to me.

A friend of Krishnan, who asked not to be named, says it is not a cover-up that he fears, but indifference: We want an independent inquiry, not an internal one. At the condolence meeting, some faculty were already putting the suicide down to personal issues, so thats how they might gloss over it.

Such fears may not be unfounded. An inquiry into Vemulas death in 2016 based mainly on interviews with faculty members concluded he had killed himself out of personal frustration, rather than caste discrimination.

And yet, in a letter dated 18 December 2015 that was made public after his death, Vemula wrote to the vice-chancellor of Hyderabad University to raise the issue of discrimination. In the letter, he warns that university authorities should make preparations for the facility of EUTHANASIA for students like me.

If you have experiences relating to this story that you would like to share, wherever you live and whatever your background, please email us in confidence at

Many Indian cities have helplines run by voluntary organisations that those in distress can contact. For example, Samaritans Mumbai can be called on 022 6464 3267 or 022 6565 3267. In the UK, Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123

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