February 9, 1998

Hanging 26 people for Rajiv's murder will reopen the debate about the death penalty

When the designated TADA court in Poonamallee delivered its judgement in the Rajiv Gandhi assassination trial, it effectively saluted the Indian investigative and legal system. The uncovering of the circumstances leading to the murder of the former prime minister, and of 17 others, on May 21, 1991, was a task of extraordinary magnitude. It was accomplished most successfully by the Central Bureau of Investigation's special investigation team (SIT). Credit is also due to Judge V. Navaneetham, who has delivered what is likely to be the most important verdict of his career. His work could not have been made easier courtesy the enormous media and political interest in the case.

Nevertheless, the judgement has raised some disturbing questions. The sit's chargesheet named 41 conspirators. Of these 12 are dead and three -- including V. Prabhakaran, the LTTE chief -- are absconding. Each of the 26 in custody has been sentenced to death. If a record has been set, it is certainly a dubious one. Capital punishment is the ultimate weapon in the state's armoury. It is not evoked in every case of murder and, indeed, recommended only for the rarest of rare cases -- for crimes of unimaginable morbidity. There is no denying Rajiv's assassination was more than just culpable homicide. It sought to pre-empt and subvert governmental policy and amounted to a war against the state. Even so, to send 26 people to the gallows for one murderous crime does appear an overreaction. As the court itself admits, the 26 had varying roles to play and, therefore, varying degrees of guilt. In a sense, unequal crimes may have been treated as equally culpable. This is a crucial point for legal and civil society to ponder. What the Poonamallee judgement will do is reopen the old debate about capital punishment. Nuclear powers often argue that the very presence of the ultimate weapon is a better deterrent than its (over)use. There may be a legal analogy here.

Guns, not Roses

Farooq must assert his authority by undertaking a full-fledged war on terrorism

There has been a certain predictability to the aftermath of the murder of 23 Kashmiri Pandits in Wandhama on January 25. The act has been duly condemned. Prime Minister I.K. Gujral has blamed Pakistan for masterminding the massacre. The state Government -- in fact, every politician of any worth -- has vowed to fight the terrorists to the finish. Even so, the odds are high that within days the carnage will be forgotten. Indeed, the Kashmir problem itself will once again be relegated to the Indian polity's collective amnesia. It is facile to speak of a "political solution" -- whatever the term means -- to the extremist problem. This amounts to beating about the bush; India -- if a mixed metaphor be permitted here -- needs to grasp the nettle.

India's defensiveness on Kashmir is difficult to understand. The global information war with Pakistan has rarely been fought adequately. That free and fair assembly elections restored popular government to the state in 1996 is an achievement that has not been optimally highlighted; and exploited. Nor has Pakistan's sponsorship of terrorism been suitably exposed. When he became chief minister, Farooq Abdullah promised Kashmiris who had fled the state he would make the environment conducive for them to return. Farooq can only redeem his pledge by asserting the authority of his regime, weeding out fifth columnists and strengthening local institutions, particularly the police and intelligence network. Above all else, terrorism is a security issue, a question of upholding law and order. The state must not enter into a dialogue from anything other than a position of strength. The mailed fist must be deployed before the velvet glove. This is the equation that worked in Punjab. Farooq and Kashmir cannot ignore its compelling logic.

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